(For Angus MacLise, died Summer Solstice, June 21st, 1979)

“In the fire is no end
but in the tall grasses
but on the riverbanks
but in the cool breezes urging
but in the long empty days.”

(From Jaguar by Angus MacLise)

In the poem one can lay down
the heartline, the harp can bring the tears 
muffled by the sound of the drum, 
your gamelans cut by the Buddha’s knife 
of compassion.
Down at the Snowman I heard 
them discussing your cremation: 
“A dervish has fallen off the roof
the tall skinny one with the coat-hanger shoulders.”
I know the way the pillars of the Vision 
trembled before you in the sunlight. 
You saw the door of Konya open in the slums 
of Brooklyn where light shafted thru’ abandoned 
factories in the amphetamine dawn. 
Now the shades of Mecca are drawn for you, Poet.
The five Dhyani Buddhas transcend your deep-freeze
and await your burning with cloths of the 5 wisdom colors. 
Your unsatisfied cravings fly out of the pyre, 
the blessings of your friends crackle with ghee 
the white and black til seeds (sesame) burn in 
the untrammeled day, and still you are wandering Angus,
passing thru the Bardo Keyhole -
Listen once more to those Tibetan horns, 
they are calling you past Freak Street 
where you sold the White Goddess for junk 
Forget all your regrets and go now with the egret, 
put on your robe of sky –
The Vagabond Maverick Poet MacLise 
has left these burning halls, 
the windtraps are wild with sound, 
I see your hands beating a Persian rhythm 
on suitcases of itinerant dreams, 
I hear the droning of Beelzebub’s flies 
making clear the ghastly way, 
an opera undone by a chorus of 108 Mahasiddhas 
singing your discarded lists of cembalums, 
symphonic poems, untold futures. 
You bummed cigarettes from Ram, 
borrowed time and change from Krishna. 
Now that your balance is finally broken 
go in peace to the Buddhafields, 
nodding in to the sound of your tartan. 
The bane is over -
A new wheel is spinning its song. 
Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock 
we will meet at the Vidyaswari Ghat. 
For you it’s free, this one way ticket 
which is non-transferable, 
Remember that before you try to come back. 
May light mantle your shadow and 
may you not see what is not to be seen. 
Farewell, MacLise, thawing on the Riverbank, 
I do not expect to meet your like again, 
Farewell, brother, the shadow of Don Quixote 
lowers its lance and you are overstood.

Ira Cohen – June 27th 1979. Kathmandu, Nepal.