An American teacher
says this to a child.
He comes home without
having eaten his lunch.

His little, comely face
is drawn; he fingers his
food, raises his sea blue
eyes, "is your father
a yogi?" I know he

is thinking about
the photograph of my father
with a saffron-paste tilak
on his brow. What can I say?

A yogi should be the young
man next door, with his iron 
strong muscles, and gold hue.

He has become a mendicant,
a beggar in his own
country: a laughing stock.

Who will explain
to this child
that a yogi can be a warrior, 
a charioteer's son.
The one who drove the chariot, 
and the one who sat inside:
petrified by fear.

A yogi will know particle physics,
computer science, decipher 
manuscripts on parchment. 
He can always read the handwriting
on the wall.

II
I do not have the red, dazzling
steed of Surya to guide me.
In the middle of a shoreless sea,
I row a small boat
tied to raw cotton thread.

Behind me is a fortress
of blinding dark.
Columns of radioactive
smoke rise in front.

I lack sleep.
The sleep of tamas.
Of destruction
before my resurrection.

The yogi is here!
He does not sleep.
Eternal, ever awake,
watches for ushas,
the deity of dawn.