Living Mandala - Phyllis Meshulam

[Larry Robinson]

Living Mandala
	At a Tshechu, annual sacred festival in Domkhar. Bhutan

1.
Follow me to a small country
where trees in new yellow leaf
stand before black mountains,
where clouds curdle above, 
with sun seeping through.
Where distant Himalayas look 
like the exquisitely chipped rim
of the world’s sugar bowl.
Sit with me and the local populace
in a monastic courtyard
while temple bells gong
and drums beat out 
da-da-DUM-dum-dum. 

2. 
Watch while a dozen monks
in masks of the zodiac, 
in yellow skirts with rainbow 
petticoats, emerge from 
the temple, their feet bare,
chests, too, but for richly
embroidered bibs and straps. 
And on the grass and flagstones, 
they dance, whirl and 
twirl, lift feet, toss ribboned
crests, ears, horns, gin up winds
with the sticks they carry.
Rooster, ox, rat and all spin like clocks 
and counter-clocks, the mandala 
of their ring wheeling in a circle game. 
The winds blow hot and cold.
The temple horns blow cool. 
At last spent, each takes a solo exit, 
helped up steps by other monks – 
ones not drunk on dance. 

3. 
After the barest of intervals, the monk dancers 
will be back in different masks 
to again leave all on the flagstones. 
They will repeat all day. Meanwhile
divine jesters will orchestrate with smirk 
masks and phallus prods. They grin, 
teach steps, poke people, invite themselves
onto audience laps. It’s understood these 
tricksters must stay inside the gates. 

Cymbals are singing and the monks are
back in red brocade, whirling, holding 
swords of purification, and spinning.
Have I ever witnessed someone 
dancing themselves into a frenzy 
for the enlightenment of my soul? 
Yes
 
	- Phyllis Meshulam
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