"shavasana" poems
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
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
salt stings soldiered eyes streaming
i am not crying —
just releasing a weekend of wine and Netflix,
a relapse i can't admit
when people ask what I did last weekend.
Muscles burning in the agony,
their capability
long squandered,
by lazy nights and wine.
Monkey mind zombied to flashes of LED light.
Docile strides to somewhere I have to be.
oh TV, you are so tempting to a binger like me.
I think about the last episode
when I should think about the road,
leading to my forgotten sanctuary,
where limbs stretch, teachers chant krishna
and rub students with essential oils.
But as I listen to the
sitar in shavasana,
interrupted
by iPhone rings,
teacher grasps the money
from the donation box greedily.
I feel slightly annoyed,
but mostly pity —
three students
thirty five dollars
for an hour.
But I think
this is what happens when
yoga becomes a
commodity.
Like TV — a fix,
not a spiritual experience.
So we'll pay the minimum,
or stream it illegally.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
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.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
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.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 5:25 AM UTC
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
Apr 14, 2010
Apr 14, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
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?
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
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.”
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 1:46 AM UTC
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
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC