New Delhi, 1958, Page 105 / Joshua Alan Sturgill
Into an old History of Sanskrit Literature, beside these verses from the Ṛg-veda
As birds extend their sheltering wings
Spread your protection over us
a spider crawled, and was smothered by the book’s closing. Its body’s moisture
wasn’t enough even to stain the place where I read
As charioteers avoid evil roads,
May dangers always pass us by
and wonder if the gods are sufficiently great to notice such a tiny death
— especially now that the intervening decades have brittled the paper
and bleached the hollow skeleton until they are the same texture,
the same translucence. Do the gods see? The spider has disguised itself
as poetry. Friend, I will recite
Look down on us, O gods
Lead us to paths of pleasantness
for you, since your arms have long been reaching for these words. And you,
pray for me as well, because my life is also one of sudden turns and unexpected ends.
Pages the color of dust clouds. A tree on a windy moor whose roots grasp
for an anchoring stone. Inscrutable symbols hide in the folds just beyond my guesses.
You and I are nearly nothing. Yet
Like spies observing from the shore
Like men that fight in coats of mail
hungers and prayers and curiosities rise up out of us. Why? Why do we beg
and breathe and search when we are crushed by every satisfaction — whether comfort
or truth. I am afraid to know
What god should we with sacrifice worship
By whom the sky has been established
because of what is written on the sky. Words are heavy; skies close; answers
fold back on us with fulcrum force. Is it better not to ask at all? It may be
that Paradise and Hell are the gods explaining to us
ourselves
All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2023 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.
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