H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
PETER MARTI
Padampa Sangye
retreat spot above Paro Valley, Bhutan. Photo by Peter Marti.
Thigh-bone Trumpet Echo
“This last 25
minute leg of our flight today
might be a bit
bumpy,” pilot cheerily informs
“To the left is
the highest mountain in the world”
and so it is: Mt.
Everest juts up white
craggy tooth in dark
blue sky, like its pictures
—never thought I’d be so close—
dark gray clouds of
its own weather
massing from China
*
While alive,
our Tibetan Buddhist Lama
—omniscient poet, artist, philosopher—
was the King of
Bhutan’s own teacher.
We’ll join
thousands of others flying in
walking, bussing—upon
arrival we even see some
prostrating, calmly
stretching out full
on the ragged
asphalt and dirt road
leading to his
cremation.
*
First glimpse
memorial site week before
ceremony: camouflage and navy blue
Army and Police
in stocking feet on scaffold
painting Tibetan
Buddhist symbolic art
on cremation Stupa.
Families arrive
on foot, prostrate, bow
circumambulate—touch baby’s head
to shrine
beneath picture of our
Teacher, sitting dead in
meditation posture behind
silk curtains
*
Our Teacher
bought this steep mountain valley
for his permanent
resting place—
the Army’s
terraced and graded, improved the
road (tho it’s still a rough ride up)—
below sacred cave of
Padampa Sangye
(patron saint of Chod—esoteric
practice for
offering one’s own body
as gesture of ultimate
non-attachment)
Ritual sounds
of chanting, skull-drum
thigh-bone trumpet
echo down from above.
*
2
a.m. we rise, have tea and
hard-boiled eggs
get ride to base of road leading to
cremation site.
We
have to walk up—like first day here—
but no easier, carrying water,
cushions, coats
thousands climb as well, ringing the site
with
reverential patience.
*
Our
Teacher’s memorial brings us mourners
together for first, maybe last time.
Three
young western students are the chopen
(or “hands of the Lamas”) in charge of loading
crematorium with blessed substances,
offerings
oils, grains, prayers…
Strange
to have known these young men
—mouths covered w/ silk offering scarves—
as babies.
12
years ago one sat screaming
for 20 minutes on the cushion next to
mine
while we sang ritual feast offering
prayer
over and over, our teacher signaling
us ignore him
until he stopped
and my own mind
finally quieted.
*
Faint
first wisp cremation smoke above stupa—
culmination of week’s pujas,
prayers—
he’s really gone
my flawless teacher
who knew my mind better than I
who once put enlightened wrathful
deity
Vajrakilya there
—wings ruffling the air—in place of
my ordinary anger, who once laughed
at my
bow legs, asking where was my horse,
who
when he saw us practicing before 35
foot statue of
Padmasambhava, patron saint of Tibet
waved his hands, creating holographic
image
of Copper-colored Mountain pure
land—
the wisest, omniscient Buddha
gone from earth…
Flames
lick from white clay oven
Holy
soot blackens the vents, now the smoke
thickens, curls out and over his children,
over his
own father, reborn now 21 years old,
presiding
over multitudes on terraced hillsides
dots of bright colors
refracted through tears
*
Paro to Bangkok flight delayed two
hours
bad weather then on to Tokyo
We
eat airport noodles
P.A.
asks for a moment of silence for all those
killed exactly one year ago this minute
Earthquake
and Tsunami images tumble
across flat-screen TVs
Noodle-stand
quiets
Japanese
stop mid-bite
chopsticks in the air
*
Jet-lagged
beyond reason
I
return from Bhutan…
saw my shrunken
gold-leafed teacher burnt
—incense, smoke—
omniscient ash
over Himalayas.
***
[Originally
published in NHS 2012, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs12/.]