Grammar of the Goddess

Kanya Kanchana

I have heard it said
the night is void हाhā;
I have heard it said
the night is full.
To shake this paradox
by its neck, हूंhūṃ
I went.

In her ultramarine palm क्रींkrīṃ,
a skull of butter क्लींklīṃ.
By white of her teeth
and smoke of her breath,
I knew ह्रींhrīṃ
the Dark One

who? कka light of her eye,
rising कka red of her tongue,
belly कka enchanted and round,
mirror कka mirror काkā never काkā ever—

My femur
in the jaws of her hounds स्वाहाsvāhā
tastes like a syllable.

     Where, twice-born,
     will you go that is
     not me?




Fingernail touched
to your lips that say
     —come this way.

     Nonononono.
     Come back,
     come back, I beg you,
     ॐoṃ as the Auspicious One.

All your children
and their heads
in your wheelbarrow,
laid with care,
with such care.
All your howling ones
waiting.

Charnel, carnal, vegetal,
a fever dream, I
have not one but three
umbilici, whorling, whirling,
taking me across.
Your seal
is on my spine.

Fear is a cloak
that drops फट्phaṭ
with seeing.




The limen 
is a luminous
sound.

I turn
this jewel-like knowledge
श्रींśrīṃ between my fingers.
Our breaths
reticulate the air.

Distal causes,
proximal causes,
saccadically.

Fifteen, or sixteen, petals,
a meander on the floor.

Empress of the Three Cities,
You ask. I answer:
     I am here. I am here.

We dreamed
the same dream—saw,
waking from the calyx,
ह्रींhrīṃ the dream
within the dream.

We, numinous dreamers,
were the dream.

     All is play. All is play.




In the scission
of time, I fathom हसरऐंhsraiṃ
your oestrous somnolence.

Lingering, I dust
your beautiful ossuary,
just हसरक्लींhsrklīṃ
to touch.
Your sister
is upstairs.

Your intemperate dog
is eating my flowers. Oh,
     हसरसौःhsrsauḥ.

I hear
the restless susurrus
of your sheets.
     How much longer now?

Upon second breath,
my veins empty
on your floor.





I am an unreasonable
apotheosis. Tucking
a karavīra behind my ear,
not looking left
or right, श्रींśrīṃ I jump.

A silver needlepoint rises
up to meet me. Your face,
Red One, is my eye,
and thunderbolts
are ultraviolet.

I, temporally,
am unsustainable. I
who have no head
on my chittering filament,
remember everything—
what I know, a skin
beneath my skin.

     I will not ask, Yoginī,
     if my three-and-a-half offering
     is to your liking.




Viscous smoke slips
through my fingers.
There is something
I should know, but
I forget.

My ignorance is old,
my chaos obscure.
It seems
it is not as it seems.
Here, धूंdhūṃ
the parthenogenesis
of silence.

     I know you
     from somewhere,
     Grandmother. We
     cracked arecanuts
     once, and chewed
     betel in lime.

     Smear my forehead
     with ash, White One,
     this night winnow me
     free.



     
     Listen, girl,
     be clever, but not
     too clever.

     Learn
     your letters
     and flowers,
she said, chewing
a young mango leaf.

     Here,
     give me some
     of your tiffin,
     and ऐंaiṃ,
     speak now.

A thousand times
my hand moulded
around my heart.
Clearing my throat,
I asked,
     Emerald One,
     why is it still porous?

She laughed so hard.

     Why worry, girl,
     gather up your skirts
     and hush your anklets.
     Now let’s go stalk
     the spoor of elephants.

[Images: Lithographic prints circa 1885, Calcutta Art Studio]

Listen to the full text in English and Sanskrit, read by the author:

This is an excerpt from my unpublished collection of poems, Grammar of the Goddess. The poems here address the daśa mahāvidyā, the ten tantrik goddesses of sacred knowledge, who may be thought of as aspects of the primordial Mother Goddess.

These poems are born of sādhanā—practice—and inner experience. Any literary tinkering came after. The lines in English are inlaid with Sanskrit bīja—potent "seed syllables" that stand for certain sounds or vibrations, without literal meanings. While the subject matter is not mainstream, these archetypes of time and dissolution, surrender and revelation, word and metamorphosis, beauty and creation are within us, and are therefore known to us all. We then see that they are more than archetypes.

The sacred poetry of women mystic-saints of India—Mira, Lalla, Andal, Akka Mahadevi—has long held me in thrall. Bhakti, divine resonance, if you will, has no religion—only love in all its complex forms. There is no dogma—only the numinous pulse in everything, everywhere. There are no rules—only freedom, and one’s connection to all that is. In the intimate dusk of the heart, there is nothing that may not be said.

Anyone may read the poems; some may even enjoy them. Fellow practitioners may part a few more veils, decoding a kind of "twilight language." Consider these an offering from the wild, anarchic, unmediated heart of the lover.

Kanya Kanchana is an emerging poet, writer, and translator. Her work has appeared in Asymptote, The Common, Hobart, and Buffalo Almanack and is forthcoming in Paper Darts, TrinityJoLT, Aldus Journal, and Circumference. Kanya is also an itinerant practitioner/teacher of yoga and founder of a nonprofit organization that develops community yoga programs for women, children, and those with special needs, often in remote or rural areas.