One of my dearest friends is getting married this weekend in a Hindi ceremony, and as part of the wedding ritual, we bridesmaids gathered yesterday for manicures and mendhi. I've never experienced a Henna tattoo before, and I must say, typing now, my hands seem like a stranger's hands, but I loved being part of something so ancient. I was reminded of a book of hieroglyphic poems that dates back to between 1567 B.C. and 1085 B.C.. Translated by Ezra Pound, I gave the book--Come Swiflty to your Love--to my husband when we were in our very earliest days of finding each other. This poem I love: 
The shrill of the wild goose
Unable to resist
The temptation of my bait.
While I, in a tangle of love,
Unable to break free,
Must watch the bird carry away my nets.
And when my mother returns, loaded with birds,
And finds me empty-handed,
What shall I say?
That I caught no birds?
That I myself was caught in your net?
The shrill of the wild gooseUnable to resist
The temptation of my bait.
While I, in a tangle of love,
Unable to break free,
Must watch the bird carry away my nets.
And when my mother returns, loaded with birds,
And finds me empty-handed,
What shall I say?
That I caught no birds?
That I myself was caught in your net?
3 comments:
I should send you the imitation I did from that book. Just for old time sake...
When I was about four years old in Morocco, my mother began putting henna in her hair to make it redder. Even now, I still can't STAND the smell.
PS- Splash Of Senses has now updated and relocated because of technical difficulties to (drumroll please)... ofabsurdity.blogspot.com.
:)
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