The Asanas

Poem – the Asanas
2005-03-26— Posted by: allegra

I have a friend who has spent a very long team healing herself from a traumatic childhood and a troubled adolescence. Part of her healing process has been yoga. Asana means pose or posture.


Asana one

white spikes of bone
stick out of the lawn
arrange yourself
so that you can sit among them
and be at peace

Asana two

bones are like that
alive, dead
they bruise and splinter
scatter marrow
fertilize the slow and frantic

arrange yourself
so that you take them
as your deepest camouflage

Asana three

throughout the canon
there is nothing like this
you must find this posture out
and teach it

you will not return harm for harm
the lifestream says
can you hear your higher self calling

in the posture, as in a trance
you hear yourself
-my machine took the message-
spirit shook awake and said
it doesn't matter,
and in the stretching muscles
you encompass and reveal
the world, a boy who had no bris
a girl who had no canopy
a woman who had no mother

pause and breathe

Asana four

forego motion, load yourself with oxygen
and energy
awareness beckons from behind the tv
and the rushing to work
the sirens, all the punctuation
for the living word of you

teaching with an open mind you learn
how limits dissolve and reform
like traumatized bone
fast damage and slow healing

geologic healing, sometimes

every cell knows where to be
it doesn't have to think
envy the body all its power
it never has to think
you call
and mostly it responds
arrange your bones
so that the body's will
is that of your quiet mind

Asana five

upward the inward
alchemical, the spirit
can transmute the split and spoiled

the burnt bone of our ancestors
the little-bits of flint

we knap ourselves
in the lap of life
we see the tool inside the rock
now remnant by the fire of memory
this posture is for making tools
so that we may build the land we love

Asana six


on a page
lost in thought
indeed there are places I can name
that I don't want to visit any more
but they live inside of me
as if I never left them

some wounds never heal, there is no cure
for the death of love, no pretty closure
but to set the maggots on the wound
and hope they know when to stop

behind my eyes
in the hands that long
to hold yours once again
in my chest
in my shoulders
pain comes through
in bouts of helpless weeping

lost in self pity
wanting to damage the brain
that injures me so
yet seeing the flowers from the window
hearing someone giggle

I come to

it is time to sit again

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Born when atmospheric carbon was 316 PPM. Settled on MST country since 1997. Parent, grandparent.

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