These are notes.
A telescope to minutia.

Eggs on the frying pan;
A whiskey slap without the whiskey.

This is a slow, full-footed walk;
the blue Himalayan sky,
The ghost of the Ganga—sanctified and polluted.

A portrait of self
and so-called-“other”;
a reconciliation of Either/Or.

Day to day to dissection
of dingy dogmas.

No, not propaganda
of the ideal, scripted, fear-mongering mind–
But a solar powered festival of lights.

Concentric circles and the details of clouds.
The robe of an ascetic and a childhood painting.

Invocation, Resurrection, Resolution
and Primary colors.

This is a beehive,
the words are the hungry bees themselves
mining the ichor
from the minutes—
those open pores of the bodies of days.

The flesh formed from the poetry of rhythm,
The eyes,
cracked eggs leaking yellow


  1. Mohammed Farid says

    Beautiful poem,keep up the good work amanda!!! 🙂

  2. This so beautifully embodies and articulates the unraveling that reveals the perfection. Love you, Amanda.

  3. Very deep!

  4. Chris Sheehey says

    Hi Amanda,

    thank you for this. Clearly, you are a poet who does yoga. Many other poems on this site are yogis attempting poetry which is nice, but their poetry is not very well honed. A whiskey slap without the whiskey indeed 🙂


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