The Woman
from Burial XXII
I
am looking at an artist’s hypothesis of how she looked,
This
woman of some seven thousand years ago,
Probably
a shamaness buried with her ceremonial bones,
Animal
tooth necklace and feathery necklace.
She
stares at me, offers me a bowl, as though
I
were her client seeking answers to my doubts:
Is
there really a power greater than my pains
Who
can let me sleep again after years of fear?
Do
the beasts we hunt in the mountains hate us
And
stir the clouds and thunder, the wild lights
That
set the trees on fire, the winds that warn
Away
our prey? Does what I dream come out
Of
me or does it crawl out of the earth
Like
the creatures that are born of darkness?
I
know this image of her face is not the truth.
She
lies there in a tangled skeleton, her skull
Barely
propped, and all her paraphernalia,
Unrecognizable
over centuries of darkness,
Until
an artist gave her life and made
Her
speak in imagination, without syllables
Or
images, only sensations, patterns
In
the dust of stars, designs in waves
Across
the centuries of longing: Come to me,
Drink
my pulsating blood, feel my cold breath,
Taste
the wisdom of my dreams, and most
Of
all come into my eyes and see my soul.
My
soul swims in the empty space between
Your
dreams and mine, the border-realm of fear
And
wild confusions, and you may sleep the way
An
infant sleeps always sucking, always cooing,
Always
longing for the otherness of itself.
My
dreams create your dreams and give you words
And
images, feelings for the light,
Yet
as the oceanic tides express their grief
And
long to follow other seas beneath
The
shadows of the sun, you cannot sing
Or
dance with me; and only memories
Lie
softly in the sand where waters sleep,
Caressing
arms and silent drifting life.
This
is what she seems to say out of her photograph,
Her
manifestation into our imagined dialogue.
She
could not have understood me in a conversation,
Her
mind and mine so different in every way,
Let
alone in possession of words or concepts, or feelings
Since
the world has shifted off its axis many times
And
sea changes manifest in the ways we think.
But
if a scientist and artist can reproduce her face
And
recreate the appearance she would have had back then,
Why
not my own creative ways of meditation,
The
intensity of longing to be close to her for just
A
moment, to slip into that gap of difference where
Our
shared humanity could exist, that moment
Of
closeness before there was culture and reason,
This
magical, miraculous instant out of time?
This
is my reply, translated out of the terms that man
Claims
no one today can comprehend; but he forgets
That
when my face was reconstructed by computer,
The
very essence of my being was transformed, so that
I
now can see and feel and think and even remember
In
the manner of your present and I am no longer some
Pile
of bones or an archaic woman beyond language
And
modern empathy. Call me what you will,
So
long as there is space for me to be more than what
You
expect or think you see reflected in these
Artificial
eyes. I am your mystery,
An
enigma, the riddle of yourself—yourself
And
not yourself, neither him in his own time
Nor
someone else you all thought you found, down there
In
the site you call Burial XXII.
If
there are three of us now, the shamaness,
The
poet, and the reader of these verses, less
Than
any of us could have predicted or foreseen,
Yet
more beyond our common sense, as green
As
shadows on the surface of a country rill
Or
as purple as a fading wound where will,
Desire
and annoyance met, we all are self created
In
this momentary place of mystery, not dead
Or
living as ordinary minds believe, but out
Of
all imaginings, like a never-ending echo
That
hovers above the seas, beyond the stars,
And
waits impatiently—like a fire that never chars.
That
is all I have to say and now must part.
Her
friends who buried her, who knew her well,
Felt
a sorrow mixed with pride, as they set her up
Like
a guardian of the cave, someone to welcome
In
new generations, confident of her power’s survival.
Each
acolyte laid a flower next to her
And
breathed on her face, while nearby chanters murmured
Prayers
in her honour, while someone dipped his fingers
In
the wet red clay to make the marks across the wall
That
showed the deep reflections of her mind.
Then
from the darkness way beyond the night
Inside
the hollow-sounding mountain, a light
Refracted
on the stones came closer still,
Like
a dancing spirit, and spread a song
Over
her body, whose shadows now could rest,
As
infants lie contented on their mother’s breast.
Deep
night and empty silence for seven
Thousand
years embraced her corpse
Which
slowly fell apart, undisturbed
By
bears and bats, forgotten by the world.
Outside,
the oceans heaved, the hands
Of
men and women entangled themselves in love
And
hate, built villages and harvested
The
living produce of new ideas, disturbed
The
balance of the heavy weight of doubtful hopes,
And
longed, undreaming, of a deeper endless sleep.
This
evening, as we stare numbly at the woman’s eyes,
We
cannot fathom who she really was or dare
To
speculate what she would think we are,
Or
even what unproblematic humanity we might share.