Ever since I read George Saunders' novel Lincoln in the Bardo, the idea of the Bardo, a liminal place between death and eternity, has haunted me. It's a Buddhist idea /place that I barely understand.
Here's a wonderful poem about it by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa,
A hundred
and one butter lamps are offered to my uncle who
is no
more.
Distraction
proves fatal in death. A curtain of butter imprints
in air.
After the
burning of bones, ashes are sent on pilgrimage. You are
dead, go
into life, we pray. My uncle was a man given to giggles
in solemn
moments.
Memory
springs like crocuses in bloom. Self conscious and
precise.
Without
blurring the cornea, details are resuscitated. Dried yak
meat
between teeth. Semblance of what is.
Do not be
distracted, Uncle who is no more.
He does
not see his reflection in the river. The arching of speech
over “s”
as he is becoming.
Curvature
of spine as it cracked on a misty morning. A shadow
evades
the wall.
You are
no more, Uncle who is no more.
Every
seven days he must relive his moment of expiration.
The
living pray frequently amid burning juniper.
Communication
efforts require the right initiative.
Somewhere
along the line matters of motion and rest are resolved.
Crows pick
the last offerings. You are someone else, uncle no
more.
Tsering Wangmo Dhompa, “Bardo” from Rules
of the House. Copyright © 2003 by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa. Reprinted by
permission of Apogee Press..
Source: Rules of the House (Apogee
Press, 2003)
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