The Art of Poetry No. 23
“I'm not a Buddha in the sense of I can sit under a tree for a thousand years. Who can? The climate doesn't allow for it, anyway . . . ”
“I'm not a Buddha in the sense of I can sit under a tree for a thousand years. Who can? The climate doesn't allow for it, anyway . . . ”
I hold a pair of scissors over my head and open and close the blades to cut off the air from its source. I lower the scissors to the ground and snap at the surface to punish it for its errors, such as grass, trees, flowers and fruits. I turn the scissors point towards myself and snap the blades open and shut at my nose, my eyes, my mouth, my ears. I have to be angry at my-self too who lives off earth and air.
Now that we have ordered well may we turn back
upon suffering; after the fixed moments and precision,
to seek comfort in release. Peace being with us,
I paused in my car at a street corner before entering a broad, busy road, looked in both directions for traffic and then eased into the road ahead of distant, oncoming cars, a warm feeling of accomplishment that once more 1 had entered the stream of things to become part of America, on the go. When I reached my house and entered I slid back into a chair and felt stranded, forgotten and apart in my own home.