Temple in the Jungle

by Alexander Lazarus Wolff

 

                              For (and after) Brigit Pegeen Kelly (1951-2016)

 



The viper is mine, the pit viper with the scales

speckled by black, and I am the boy in the ochre robes



contemplating as intently as any monk in any monastery

has ever contemplated, but I have no insights, nor have I tamed



my viper. Now, there are only the lotuses and the koi clustering

together to be fed, and the luster of the beige floorboards



on which postulants congregate to chant, on which the light

of a setting sun shimmers like the polished amber in a pendant.



I have thought enough of death, of entering the black tunnel,

of shedding this body and swimming in the circumfluent darkness



where all is stasis and where time slows to a standing chill. Let us unfetter

ourselves and allow our minds to be like a mother-of-pearl dish, as radiant



as the disk of the full moon whose luminescence ripples

across the surface of the reflecting pool. And though my robes



are too loose, and though the nightingales will never

stop dropping their calls, there is only Goodnight in all this,



and Life is suffering. I have learned tolerance,

learned to take the blade from my wrist and hoard whatever



shrapnel of pleasure the day tosses at me. Now, my mind

coasts alongside the chanting, my fellow monks opening



their mouths in perfect halos of sound, the pitch undulates,

rising and diving like a plane attempting to correct itself. And my mind



does the same, though it can no longer sink into the sounds

they sing. That goodfellow Siddhartha Gautama. Oh, have faith,



force your desires away. Meditate. Meditate.
The laity

do not know I am a product of fantasy. I am the illusion



that you can jettison the sufferings that make a life a life,

jettison it just as I have done to these robes. I have still



not touched the tip of peace unless it is in the scales

of my pit viper who is as still as a weathered stone. And though



there is no nirvana, no insight or mind of white silk brocade, there is also no reason

to blame myself — no reason to desire to end desires

 

 

This poem first appeared in the South Florida Poetry Journal, Issue 23, in November 2021.



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