Five Cosmic Bhuddas

It is a tiny little painting. Almost five hundred years old.
From India, the small placard tells you. You have no reason to doubt it,
Watercolor. FIbrous paper from the sides of the Ganges river,
It takes weeks, the placard says, just to make each sheet.

You imagine the artist. Painting. Five Cosmic Bhuddas.
DId he give it the title, or did some british explorer
who found it in a back room of the temple
in the act of conquering? Did he sense the holy?

or was it just a trinket to take home, a souvenir
to wow the locals and add to their credentials
as an intrepid explorer, something to be brought out
when there is company?

I prefer to think the artist knew he was creating something holy,
something that would catch even a stranger’s eye
and still his heart. My heart. Did he know that
men who worship a different God would still feel the holy

in something bright and red and gold, paint flaked off
and hanging in a sterile wall? Likely not.
WHen we worship, we worship in the moment,
lose ourselves in the music, incense, color and light,

Or at least if we are fortunate we lose ourselves,
find ourselves in the miracle of worship. And,
should the relics of holiness still have the power
to still your heart. So much the better.

About this poem

I love holy spaces. Small New England Churches. Cathedrals. Temples. Mosques. Yes, I know congregations of all faiths are flawed and often searching. But still, something about a space or artifact from a holy space sings to me. The belief. The yearning. The need and creating a space to rejoice. Ah, the hope. No wonder they still still our hearts, hundreds, even thousands of years later.

The photo is of a small painting called, yes, Five Cosmic Bhuddas. Seen at the Clark a year or so ago.

Tom