COMMITTED
a two-haiku poem
when the tide rolls in
bows of boats bump each other
tethered to the dock
with our ups and downs
we remain tied together
solid as a rock
Ken Chawkin
March 13, 2006
Fairfield, Iowa
(6 weeks after UNDECIDED)
Years later I recorded this and two other love poems for Sali (This Quiet Love and In Our Loving Eyes) for a 2019 Valentine’s Day program on KHOE, MIU’s campus radio station. Click here to read and listen to them.
An Unwanted Guest
When you came to live with me
You brought an unwanted guest
He took over both our lives
To the point you had to leave
Now I visit you … and he’s
Still there ruling over you
No longer a tenant but
A landlord demanding rent
And we pay him with our lives
His name is Dementia
Ken Chawkin
June 19, 2010
Fairfield, Iowa
Related: a new tanka: Dementia Blues
The Curse of Dementia: On watching a loved one diminish before your eyes, poem by Ken Chawkin
To Jyotir Math
Late May, dusty dry hills, scrub brush, months before monsoons would come bringing green relief.
The ashram, quiet, in the fading sunlight, was impressive in these Himalayan foothills; ancient, two-storied cream stone, with saffron orange trim, the Shankarcharya’s colors, and flag flying, nestled against a hill beside Shankara’s cave and banyan tree, the same cave and tree where Shankara sat 3,000 years ago writing his commentaries with the disciples—Trotaka, Hasta-Malaka, Vartika-Kara, Padma-Pada. 3,000 years ago.
The air, though tired and dusty with summer heat, vibrated with ancient wisdom, lively still in that remote valley, hidden from time.
The great gong sounded from the ashram at sunset, calling the villagers to meet, poor peasants—the men road workers, wearing their army uniforms like badges of honor; the women, their good saris ragged to our eyes, glittered with tinseled trim and brilliant blended hand woven colors—scarlet, blue indigo and jaded greens.
They flowed like water into the meeting room—a small room, filled with greatness. Shankarcharya walked slowly into the room, an immense presence, pundits extolling his holiness with Vedic mantras. His gentle gaze, meeting our eyes, greeted the pale Americans who had come with Maharishi. He sat on Guru Dev’s throne, like a statue of stillness, waiting for us to settle, then beckoned to us gently to move forward so more of the villagers could enter the room.
The women to one side, sat apart, protected by their gentle warm togetherness, shifting, hushed whispers, pulling their saris as Maharishi and the great western scientists spoke of the dawning of a new age.
I had been there before, perhaps in a dream, of walking these hills, knowing with liquid clarity what would be around the curve, in the next cave, in the small Devi temple. I knew that holiness.
It was late, and we left quietly. Ahead of us, the village women walked slowly, heads together, chatting and laughing, apart from their men, gathering their tired children in their strong brown arms.
—Sally “Sali” Peden
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(Also see: Pilgrimage, and Timeless Journey, by Sally Peden)
Around 1995-96 Sali took some classes in the MA in Professional Writing program at Maharishi University of Management. The poetry writing class was taught by poet Rustin Larson. It was there that she recalled and wrote about her journey to Jyotir Math in India with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, which had taken place some 20 years earlier, in May 1975, the year Maharishi had inaugurated the Dawn of the Age of Enlightenment. For an explanation and further developments …. (more…)
Pilgrimage
The deity waits in the cave temple 12,000 feet
high in the Himalayas.
A black mound stone idol
dressed with brilliant yellow, golden orange flowers.
For his darshan they travel on foot, donkey, bus or cart
for miles and miles and miles,
climbing hill after hill, mountains terraced with green rice paddies,
lush gushing streams to wade and drink.
The multicolored cotton saris pulled across the women’s faces,
hiding from foreigners in taxis.
Tattered clothed children, scarlet bandanna-wrapped heads, wide grins, open palms.
“Baksheesh! Baksheesh!” they cry, gathering around
begging for coins from rich Americans.
Always climbing upwards, upwards, with white, gleaming snowy peaks in sight,
leading them to the dwelling place of gods,
chanting His thousand names,
to gain holiness that resides within the cave of Being
they come for Self-illumination. It is the tradition.
For hours, endless hours
we drive up the winding mountain roads
rocky with breath-clogging dust.
“A pilgrim bus slid on the curve
and went over the cliff last week,” our driver says.
“Thirty were killed.”
“And you heard last year 200 pilgrims
were trapped in the pass to Kailash?
Strange summer storm, the snow hit suddenly.”
“They froze to death,” he said,
shrugging thin shoulders wrapped in his ragged shirt.
“It’s the way of karma.” He sighs, a toothless smile.
—Sally “Sali” Peden
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(Also see: Timeless Journey and To Jyotir Math by Sally Peden)
This is the seat of the Shankaracharya of Jyotir Math high in the Himalayas in India, where Maharishi studied with his teacher, Guru Dev, from 1940 to 1953. Sali Peden was fortunate to have traveled back to Uttar Kashi with Maharishi and a small group of people. Here is her memory of that special time in a poem.
Timeless Journey
We reached the hill station,
worn from dusty heat and endless mountain curves,
just as dusk descended.
Far in the hills below,
the river,
where Shankara once bathed,
traced a thin course through the valley.
The ashram,
quiet, still
etched against the hills
in the fading light—
looked ancient, removed from time.
Here, eternal wisdom passed
from generation to generation,
pure, untouched by history’s course.
We moved in the breath of the greatest ones,
their presence, lively still.
Brilliant solemnity,
our ancient longings fulfilled.
—Sally “Sali” Peden
(Also see: Pilgrimage and To Jyotir Math by Sally Peden)
The Uncarved Blog 