The full moon was November 17. In traditional Ashtanga Yoga practice, we take rest on the new and full moon. Many believe that because humans are made mostly of water, we too, are affected by the pull of the moon. The moon’s relative position to the earth creates energetic atmospheres, and the full moon’s energy is characterized by an expansive force which can be powerful and full of emotion, but often lacks the feeling of grounding. These are some observations from the full moon day in Mysore…


I’m full,

Floating against this evening’s pale blue sky.

I’m whole,

my illuminated orb

hangs steady,

moving easy over your horizon.
You take rest.


I am dogs barking:

Huddled in packs on the street’s

red clay corner.

Growling, lips curled above canine teeth

until one’s distracted by your smile,

tail wagging, at peace again.

Then pulled back to the wrestle

with a quick bite, a sharp yip.


I am this little boy’s mischief:

Reflected on his dilated pupils

and the rocks he throws –

like insults beyond his age,

tied to firecrackers,

two weeks past Dwali.


I’ve waxed on this energy,

Your nerves

Pulled up like the tide

against chewed finger nails.

Your creative storm surge:

the volume of your chants,

the ferocity of your smile,

the depth of your tears.

Staged Sunrise

6:30am. After morning yoga practice at 4:30am, this is my view walking home and gazing east from my balcony. This is a first draft; presented to you unedited, barely re-read…as a stream of my thoughts…and my first post from India!

Staged Sunrise

This morning’s hazy scrim

raises slower than usual.

Stage hand’s missed his cue again,

but the director decides she likes it anyway.

                Add it to the show!

Cue soft purple light stage left and right,

and turn on the smoky, trash-burnt smell of the fog machine.

Cue crowing roosters…howling chants:

prayers echoing hollow from between homes,

as center stage fades to a rosy glow.

What corner of the sky

my audience’s eye sees

is only a small part of the story.

Past coconut trees,

I understand,

Unfold more stages,

foggy scrims,

directors and lights.

Actors still sleeping, already singing,

audiences seated, stories unfurling.

Cue soft yellow lights.

Cue sunrise: a fire orange spotlight through the banyan trees’ boughs.

Cue today.


On November 9, the day after I wrote this stage-and-sunrise-inspired poem in India, an accidental explosion killed one technician and injured over a dozen more cast and crew members in the Parisian production 1789, in which my partner Michael was an original cast member. I lived in Paris last year while he performed in and created original body-percussion numbers for the show. So from India, with a heavy heart, I dedicate this poem to the family of the victim, to the injured, to the cast, crew, creative team and fans.