A Case of Nirvana

‘A case of nirvana,’ she says –

and I imagine it packed in a suitcase,

a certain portion of it, to take as luggage 

everywhere I go … 

small pieces of nirvana

might be broken off for snacks

to sustain me while travelling, or

in liquid form it could quench my thirst

more than water (do we not all

thirst for nirvana?).

When arriving somewhere 

for an overnight stay on my way,

I might open my case and remove

a silken cloak of nirvana 

to wrap around my shoulders: 

light, yet warmly comforting.

What if I were to put the case down

and forget to take it up again?

I might spend forever after

searching for lost nirvana. Or perhaps

as in a spy movie, someone 

would deftly swap cases with me.

What would I get in exchange 

for my case of nirvana? And to what

secret vault would it go – hidden forever, 

or used to change the world?

The title is stolen from Rajani Radhakrishnan's poem A case of nirvana under a Ficus Mysorensis which is far more brilliant, beautiful and profound than this, and which I love in many ways. While I couldn't resist going off on this silly little tangent, and also must ethically acknowledge my source, I certainly don't wish to detract from the message of that source. Therefore you should please regard them as entirely separate, not to be compared in any way – and also go and absorb Rajani's wise and wonderful writing. (PS  She has seen this and enjoyed it.)

Sharing this with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #205.

November Tanka: Place and Time

 

piles of paper

overflow from my desk

to my table –

as if I could feast on

the written word (I can)

20/11/25

memory

wanders on the outskirts

of town

along the river bank

of my childhood

21/11/25

dark moon

in the month and sign

of my birth –

not surprising I’m loath

to tidy my house

21/11/25

good intuition

he says when I (next door) guess 

he was painting –

no, art gives a certain

quality to the silence

21/11/25

‘poor little girl’

I think, of my friend  

who died young —

a woman strong and free   

but I know her childhood 

23/11/25

the hot is here

I put on my sarong

tie it firm —

thin cotton towel I bought 

long ago in India 

24/11/25

November Tanka: Friends

long married

just turned eighty-seven

she ‘never

wanted another fella’ –

some fairy-tales come true

14/11/25

oh no! 

her new photo tells me

she’s old – 

so much younger than me

I know, how can this be?

19/11/25

next door

is quiet today –

the artist

I think must be working

deeply absorbed (like me)

20/11/25

unlike

in religion, politics,

lifestyle 

yet we are old friends –

we see each other’s hearts

21/11/25

Note: I'm referring to four different friends of mine who happened to come into my consciousness at this time. Some readers, here and elsewhere, have been a bit confused about that.

Sharing this with Poets United for Friday Writings #204 , where the optional prompt is to take inspiration from the quote,  ‘The most expensive garment you’ll ever own is your own flesh.’ But I didn't have time to write something new for that theme today. Instead, here I am looking out at other people.

Dragons and Unicorns

 Companion poems (mine and a friend's) written and published years ago, and duplicated here in order to show them to someone who hasn't seen them before.

 

I was living in rented premises and wasn’t allowed to have animals there. I complained to my friend Janet about the lack of pets. “Why don’t you have psychic pets?” she said. “Brilliant,” I thought. She decided to have some too. Some time later, there ensued the following correspondence.

 

 

 

DEAR Janet,

How are the unicorns?

 

I haven’t patted I haven't patted or said hullo to

the dragons for such a long time.

I forget them, like plants unwatered.

I hope they feed themselves

and don’t depend on spasmodic rains

or the crumbs we leave for birds.

 

I wonder what they do up there all day.

Are they bored? If it was me.

I’d copulate constantly — but dragons,

I think, have a different kind of season.

 

I see they have moved

to a low, convenient cloud. The roof

was awkwardly shaped, uncomfortable.

They swathe their massive tails

They s                   in coils around each other.

They look bored but cosy;

 lazy and cosy, curling up for warmth.

 

The blue one is Agyar, known as Betsy.

The red is male. His name is Aragon.

They are faithful dragons to me

 and dutiful. I must treat them better.

 

Janet, how are your unicorns?

 

 

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1993

First published in Feet First: poems by the Aardvarkers

Also in Secret Leopard: new and selected poems 1974-2005 (Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005)

 

8/4/93

DEAR ROSEMARY

 

The unicorns

look silly in the laundry beside the washing machine

Nathan is combing Jennifer’s tail with his teeth

I woke up at 3 o’clock last night

because someone was nuzzling my cheek

They love music

Nathan’s a Beatles freak

Jennifer prefers Debussy

They don’t look bored

I don’t think unicorns do that

and they’ve got the cat to talk to

I asked them what they think about

they said ‘LOVE’   and the space beyond the black stump

There’s a black stump where they come from too

They look cramped in the laundry

Perhaps I’ll take my psychic paint-brush and

create for them a daisy-covered meadow

and in the lounge-room a pond

 

It’s wonderful living with unicorns

 

 

 

© Janet Gregory 1993

First published in Feet First: poems by the Aardvarkers

Also in Secret Leopard: new and selected poems 1974-2005 (Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005)