One Difference Between a Poem and a Sutra

If you ask me
One difference
Between a good poem
And a Sutra
Consists precisely
In this

A good poem
Takes form first
In the heart of
A woman or man
Or sometimes a child
Whereas a Sutra
Originates in the mind
Of a Bodhisatva

But you didn't ask
So instead
I recorded this theory
Here on my blog

The Poet

This is my translation of a poem by the great Anna Akhmatova.  I never would have started translating poetry or writing my own stuff if my wife hadn't given me a book of her poems.  I'm posting this today because I noticed yesterday that I received more hits on my blog from Russia than the US. 

The Poet

Who sees himself sidelong

Through eyes of the horse

By such divergent means

He recognizes instantly

How the puddle shines

As melted diamonds

And the ice fractures

Intricate as lace

Or in lilac repose

By the station platform

Noticing the logs leaves

And clouds piled high

And the steam engine’s hiss

And the crunch of watermelon rind

How she holds scented glove

So delicately in hand

Or at thundering pace

Launching out

To beat against the turf

Then suddenly slowing

To let heartbeat subside

On entering the forest pavilion

Advancing cautiously so as

Not to disturb things sleeping

In such a sacred place

Mentally taking note

Of each stalk of grain

To the graveyard 

He quietly returns

With hoof downward sloping 

And gracefully paws the earth 

And how once more 

Amidst Moscow's throngs

It ill behooves him

This burning

At the back of his throat

Yet he tries to find 

A livable space

Hearing far off the peal

Of the deathly bell

That tolls for one

Who lost the way

Knee deep in snow

But only steps away

From the front door

Of his home

But as he compared  

Rising smoke

To the Laocoon

And celebrated

The cemetery thistles

Braving the void

With the sound

Of his verse as it  

Reverberated in space

He found reward

In childhood eternal

With generosity aplenty

And a shining kind heart

Making the earth

An inheritance

To be shared

Indiscriminately  

 

Poem for a Sleepless Night

Dear John -

Thanks to you

I’ve come to understand

The impeccable logic

Of fear that vermin beget

In all of us and the myriad

Obstacles at our disposal

That suffice to cut us off

From life and love

If not for the study

Of Chinese

I too might have

Succumbed instead

Of stumbling upon

This bold thought

Bolder still in

The accomplishment

That a poet aspires

To attain mastery

Not just of words

But of experience itself

Settling in at My New Desk

This summer it feels
Like we are renting again
Trying to find comfort
In a stranger's house
Much more luxurious
Than the home to which
We'd grown accustomed

But also austere
In its own way
Having pared ourselves
Down to only
The most essential
Of luxuries

Such as here
At my new oak desk
Where the two unpacked
Cartons of books are those
I most need on my desert island
Along with fifty
Little notebooks
Of all different colors
Plus a lifetime supply
Of ballpoint pens

No End to the Chatter

My new publicist began
Just yesterday
By prodding me
To become active
On social media

So I logged onto Twitter
For the first time
And noticed their slogan
Follow more people
To make Twitter
Even better
Which is such
A self-serving idea
Like me claiming
Only by reading
More of my poems
Will you see they are
So well written

So Self seems to be
A self-replicating meme
And Twitter is its prime
Exponent followed
By Facebook as a distant
Second

When all us incessant
Narcissists get together
The network effect remains tenuous
At best but there is certainly
No end to the chatter

A tweet to end tweets or
Much more likely it seems
This world shall not end
With fire or flood
But with the endless dribble
Of 144 character streams

A Week Before June

Of the providence
In Nature
There can be no doubt
Given the complexity
And richness
Everywhere
Surrounding us 

Still there's another
Week until June
And already we're settling
Into the happiest of times
Here in our northeastern
Climate

Spring's showers
Have begun to elide
With vernal super-abundance
The green of the lawn thickens
As the chirping of fledglings
Has noticeably quickened

Poem Written at the Bar in The New Moon

It's with a nod
And a wink
The waitress asks
If I want my dressing
On the side
The problem
Of the moment
For a poet being
Once you have
Given yourself license
How do you real
Yourself back in

But with enough
Time and practice
A dog certainly
Grows old and
Continues to learn
At his or her own pace
Eventually coming to master
The most difficult of tricks