The White Owl Saying - 1 Poem by Prathibha Nandakumar

Who anointed him of
his new name?
He called himself fire
And burn he does not

In sleep I cry for him
laugh when he hurts

Yet it is no hurt

I know of Kundalini that converts
a throat into a yoni
and splits apart
the mind.

Every time I stare at the flames
I see the messenger of wind
The white owl, my master,
The owl was actually a mirror image

Ah the joy of being consumed by the fire
The ecstasy of being burnt alive

Remembering that one look
that can give an orgasm
of a life time

I colour my eyes dark
With kajal made of my ashes

What purpose words?
What burns yet cools?
With what absolute perfection
this magical creature was made?
Please do not attempt
to save me from the white owl
sitting on a red chair

He hoots and I try to decipher.



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