Breathing in deep
where I am
on an exhale
I find myself
in warrior pose

but I am thinking
about us
shavasana
on your new carpet

I wish I was
flexible enough to play limbo
with your past and win

Instead I struggle
for balance so
when the instructor calls for
warrior three

I collapse into child’s pose
I collapse into your memory

This things are made for idling
transparent in their quotidian splendor:

A Buddha statue at the receptionist desk
golden skin, red robes
welcoming all yogis with its gaze
eyelids closed

The candle, a guardian of an aim
an intention that moves within a flame
over the palms of the wooden hands

Incense smoke dance softly around the entrance
like a dream seen from wakefulness
immersive enhancer of the humor
filling the place with soft calmness
Nag champa smell
and serious air

The bamboo doors
from Monday to Sunday
open the way to Indian sounds
and the voices of blooming teachers
guide the way
until shavasana
when practitioners become gently moving statues
and glowing air goes
breathing in and breathing out
daily efforts and daily hopes.

His hands stretched out as if in the
Shavasana pose, only he was
Wearing his old jeans, chequered shirt
Black laceless converse shoes
His head on the lush green grass
With Hesse’s Siddartha in his left hand
and a magical airbrush in his right hand
He gazed at the cloudless blue sky
Like an artist in front of a canvas
he drew the people he wanted in it,
The boy with the inquisitive big brown eyes
The girl at the bus stop carrying a tote bag
the things he wanted to do,
Climb the highest mountain peak
Do the tango in Buenos Aires
Vagabond across South America
the sunsets and the full moons he wanted to see
the reasons he was willing to suffer for
the smiles he wanted to have.
A masterpiece in the making
the outline took no more than a few minutes
but the finished piece took a lifetime to create.

He was not dead, he was just playing Shavasana, and he play it really well.

I lie
Breathing
Observing pulses of pink
And purple light
Oozing
Behind closed eyelids

I wait on the surface of the earth
Ready to drop into the empty abyss
Of earthlessness below

My mind
Gradually loosens its grip
On the present
And I am no longer here
I am gone
To a better, deeper place
Where I am playful, rested, relaxed

Until, your voice calls me back
And I must return to my feet

Tonight in yoga
While we take corpse pose
And are supposed to empty our bodies and minds
The teacher says:
Listen to the tide of your breath

I think of the beach
The color of mist
And the time I found a
Dead sea otter
As long as myself
And still beautiful

When I open my eyes the walls
Are saffron
And the ceiling is burnt orange

I think of the monks
In the art museum
Who swept their hands
Through a sand medallion
And then released the remains
Into a lake with lilly pads

And when I look out the screen door
I see a racoon, climbing down
After plundering eggs

And I think of the cabin
Where the racoons would eat
The dog food at night
And my brother and I
In footed pajamas
Would hold flashlights and watch them

And as we close shavasana
And sit up
I realize I am the least empty
The least dead
The most beautiful corpse

My breath, pottery in flux
The universe, a crystal of any type
"Shavasana."
And I begin to weep, as the freshly loosened layers of stress begin to fall.
"What is consciousness?"
Entheogens will produce revelatory illusions,
While the Buddhists allay that suffering must be endured.
I'm losing my **** completely anymore.
I mask it by keeping a regular schedule and attending to the wishes of my family, my friends; my hair, my house, my pets.
But my not-boyfriend(s) know.
My yoga teachers know.
This bladder infection knows.

"God is watching me":
A harsh gust lifts my checkered picnic blanket and scatters my beautiful meal into the grass that is filled with systematic degradation, unrealized potential and scattered daydreams.

What
Will
We
Do
With
Ourselves?

I am calmed by the soft petals of the lotus
flower, the same petals of the same lotus flower that
rests upon the shoulder of my yoga teacher, whom I
see every Monday and Wednesday afternoon.

I am calmed by starting out in child’s pose, hips back,
arms out front, stretching shoulders wide.

I am calmed by the cool water that runs like a river down my
parched throat during our first break in the practice.

I am calmed by the soft sounds of the music that plays in
the background and the tiny thuds from the basketballs
hitting the backboard, in the court on the other side of the wall.

I am calmed by the turquoise blue of my yoga mat and the
matching towel beside it, which I never get sweaty enough to use.

I am calmed by all the warriors teaching us strength, endurance, and balance.
Warrior one: arms up to the sky, Warrior two: arms out to the side,
Warrior three: one leg held up high, and Warrior four: arms are spread out wide.

I am calmed by all of the cats and cows and tabletops and chairs
that we become, and all of the forward folds.

I am calmed by savasana, or corpse pose, at which we arrive in the end.
we lay on our backs, legs out wide, arms flat, facing up, and eyes close.
there we stay for what seems like an eternity.
Then, when we’re ready, we roll over onto our side-body, into a fetal position.
Then, we slowly rise up into a seated position with our eyes still closed
and our hands folded softly at heart’s center.
Finally, we stretch our arms out as if it was the first grand stretch of the
morning, and it’s usually followed with yawning yogis.

I am calmed by shavasana, the death and rebirth between classes.

I am calmed by the blank space my mind becomes when I close my eyes and just exist without a worry in the world.

I am calmed when we bow and say, “Namaste.”

I lay
Still
And spread
In darkness,
Noticing
The print
Of my practice
In all
The in-between
Places,
And breathe
And startle
As she tumbles
Her skull
Into my hand
Looking for love
In shavasana.

The string puppet hanging from the peg in the niche is creating an illusion, or did it really bend the right knee forward! I move closer and watch it minutely. This times it is his partner, the pink faced women with deep red lipstick and khol lined eyes, she certianly swung her hip... up, up it went in jerky moves... there, there her skrit twitched revealing her bare leg - the silver anklet girdling her foot reflected a fraction of light playing yet another trick.

My eyes move up towards the strings. I can almost sense a fading quiver as if someone was plucking them through the alcove above. I stand still locking my eyes on the two waiting for their next move. Pigeons flutter behind the skylight and the spell breaks for a few seconds.

I turn around and rest my back against the cold basement wall. All around there are books lined in shelves, artworks clutched in frames, photos jacketed behind glass, curios in various states of animated movement. The eyes gradually get used to the dim light beaming on the floor through a ventilator and scan the floor finally resting on my own feet. Who is this? Where are the legs and the rest of the body? I give up. The neck refuses to bend and the eyes can't seem to find another object. Every thing is still, there is no motion, no movement - even the light beam seems frozen, there are no dust specks playing in it.

Among them, for twelve days, I too have become an object. Lifeless, not dead. Confined, distanced, trapped, isolated in a place that tells me it is my home. At times other objects around me whisper, I can't catch what they say. It seems I am one of them, only that I have suddenly developed feeble sensory abilities.

I have possibly jumped out of that shelf, that one on the far right, and, am now taking inventory of my companions, my fellow beings in a museum closed for a long break. They - like me, I - like them. Objects. Each having a label, a business card to be exchanged in mutual muteness. Each explained as "Title; Year; Origin; Size; Material". Where is mine? Just like the mask on the wall, the bronze sculpture, the centre table and hundreds of others that have been confined within the walls for years. In a few days, I assume, I would be a curio, a large one, occupying one corner. Not entombed though.

From time to time when conscious mind fleetingly nudges me I feel some of these objects have been moved or shifted from one place to another, like a chair or a cushion. I too have become like them or forced to. Tired of reading on a chair I shift or move, like dust, to the sofa and from there to the couch. Like the trumpet on the shelf I am quiet, not disturbing the solitude. Unlike the colourful painting, I merge with the pale wall. But I ain't hung as yet.

Like the Buddha figurine my eyes have drooped, my hair matted and curled. I would soon be like the illegible spine of an old tome, stacked one next to the other. Lying on the floor, I take Shavasana, like the carpet holding its breath.

In another week, I suspect, I would be like the uplighter which doesn't respond to the switch on another wall. Filaments alone dont light a bulb.
* April 6, 2020 - Covid times - 7