A place for poems
IN A DREAM
In a dream I saw four mountains with a valley in between. In the valley lay a lake of crystal water, deep and clean. Somewhere hidden on this fell there lived a hermit rarely seen who mingling with the mist and cloud left no trace where he had been. Nonetheless , one felt the spell cast on rocks and ancient trees 10 amidst the perfume of sweet flowers carried on the gentle breeze. We entered, I and my companions, this entrancèd pleasuance all dressed in coat of many colours prepared to…
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Namo Amida Bu!
AFGHANISTAN - DHARMAVIDYA POEM
The commentator full of passion speaks
as self-appointed spokesman for them all
“The Afghan people have been rightly promised
that precious gift, a Western way of life.
How vital it is now to not desert them,
but to honour solemn promises once made!”
Now the ordinary television viewer
is talking it all over with his wife:
“We have to save the good guys from the bad ones;
it seems a very simple moral tale.
How can it be the nasty ones have triumphed
and our heroic boys must fly away?
Surely every one from every nation
must want to think and live the way we do!
I’m trying to not sound like a colonial,
but I really think that our ways are the best
and all these funny foreign distant countries
should change and learn to imitate the West.”
A jihadist now boldly steps up forward,
“I have a thing or two to make remark.
We winners of an asymmetric war
could never have prevailed without support.
The ordinary Afghan gave us shelter
and we were those who promised an ideal.
Who wants your wasteful, sinful self-indulgence
when the virtue of Koran is close at hand?
Who wants his soil corrupted by invaders
and foreign troops encamped across his land?
Perhaps we are barbarians to you,
but our vigour rests upon a deep conviction
that in the longer run we’ll prove more true
and you will be the failures of the future.”
The politician fleeing in his plane
to an uncertain future in exile
looks back upon a struggle for survival
that he thought was guaranteed by greater powers.
“I took the Western guns and propaganda
for promises that would not fade away
and on this seeming very solid basis
I made a play for power and prestige.
I must confess my motives were quite mixed
and I was never sure what to believe:
was I an instrument of good reform
or was I just a puppet who’d been bribed?
Were my masters real and true the Afghan people
or those who pull the strings from overseas?”
A peasant from a village has a voice
that’s seldom heard or heeded during war,
“I’d sooner trust the people of my tribe
and the customs of my folk from older times.
I have no faith in fangled new ideas,
and warlords are no benefit to me.
Governments mean taxes and oppression
whatever flag they fly upon their mast.
Times are hard and warfare makes it harder
so my hope is now a period of peace,
to sow my crops and marry off my daughters
and go to sleep without the sound of bombs.”
A woman speaks from under her long gown,
“It’s difficult to know just what to think.
I’m attracted to the freedoms of the West.
I would like education for my daughters,
consumer goods are tempting as a dream,
but conservatism rules my inner soul
and I scorn the way they are so lewdly dressed;
I’m timid of the brave new world they speak of
and fear that it’s corruption in disguise.”
Now there comes to speak a battle hardened soldier,
a man of discipline and honed resource
who, having seen the ins and out of each campaign
must surely have a verdict to proclaim.
“When you fight you must believe in what you’re doing
with conviction that you’re on the better side.
Two decades we have been here and, you know,
I’ve seen some mates beside me lose their lives
and I’ve learnt the art of daily staying safe
yet in your body armour and your caution
and not knowing how to speak the local tongue
we’d little chance to know their hearts and minds
and it’s not easy to be friendly with a gun;
so if I’m frank when looking back upon it
I’ll say it been a most appalling waste;
we’ve fought and almost always won each battle
but never had a chance to win the war;
the cost in goods and blood has been prodigious -
but do we know what it was really for?”
What says the wise historian in the future,
looking back upon this sorry tale of woe?
“You cannot say that any here were evil,
though some corruption played a minor role
and some were vicious in their righteous fervour
on both side of a horrid, gristly war.
The parties each had principles and means
and seldom saw the others’ point of view.
It all took place against a bigger frame
with humankind in over-reach and stress
caught between expansion and retreat
as underestimated natural forces
humbled worldly powers great and small.
The days of empire were, as ever, numbered
and though some sought conversion of the world
to a utopian vision handed down
the means employed belied the goodness claimed
as if cold steel were master of them all.
The chess game of world politics is endless
and while the small folk suffer in the wake
and individual acts may be heroic
still the players are just human after all.”
AFGHANISTAN POEM - Italian translation
Il commentatore parla pieno di passione
come autoproclamato portavoce di loro tutti
“Al popolo afgano è stato giustamente promesso
quel dono prezioso, uno stile di vita occidentale.
Quanto è vitale ora non abbandonarlo,
ma onorare le promesse solenni fatte una volta!”
Ora, il comune spettatore televisivo
sta parlando di tutto questo con sua moglie:
“Dobbiamo salvare i buoni dai cattivi;
sembra un racconto morale molto semplice.
Come può essere che i cattivi abbiano trionfato,
e i nostri ragazzi eroici debbano volare via?
Certamente ogni persona di ogni nazione
deve voler pensare e vivere come noi.
Cerco di non sembrare un colonialista
ma penso davvero che i nostri sistemi siano i migliori,
e tutti questi bizzarri paesi stranieri lontani
dovrebbero cambiare ed imparare ad imitare l’occidente”.
Uno jihadista si fa coraggiosamente avanti,
“Ho un paio di osservazioni da fare.
Noi, vincitori di una guerra impari,
non avremmo mai potuto prevalere senza sostegno.
L’afghano comune ci ha dato rifugio,
E noi eravamo coloro che promettevano un ideale.
Chi desidera il vostro spreco, autoindulgenza peccaminosa,
quando la virtù del Corano è a portata di mano?
Chi desidera il proprio suolo corrotto dagli invasori
e truppe straniere accampate sulla propria terra?
Forse siamo dei barbari per voi
ma il nostro vigore si basa sulla profonda convinzione
che a lungo andare ci dimostreremo più veritieri
e voi sarete il fallimento del futuro”.
Il politico, che fugge con il suo aereo
verso un futuro incerto in esilio,
guarda indietro alla lotta per una sopravvivenza
che sembrava essere garantita dai poteri forti.
“Ho preso armi e propaganda occidentale
per promesse che non sarebbero svanite
e su questa base che sembrava molto solida
mi sono messo in gioco per potere e prestigio.
Devo confessare che le mie motivazioni erano contrastanti
e non ero mai sicuro su cosa credere:
ero lo strumento per una buona riforma,
o ero solo un pupazzo che era stato corrotto?
Il mio vero padrone era il popolo afgano
o coloro che tiravano i fili oltreoceano?”.
La voce del contadino dal villaggio
che raramente in guerra viene ascoltata e considerata,
“Preferirei fidarmi della gente della mia tribù
e delle usanze del mio popolo dai tempi antichi.
Non ho fiducia nelle idee innovative
e i signori della guerra non mi sono utili.
I governi significano tasse e oppressione,
qualunque bandiera sventolino sulla loro asta.
I tempi sono difficili e la guerra li rende più difficili,
quindi la mia speranza è ora un periodo di pace,
per coltivare la mia terra e sposare le mie figlie
e andare a dormire senza il rumore delle bombe”.
Una donna parla da sotto il suo lungo abito:
“ E’ difficile sapere cosa pensare.
Sono attratta dalle libertà dell'occidente.
Vorrei un’istruzione per le mie figlie,
i beni di consumo sono allettanti come un sogno,
ma il conservatorismo governa la mia anima interiore
e disdegno il loro modo di vestire così lascivo;
sono timorosa del valoroso nuovo mondo di cui parlano
e temo si tratti di una corruzione mascherata”.
Ora parla un soldato temprato dalla battaglia,
un uomo di disciplina e dalle risorse affinate
che, avendo visto i pro e i contro di ogni campagna
deve avere sicuramente un verdetto da proclamare:
“Quando combatti devi credere in quello che fai,
con la convinzione di essere dalla parte migliore.
Siamo qui da due decenni e, sapete,
ho visto dei compagni vicino a me perdere le loro vite
e ho imparato l’arte di stare al sicuro ogni giorno
eppure, nella tua armatura e con la tua prudenza
e non sapendo parlare la lingua locale
abbiamo poche possibilità di conoscere i loro cuori e le loro menti
e non è facile essere amichevoli con un fucile.
Quindi, se devo essere sincero, ripensandoci
dirò che è stato un terribile spreco;
abbiamo combattuto e vinto quasi sempre ogni battaglia
ma non abbiamo mai avuto la possibilità di vincere la guerra;
i costi in termini di beni e di sangue è stato enorme
ma sappiamo a cosa è servito veramente?”.
Cosa dice lo storico saggio nel futuro
guardando indietro a questa triste storia di dolore?
“Non si può dire che qualcuno fosse malvagio,
sebbene la corruzione abbia giocato una piccola parte
ed alcuni fossero feroci nel loro legittimo fervore,
da entrambe le parti di una guerra orrenda e cruenta.
Le parti avevano ciascuna princìpi e mezzi
e raramente vedevano il punto di vista degli altri
Tutto si svolgeva in una cornice più grande
con un'umanità in preda allo strafare ed allo stress
tra l'espansione e la ritirata
mentre le sottostimate forze naturali
umiliavano le potenze mondiali piccole e grandi.
I giorni dell’impero erano, come sempre, contati
e sebbene alcuni cercassero una conversione del mondo
verso una visione utopistica tramandata
i mezzi impiegati contraddicevano la bontà rivendicata
come se il freddo acciaio fosse stato il padrone di tutto.
La partita a scacchi della politica è infinita
e mentre la povera gente ne soffre le conseguenze
e gli atti individuali possono essere eroici
i giocatori sono pur sempre soltanto umani”.
So tell me your original face
freed from a thousand years of pain.
May a short staccato sound
linger a thousand years?
The presence of an absence
might not seem to need a token
yet by the scant syllables of a Japanese poem
briefly spoken
I hear enduringly the ring of steel on stone
resound
as, a thousand years ago, men of pious sense
chisel out the print of Buddha’s holy pace.
A thousand years that sound has echoed down,
a thousand years and still the love remains.
Tao, you old Yin and Yang,
what have you made for dinner?
The wind is in the north today,
the full moon’s a winner,
but it takes no more
than a field of clay
to break the back of a sinner.
INSIDE THIS CLAY JUG
A POEM BY KABIR, TRANSLATION BY ROBERT BLY
Inside this clay jug
there are canyons and
pine mountains,
and the maker of canyons
and pine mountains!
All seven oceans are inside,
and hundreds of millions of stars.
The acid that tests gold is here,
and the one who judges jewels.
And the music
that comes from the strings
that no one touches,
and the source of all water.
If you want the truth, I will tell you the truth:
Friend, listen: the God whom I love is inside.
But not because the streetlamps
Are out in town;
Heedless feet they stray --
Despite the path clearly laid,
The blinds are down;
Shutters closed to the light
Cast the world into shadow
And none can see;
Amitabha rising,
Buddha of Pure Land Bliss,
What fools are we?
Compassion every which way,
Though not of our deserving,
Shines on us;
Takes those feet that stray,
And sets them on that path
Called Joy and Trust;
Shutters are swung open,
Light so dazzling bright floods in,
The shadows flee;
Amitabha rising,
Buddha of Pure Land Bliss,
How blessed are we?
Namo Amitabha!
Masketeer and Aphrodite
Undercover membership
Each takes a turn and turns a corner
Sends the other silly quips
Send each other lies and secrets
Secret truths that masks belie
Undercover sensual boundaries
Will love live or will it die?
Will love live and serve its purpose?
Skin to skin the promise lurks
Nose to nose and lips to eyelids
Teasing secrets, fireworks?
Teasing secrets, fireworks
Can Masketeer catch Aphrodite?
Or will she hide while he pursues her
A fantasy that burns out brightly?
Can Masketeer catch Aphrodite
Will she wear her golden crown?
Will she run when he pursues her
Like the tarot, upside down?
Like the hanged man, upside down
Oh, will he fall, then, when her sees her
In robes of yellow, green and crimson
Is he fool or can he please her?
Is he fool or can he please her?—
For she’ll be more than conjured sylph
No thing of wings and gauze and satin
But instead her real self
Each thing of flesh and blood is mixed with
dreams and depths and coloured birds
Potters of each life are forming
The e’s of all ‘lectronic words.
The potters of each life are forming
Dreams from fields of soil unplowed
Those odd primordial exophagic
stanzas, coloured, burst from cloud
Not knowing or caring about the others path
Where will it take them who pass without a word
Not a kind thought or care for the other as they glance
Not this for me I who must acknowledge who must care
Flying South
Time flying by me
thoughts nosily flocking south
headed to new worlds.
Gardens
A garden is not a plan on paper,
It is not moving rocks, water and earth around;
It is gardening,
And everything gardens.
This is a poem I write about my stay at La Ville au Roi, It doesn't fit with anything in current discussion so hope it is OK, for me it feels like a a good place to start making contributions.
NIGHT IN THE SHEEP HOUSE
First night in the sheep house
candle blown out,
I lie awake listening
to the walls
making no sound.
Animal antecedents are
embedded in this stone.
I feel them breathe, bellow,
stamp and scrape
the rock floor.
Birth, death and living
surround me here,
holding me wakeful;
alert in the power
of total blackness.
Beyond its walls
woodlands spread away
generating ever deeper
darkness of canopy,
field and thicket.
Creeping out, only my steps
break the silence.
Above is brightness;
a black bowl of stars are
threaded on imaginary chains.
Loops of light years apart;
planets far more ancient
than sheep house walls,
are patterns to my eye,
symbols in my mind,
lanterns for my soul.
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