Poetry

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A month after Sally's death

Oh, Oh - Oh!
Can I do this,
This life,
Alone now?
Do I need?
Blue sky above,
Grass below.
The sun on my back;
A bird flies!
And, nearby, Sally's grave.
A mound of clay.
Withered flowers soaking in the rays.
Life and death in an instant,
Here and now.

No longer her solid, warm touch to savour,
Reaching beyond the boundaries of skin
To my very heart itself.
The memories are so sweet!
Down to earth,
No nonsense.
Gone.
That soft, coercive beckoning to make eye contact.
Her endearing smile.
Gone.
A collision of paths,
No longer colliding -
Yet the acceptance and aliveness live on.

Surrender.
I am.
Nowhere I could want to be but here.
No explanations.
Grief as grace, coming in waves;
So easy!

A client on my table now.
A body, words, stories, problems.
Contact.
A sigh.
Just two people in a room.
So easy!
Together again.

A thought; I want to do as she did.
So very much …
But there's no way.
And, at once, there is every way.
Liberation;
Just be myself!
Constantly forgetting,
Constantly remembering.
Giving as receiving,
Yet at the same time neither is really done.
No need for strategy,
Though strategy plays its part -
Techniques likewise.
It's all there really!
Nothing to add or take away.
Theory is practice,
Practice is without theory.

You and me.
Us.
One.
Two wheels of the cart that rolls ever onwards.
No different really,
But also totally unique;
Thus is the mystery.

My client leaves.
I sit in the garden with a coffee,
The dog at my side.
The wind in the trees.
Birdsong.
Clouds passing.
Eternity.
So beautiful!
Thank you.

 

A Tribute to the Master

"Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
When you know that my poems are not poems,
Then we can talk of poetry."

So said Ryokan,
Japanese
Poet-recluse,
Zen monk,
Beloved of Asian literature,
Renowned calligrapher,
Eccentric.

So,
What are my poems?
Are my poems poetry?
Are they even poems -
For I am no poet!
I know nothing of poetry,
So can I write poems?
Know what is not a poem?
Talk of poetry?

"Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf"

That's what Ryokan's book of non-poems is called;
A collection of translations
By John Stevens -
Not by Ryokan at all!
So,
What of mine?
Not a book -
A sheaf of stapled A4s,
A folder of Word files on the hard drive,
A series of emails to unsuspecting sufferers.
Teardrops on a Dell Keyboard?
Tap, Tap, Tap on an Epson Printer?
"Oh-No-Another-Bloody-Email-from-Vicki"?
Or,
Impressions of Sally -
The only,
The best,
The one;
The one
Who is,
And
The one
Who is not?
I challenge you,
Mr Stevens,
Translate that!

"It's a pity, a gentleman in refined retirement composing poetry:
He models his work on the classic verse of China,
And his poems are elegant, full of fine phrases.
But if you don't write of things deep inside your own heart,
What's the use of churning out so many words?"

No,
My poems
Are not poems -
More essays.
Unrefined,
Unmodelled,
Unclassical;
Rabid and cantankerous.
I should retire!
Is that what lies deep in my heart?
A churning of words?
What a pity.
No elegance there.
Fine phrases?
Fuck off!
Ryokan would love them!

So,
Mr Ryokan,
What do you really think?
Let me know.
Let us talk of poetry!

(Though,
Since you died
176 years ago,
This will have to be
In my dreams).

"A single wish;
To sleep one night
Beneath the cherry blossoms."

So 'there'.
Such charming Haiku -
How can he spurn elegance?
Or fullness?
Such simplicity -
How to model that?
You can't.
Life -
Like the cherry blossoms -
Is short and sweet;
Mine
And mine only,
Expressed
Uniquely,
Exquisitely,
Infinitely,
In the present moment
And no other.

No,
My poems are not poems;
They are mine -
My poems -
Poetry of the soul.
Sirens of suffering,
Expletives of experience.
But what of the spirit?
Souls live on,
Suffer,
Endure - but
The spirit
Is,
Here and now;
Only this.
How to catch dewdrops
On a lotus leaf,
Here in the fens?
Only this.
The Essence of Zen -
Of the heart.
But what lies in mine?
Only this.
The answer,
So simple
You nearly miss it.
Only this.

"The Great Way leads nowhere,
And it is no place.
Affirm it and you miss it by a mile;
'This is delusion, that is enlightenment' is also wide of the mark.
You can expound theories of 'existence' and 'non-existence'
Yet even talk of the 'Middle Way' can get you side-tracked.
I'll just keep my wonderful experiences to myself.
Babble about enlightenment, and your words get torn to shreds."

Yo!
Wise words indeed,
Such wondrous teachings
From my old mate,
Ryokan.

Yet,
Of course,
To proclaim them as wise
Is to miss their wisdom
Altogether.

No more than riddles?
Intellectual bartering?
Surely there is more than that
At 05:29
On a sleepless night?

"Late at night I draw my inkstone close;
Flushed with wine, I put my worn brush to paper.
I want my brushwork to bear the same fragrance as plum blossoms,
And even though old I will try harder than anyone."

Nice one!
Liked it!
What a winner!
Now,
Let me try:

Early in the morning, the hot laptop sings on my belly;
The over-sweet residue of hot chocolate glueing my palate.
Who knows what my efforts will bring; I just write,
No forethought, no fragrance, just the void and me; tap, tap, tap!

"Hey ho."
That's what she would say.
What about you,
Mr Ryokan?
Was it -
My non-poem -
As hollow as bamboo?
As straight as a Zen archer's arrow?
As transient and beautiful as your scented blossoms?
Upright,
True,
Authentic?
The only,
The best,
The one?

"Affirm it and you miss it by a mile."

So,
I see
I already have my answer -
For I am not blind.
No delusion here, he-hey!

But
Let's not get side-tracked;
Here we are,
Talking of poetry;
Of poems and non-poems.

"Some day I'll be a weather-beaten skull resting on a grass pillow,
Serenaded by a stray bird or two.
Kings and commoners end up the same,
No more enduring than last night's dream."

Well,
Me old pal Ryokan,
I can't beat that one,
Though it pains me to say.
If the light don't go out soon,
There will be no last night's dream,
Enduring or not.
So I will lay my beaten skull
On my down-filled pillow
And let the stray birdsong
Serenade my slumbers.
Until next time;
Rest well
On your grassy mattress
And then,
Together,
Some day soon,
We can talk again -
Of poetry.

 

This is it

This is it -
No truer words!
Shoveling dirt from a one tonne bag
On a Saturday morning,
With five more to go -
Barrowload by barrowload.

Deeper and deeper we go
Into the darkness,
Into the depths,
Heavier and heavier -
Ultimately to find only
That we are oh so superficial,
So light!
So here!
So now!
Yes,
This is it.

This is it,
My friend -
Like it or not.
The truth does not show preference
For you or I,
It just is.

So,
Say what you like,
Protest or deny,
Reject or refuse,
Lock out or let in,
Living or dying,
Saying yes or saying no,
Hate it or love it -
This is it.

All these things we think we do
For better or worse
Help us not. For, in the stillness
Of this moment in time,
This is it;
Nothing but superficial appearances.
Shoveling dirt from a one tonne bag
On a Saturday morning,
With five more to go -
Barrowload by barrowload.

We probe our inner depths to seek those
Imagined treasures beyond our wildest dreams!
Yet,
In reality,
All our digging serves only to reveal
More surface layers,
More experiences
More here and now.
Yes, dear reader -
This is it.

 

In touch

Why?
Although I know,
I still ask.

I miss her,
Her hands especially.

Holding,
Stroking,
Pushing,
Probing,
Provoking,
Containing,
Engulfing,
Allowing me to be -
Allowing us to coexist,
As one.

No need to hide.
No way to hide!
I can be no other way than this
When in her grasp.

Holding together,
Opening up,
Feeling out,
Getting inside,
And always winning over.

Working underneath me;
Aah -
My sacrum sizzles!
My thighs lurch in delight!
My armpits squeal in pleasure.
Then,
She supports my head;
Can those hands be human -
So solid,
So safe,
So secure?
Can those hands be any more human -
So warm,
So soft,
So comforting?
My head becomes heavier,
Looser,
Lighter,
Denser.
But no words are needed.
My feet expand and turn to gas.
I sink into the table.

Oh,
And that extraordinary session;
Suddenly,
She grasps the skin from my belly -
Stretching,
Twisting,
Extending upwards;
I gasp!
Such extreme sensations,
Streamings,
Going right through me.
So wonderful!
Sheer relief;
Total acceptance;
Ease and comfort -
At last.
My body weeps;
I have arrived.
How can anyone live without knowing this?

She works silently,
As if cradling my heart.
Every cell listening,
Hearing the call,
Standing to attention,
Coming alive;
Living life.

But what life now,
Without those hands?
Is that ease,
That warmth and safety,
That exuberant delight
Never to be re-found?
Is life without,
Sustainable?
Endurable?
Possible?

No longer those hands.
Will I shrivel, bloat, explode, implode,
Or
Simply,
Slowly,
Merely
Fade
Away?

Life without Sally.
Just this.
Nothing else.
Simple.
Bare.
Stark.
Raw.
Waiting to be uncovered,
Fresh and new,
The dawn of a new age;
The unknown.
And I dread it.

Can I do this,
This life,
Alone now?
Do I need?