new poem

Thought to offer a poem that just arrived;
will likely take at least twenty years to
believe with some assurance that it's
"right," in so-called final form.

LETTER

I wrote 206 words today, took
22,000 breaths of air
and released every one of them
back to the Commons.

I ate various creatures with my white teeth,
smiled twice meaningfully, 83 times for sake of diplomacy,
fell in love with my usual ration, 9,
and tried manfully to keep this letter brief

and I nominate for Notion of the Week
the fact that death is perfectly safe,
you can give yourself there with all your might
and off you'll drift, unendable ride.

Plus also I washed the dishes twice
managed to let 7 heart-knots slip...
the daily stuff, cat's dish, quip,
wended its way like Thy Will Be Done.

I remembered some goodnesses, also times
I played the prick; endured regret;
thought of this or that with no purpose or reason,
thought of you, and you. And sat like a mountain.

A Gist Poem

Can't remember if I've already posted this
short poem on the blog before -- if so, it's
time seems to have come round again.

Very plain, it attempts with a certain
playfulness to summarize the gist of
Buddhist practice as I've experienced it
after close to twenty years of study.

Its most immediate reference to the
teachings would be the challenging and
quintessential Heart Sutra.


THE PRACTICE

understanding overcoming
understanding understanding
overcoming understanding
overcoming overcoming

poems about poem-making

An abiding weakness for many poets
is the poem-about-itself. Often seen
as a sort of vice -- oh no, not another
one! -- we strive to avoid this subject
because it's so common, insular,
in consequence many poems about
poem-making turning out rather
playful as they try to find fresh
ways of saying "it's what we do."

Another offering of a piece from
way back:

LETTER FROM THE POEM-CAT

Dear Madam:

I'm a creature like your cat,
a sort of mini-muscled acrobat;
not flesh and fur, and yet I purr like her.

When you're obsessed, some project all astir,
a pencil in your teeth, books on the floor,
no room for even elbows anymore,

it's then cat leaps – "It must be time for love!" --
and settles on your lap. Well, I'm like that:
I lick your squiggly brain, my habitat.

I'm unheard music coiled in soft cat-sleep
gone yearning up toward sound through breath and heart.
You'll come awake with whiskers in your throat,

a little face intent behind your eyes
that stares and stares and wants its nice surprise:
some food for thought, a stroke, a scratch, a pat.

It's me!
Yours felinely,

The Poem-Cat.

end-year sum-up poem

Delving around among the files I found
this one, never published, which seemed
to fit this time of the year.

WEATHER CHANGE

We sad and beautiful animals, strange
the way we yearn for weather-change!

A solid performer earns his kiss
through hummingbird-brilliance, nonetheless

wanders night-mazes of sought-importance
to fearful dead-ends, dank alleys sensed

as breakthroughs, though only time occurs
in labyrinths without Minotaurs.

Oh, endlessly Venus tires of Mars,
old plans implode like black-holed stars,

ramblers at neighborhood windows feel longing
for what sounds like love-play within (such crowing!),

tsunami-spirits with hopeful faces
seek sprightlier riffs that mock to pieces

misery-mongers whose fig-leaf claim
damps the sweet hours with animal-shame.

(Often I've dreamt of an elevator
filled with dear friends gathered in forever

lifting at speed in an urge toward bliss,
in a reverence for passion and happiness).

winter light

An old poem came to hand answering
a request for a sonnet, and since it's
of the solstice season....

RECALLING MR. FROST
for Nick and Eva Linfield

A dauntless taper on a Christmas tree
where apples hang with old world stars of straw
brings Mr. Frost to mind -- his blazonry --
for though the other wicks give up to smoke
this last grows strong as if to tease the law
we alter by, and challenging its gist
burns on and on: the flicker of a joke
in favor of presuming to persist.

No miracles seem likely in our day;
no dove-fire eloquence or shaken flow
of flame tongues. Some achieve a wry display
burning for meaning bravely as they go
out to the dark that waits beyond each door
as if to tell us what a light is for.

My Gosh, Haven't Been Here Since October

Thought I'd extend the notion of a strictly
"poetry" blog just a bit to allow for more
openness to associated chat.

For example, want to note that titles have
always appealed to me. I like to play
the name-it game for bands, books, babies.
Most recent idea for a new collection of poems
is FREEDOM AND THE NOW, probably too
portentious, pretentious to use, but still....

Sort of a Promised Land lilt of language.

Here's an old piece of mine, never published,
that seems to anticipate such a cover notion
for recent work.

SONG OF THE WOODEN MAN
after “The Jewel Mirror Samadhi”
by Ch’an Master Tung-shan Liang-chieh (Tozan Ryokai)

Because there is the base
there is house, cat, cow;
jeweled pedestals
fine clothing.

The stone woman offers up the dance;
the wooden man begins to sing.

Excitement, doubt—both pitfalls,
for nothing comes nor goes.
Path and traveler merging,
you are not it; it is actually you.

Hiding a heron in the moonlight;
filling a silver bowl with snow.

Yi with his archer’s skill
strikes home at hundreds of paces;
but arrow-heads meeting point-on? --
this lies beyond all targeting.

The stone woman offers up the dance;
the wooden man begins to sing.

This is the host within the host:
a tethered horse, secretly whirling,
ecstatic rat, outwardly calm.
You have it now, so keep it well.

Hiding a heron in the moonlight.
Filling a silver bowl with snow.

Memory Poems

Many of my recent poems deal with
memories. Here's one that covers,
symbolically, a lot of personal
territory:

TURNING-UP

Being a mensch meant
turning-up,
like with schoolboy fights:
I never won, not once,
but never a time
I didn't turn-up
scared, hopeless, fighting
Georgie Beckman, Irving Berman,
a ring of guys around us shouting
"hit, hit."

The world kept saying
"I don't like you, Spacks,
meet me after school in the alley."

And I'd turn-up.