lovers of words
we build dungeons;
lovers of words
we forge our own chains;
lovers of ideas
we inhale illusions:
the mind confronts the world
(rarely does it meet the world)
and the mind confronts the world
like a careless driver who hits a tree
and then considers what is to be done;
like how a group might attempt to control
a river that runs through the village;
and the mind creates ideas
to overcome, to control, to transcend
and the mind is
trapped in words
(loves words for its gentle touch)
and so it builds wordy cages
builds for itself escapes
builds for itself diversions
and is manacled by words it plucks out of thin air
and that it develops into theories and ideas and revelation
(loves these for the relief)
and that become truth and immutable by time and repetition
and so the mind lies chained in it own prisons:
lovers of words
we build dungeons;
lovers of words
we forge our own chains;
lovers of ideas
we inhale illusions

my wife is stupid -
that I found on our first day -
she loves poetry

I have no books at home
and the closest library
is mountains away;
and she sold my prize-winning cow
on her second day
for a book of poems -
that silly cow!

But I did nothing
nor will I berate her
for truly I vowed at our local church
to love her for *butter or verse

when life begins tomorrow
you’ll wait for sunrise
and you’ll say life’s like a new day
with sun rays and roses
I wouldn’t mind having a few, you’d say

and when life begins tomorrow
you’d be waiting with test instruments
like a child entering cold water
or a nervous team on an expedition

life begins tomorrow
and you’ll wonder about all yesterdays
and inscribe all past glories
and hope for future days

life begins tomorrow
and you’ll be taking snapshots
and posing between trees and observe
the light does not bring out the best


life begins tomorrow
and you’ll immortalize the past
and romance the future
and wait in anticipation of all coming days
for life begins, as you know, tomorrow

And
before I forget
there's one more thing
Last night And dropped in
like out of the blue
Maybe from the night sky
or just like an unannounced visitor
And walked in, let itself in
And jumped onto my lap
And it said,
though first it looked at my face like some lover,
And said:
And?
And, I said, there are things to be done…
And? said And…
And I'll have to make a list first;
And then prioritise…
And?
And then start…
And?
And then finish…
And was quiet a while
And then And said: And?
And then there'll always be
more things to be done, I said
Always an And…
And?
And, I said, then I'll have make a list again
And prioritise
And then start And then finish…
And it never ends…And it continues…
And And gave me a smile, smug and so satisfied…

And so it goes…this And…though you think And is gone
And just then, when you least expect it,
And is back…And so it goes…this And…

The End…
Oh, no not really The End…it's The And…

we bring you life today
sway right and left
and forward and back
and gyrate
and turn and twist;
and life is fruit and flesh
and it is pleasure and joy too
and we bring in our bodies
in our bodies, in our nakedness
we bring you mystery
and the passion of gods -
O, sink your teeth into us
for
we bring you life today
sway right and left
and forward and back
and gyrate
and turn and twist
as everyday
and life is ecstasy and wow!
and moans and groans, and twists and turns
and life is pain, and death and danger
and allurement and traps
take it all on a tray, take it all from us
life and death and pleasure and danger all
for today as everyday
we bring you life today
sway right and left
and forward and back
and gyrate
and turn and twist
and life is fruit and flesh

it is end of day
the moon glows, the birds head home
the boats sway in their own random dance
and you see
life slows to its lame walk

travelers stop at Shinagawa
and they have needs;
our duties done
you pack your samisen
and you will go
and  I shall change into clothes
best for some rest and sleep
and we shall meet again
another day
as our days flow
like dispassionate rivers

the owl's on its tree
and the bats eat their fruit;
the night surrounds the home
and the stars glow in the sky:
sleep you, sweetheart;
slip you
into your gentle world this night


the home's quiet
and the hearts gentle and warm;
the moonlight blesses the windows
and the air within
radiates grace, ease and calm:
sleep you, sweetheart;
slip you
into your gentle world this night

give my children
O most noble Sirs
a means to a life;
give them hope, Sirs
and let them smile

give my children
O most esteemed Sirs
a way to dignity and respect;
give the young and innocent
the will, a skill, and strength

with your wealth, Sirs
set up schools
that the poor may attend;
with your power
provide free books and an education

give my children
O most noble Sirs
a means to a life;
give them hope, Sirs
and let them smile

let there be libraries
Sirs, as
as I hear are in foreign shores;
let there be many in each city
where children and men and women
can read and borrow free

let there be
Children Welfare Groups, Sirs
that may feed and clothe and protect the weak;
and you that are so esteemed and revered
and always speaking of the next world -
teach the parents to understand this world
so that the body may have its dignity

let there be hope, Sirs
and give my children
a dream and ambition;
let my children
learn to love and feel;
let them know they are equal to any
and they too are of this nation

give my children
O most noble Sirs
a means to a life;
give them hope, Sirs
and let them smile

What have we here?
Let us read;
this scroll
one of a thousand
sent us in haste
by the Duke of Dei;
Oh, a poem of love -
surprise! - it is
written in fine ink
and with the best brush
one can buy in all of China


And ladies, now I read
this poem of screaming passion:

“Oh lady of blue!
who spends her time
in the blue pavilion!
my mind is blue!
all for the love of you!
and my heart is broken!
in pieces too!
for you do not love me!
though I love you true!”


Ah, true, true indeed
I do not love this poet
with purple verse
and broken limbs of lines;
the poor duke’s heart is broken
just like his rhyme and reason;
come let us pen an answer
and his delicate ladies
will bring it back to him


“Oh Duke of Dei
whose heart is broken
like pots of China;
blue, blue is your mind
for the desperate love
of the lady in blue
who does not love you:
but there is some solution
some solution for your broken heart
O Duke of Dei –
some glue, some glue
can hold together the broken pieces;
Your True Lady in Blue
who is almost turning blue –
for the thousandth time,
I do not love you”

I came out of my consulting room
and there seated in the corner
was a patient - a man with a frog
growing out on top of his head

"Oh my God!" I exclaimed
to the monstrosity
(dropping my usual doctor's reserve)
"How did this happen to you?"

And the frog replied:
*"I don't know, doctor!
It just started off
as a pimple on my ****!"

the sky hangs over her
and the waves come near;
and the delicate beauty walks alone
pensive, self-absorbed
and distant by the shore


what is in your mind
pale beauty?
do you sigh over wasted time
and the pain of distance shores?

what is in your heart
fragile beauty?
has your wandering love
not returned and the days are past
and have rolled into months
and yet no news has come?

you walk like a child
and leave footsteps on the soft sands
and the waves eat every trace;
and you disappear
and we cannot find you again;
but we know
just as waves return
you’ll come back the next morning
to walk silently and alone
along the shore
of your quiet pains

the Buddha sits
with a flower in hand
and the disciples are gathered;
and there is no word
there is no symbol
there is no utterance

Mahakasyapa smiles;
It is understood;
there is seeing
beyond words, beyond text

this is an unnecessary poem
and so is
any comment
or reaction in the mind
or scribble
totally unnecessary

And Mr and Mrs Ghost are at the restaurant -
Our *****-ghetti Place -
the one at the dead end,
and that plays their
favorite soul music

"How would you like your drink, ma’am?"
asks the Head Waiter,
who, for obvious reasons,
is just a floating head

"I’ll have my drink ice ghoul, screech you,"
says Mrs Ghost
"And as usual, Mr Ghost would like his
eggs terri-fried, please"

"Also," says Mr Ghost, "I’ll have coffin after"
"Scream or sugar?" asks the floating head
"6 spoons of scream,  screech you"
"And same for you too, ma’am?"
And Mrs Ghost  replies:
*"No…Booberry Ice Scream, please"

You can languish here
in cyberspace's vastness
for all I care
I don't give a ****
if no one visits you or if they do;
if they gawk at you and shake
their heads and sneer and spit at you
or how many clicks and likes you get
and all that analytics and trending-now stuff

Look here, you vain self-centered Poems -
you've taken enough life out of me
coming at unexpected times
like malevolent spirits
hungry ghosts
like piranhas in feeding frenzy
and being so demanding
and wanting me, wanting, wanting
change me, change me
edit, edit, edit
Like some vain teenage ******* her first date
demanding the whole family
dress her for but an evening's glory
(or lifetime shame, who knows?)

I'm done and you're out
and it's your life out there, for all I care
If you have brains you'll get admirers
if you are spiritless, you'll get the flick


*You know, it was easier bringing up children
than bringing you to life and looking after you

lots of people
and lots and lots
of travelers, wayfarers
and activists and visionaries
and canvassers
and vendors
and realists and romantics
They have all asked for my love
but my constant answer is:
“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”

it’s the same with family and friends
strangers, neighbors, children
and relatives and enemies
eccentrics and couples
They all ask for my love
but my unwavering answer is:
“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”

it’s the same with strangers
and politicians and organizations
and great leaders and haloed monks
and Heavenly Saviors
and sports personalities
and charity organizers
They only want my love
but my immutable answer is:
“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”





The point here is
it is my task to help you see
the world is full of such
good people
They only want love
It’s never money they’re after
They only ask for my love
Never, never for my money
But still, cruel as I am,
my non-negotiable answer is:
*“No, you can’t have my love;
but you can have my money
if I can find any”

I did not want the courts
and the life of the cities
and I did not want the struggle
but I did not leave -
perhaps it was me
that saw the tension
but could not come into integrity
and put the blame on duty, care
and responsibility


I did not enjoy the crowds and the clamor
and yet was in it;
perhaps it was me
seeing what was about and all round
but not seeing within me


and then I picked up my staff in my old days
and I live now in my shed in the mountains
and walk when I wish;
and the ways of nature
and its forms keep me company
and I walk where I wish
in the solitude that nature whispered
would be mine, always mine…
but then
I was hard of hearing
when I was young;
and now, you that linger
in the halls of power,
you will see,
I am gone

1
in January
I met Jane
in February
it was all love
flying Cupids
and St Valentine’s

in March
we marched down the aisle
I slipped the ring in her finger
and she let me slip into her that night
in April
I came home early and saw her kissing some guy
and when I coughed
they both laughed at me and said:
Happy April Fool’s Day!
A belated one, though;
still - I just laughed,
always love surprises
and a good sport I’d always been

I don’t remember what we did
In May -
but the predominant emotion is one of dismay
June saw us
make love
under the moon
and at noon
in July
she made full use of her vocal cords
and reached her peak of pitch:
Oh God! - you’re just like any guy!
You’ve turned the house into a sty!
August I decided to be a little dignified;
and in September we were like King and Queen
with diamond crown and scented scepter each


2
in October she crashed our new
shiny, costly SUV Rover
and I just found it difficult to stay sober
November
is a month to remember, to remember
well it’s something private between me and Jane
it’s something to do with a member, a member
November - Oh baby,
it’s something to remember, remember...
December came and - was it the heat
or the cold? -
by the end we were dismembered, dismembered:
I’m alone again
and this time maybe
in scented January
in fresh January I’ll find May

sa sa sa sa
sa sa sa la la sa
la la ma ma da da la la sa sa
O one foot up
one foot down
left hand here
right hand there
where goes the body
and where the mind?
sa sa sa sa
sa sa sa la la sa
la la ma ma da da la sa sa
dancing in the world
to drums and flute
and strings and cymbals
and wood and metal
where is one
where is the other
which is my shape
where dance my clothes?
which is first, which is end?
sa sa sa sa
sa sa sa la la sa
la la ma ma da da la sa sa
happy face and light heart
they connect
in moving limbs and fluid music
where is the dancer, the music
where is solid, where is fluid?
where is earth, where the sky?
where I put my feet is the ocean
where my sleeves fly is space
where I put my fingertips is life
where I look is delight
O one foot up
one foot down
left hand here
right hand there
where goes the body
and where the mind?
sa sa sa sa
sa sa sa la la sa
la la ma ma da da la sa sa

see the stars tonight
and the moon,
my love;
tonight they do not shine
for Emperor or General -
tonight they glow for you,
for me;
and the gentle breeze
that blows
and the crickets that converse
tonight they are
not here for themselves
tonight they rejoice for you
for me,
my love



they are for you
for me, dearest love;
tonight they are here
to bless the night
for you and for me


for you and me
are all these
here in our patch
of open land
below the hills
and the skies;
so let us go into
our tent
of the skin of wild animals and rope
and filled with all simple things;
and let us bring out the rice wine
and let us drink and keep warm
in each other’s love
for these things of nature
are come to grace the night
for you, for me,
dearest love

the practical city man –
executive, driven, productive -
so used to due diligence
always pursuing the best deal
goes to the Zen Master
and asks how long it’d take
to reach clear mastery
“Ten years,” says the Master

“But,” says the would-be student
“I’m willing to throw in double the time
your most diligent student puts in
and applying the principles of productivity -
how long will it take me then?”

“Twenty years,” says the Master

how far gone
gentle breathing partner
how far gone from me
are you in your sleep?
how deep in your dreams
and away from each other?


how far are you
gentle living partner
how far gone within
far, far, far within
such unmeasured distance
are you gone from me
from you
even in waking
and walking and living?
how far are we gone
from ourselves?

O gentle breathing partner,
how far we are gone…

There may be journeys we undertake;
there will be long departures
and separations
There will be pain and agony
and each may be taken
from the other
And yet, yet, O gentle heart
yet the bonds will live and bring back one to one;
yet the bonds of mother, child, father, brother and sister
these bonds will surpass all pain;
and the family, that bond of love
that will live, that love will radiate
no matter what the world shall deal and ******
into one’s hearts and hands
O hold on to that love
that love of father, son
man, woman
mother and daughter and brother and sister
for that is all, that love is all that lasts and endures

the evening sunlight falls on the lily-pilly
and the green leaves come ablaze
and the birds fly over in the sky
and the clouds spend their short lives
forming shapes and playing games:
it is all here before me
and I observe
and I am here too;
and there is no dogma or belief
or any book to live one's life by
one is free of all conditioning
and one observes the world as it is

Zushio
O Anju
dearest children
where are you?
are you well?
has time been
a gentle foster mum
or a witch that eats
children’s hearts?
O Zushio
O Anju
children
of the just -
do you think of mother
and does your father’s wise words
still reside in your hearts?
O Zushio
O Anju
dearest children
where do you sleep at nights
and what do you wake up to each day?
Zushio
O Anju
my children
come home to mother
for always I wait for you

1)
I was a blowfly
for weeks
in my previous birth
with metallic olive-green sheen
and wings and all


and my friends and I would fly
into the local bar
every eve
and we'd always be courteous:
"Bzzz....Is that stool taken?"

2)
Now that in this birth I'm human
I think many of us (man or woman)
can learn a thing or two
about manners from my blowfly life:
Always ask before you take a *stool

(WARNING: some of you may not find this to your taste)


SONG of the ROYAL FOOD-TASTER
It’s always feast day
at the Court of King Eatmore
and Queen Yumyum
Bring it on, dish after dish -
anything that’s Meat, we’ll eat
When I arrived at Court
from my far-off village
I was but skin and bones
Now as Trusted Royal Taster
I am as big as Her Majesty’s –
Burp! – ****


SONG of the ROYAL JESTER
Bring it on
anything that moves
We’ll spike it through
for the spit -
with the spike through the mouth
and coming out the other end
For what is man and woman
King and Queen
but a mouth open
and a releasing rear?


CHORUS
Oh let us eat, eat, eat
drink and sate and ingratiate
We love
anything that crawls or creeps
or flies or moves
We can crunch and munch and digest
and add to our folds and waves -
for the World-sized King he said:
“Bring it IN!  Something local,
anything Exotic! Bring it IN!”
And the Immense Queen she screamed:
“Cream! Cream! Cream! More Cream
and Oil on my Pig’s Head!”


SONG of the ROYAL JESTER**
Ah, for what else did Nature fashion
life to be? – one way in and one way out
and lots to retain
Humanity is but a mouth and an ****
connected well in an ever-emptying barrel

sometimes, baby
you’re soft and angelic;
for some time you’re a saint
and sometimes you’re a *****

sometimes life takes you along
sometimes you’re Athena
sometimes you’re innocent
and taken for a ride;
sometimes you’re the CEO
sometimes you’re dumped bad, darling O;
O sometimes you’re the Black Goddess
and sometimes you’re Dylan’s White Goddess
who shines the light on God
and we know He’s the Devil in one

sometimes you’re happy
sometimes sad;
and often enough a glitch
you don’t know what you are

O sometimes you ravage the earth
sometimes you give birth to solar systems;
often you’re high on drugs
and you look in the distance
as if Paradise asked you permission
to move near where you live;
and sometimes, darling O
you stand below the street-lamps
and you say: Hey Mister, can you spare a dime?

sometimes you are the star
that the multitudes adore,
long maybe;
after, you are just dark space
we ignore between stars


sometimes you’re filthy
sometimes you’re purity;
sometimes you’re alive
O sometimes you’re pretty dead;
O my lovely babe
find your mind
and I’ll give you a penny for your thought

What's this poem about?

not about this
not about that
no views
no judgment
no aspirations
no declarations
no proclamations

The Wise Owl
in the woods
spoke mostly
by way of tales
and stories

and at the end
of one these tales
Rabbit asked:
'What’s the moral of this tale?'

And the Wise Owl hooted briefly:
'I have to tell you the tale
and must I do the thinking
for you as well?'



And if you,
gentle reader,
should ask me too
what the moral of this tale is
then I must refer you
to the Owl
that is wiser than I

when Nasrudin was little
his teacher interrupted his lesson
and shouted at Nasrudin:
Hey, you - boy
in the front row!
Are you nodding off
into sleep?

No, Sir, said Nasrudin
*I'm trying very hard
to stay awake!

Woooh* - don’t you think
I’ve made a good catch…
I was waiting for this
You know –  there’ve been many hints…it all started
with him coming to talk about music
and we exchanged songs
and manuscripts – ah, such French songs
with smooth airs and sweetness
the Dutch cannot bring into existence;
and today too he came, as you see him now beside me
and we started with a song book he brought
and he started with a preamble about love and music
and we talked about the lyrics, and we swayed to the tunes,
and he said: “Such a song too, O fair one,
I have written” – and he pulled out this sheet
and he placed it in my hands
and he cooed: “This song is of sweet love –
And your opinion I’d like to know”
O my, my, my….my heart’s beating fast…
he’s written a declaration of love…indeed…
it’s a bad song
but good in intent
…it can be no other way…love…love…he’s declaring his love
for me…I knew…I knew it was coming…
all those hesitations today, and on so many other occasions…
all those sighs, sad faces one day and happy
and light spirit on another…a man of many words on some
and of solemn few several days…I knew…I knew…I knew…
it was coming…and here I am, looking
in suspended time
at the audience
like a Shakespearean maiden, in soliloquy –
certes beautiful, certes smart –
O help me, help me….most distinguished viewers
He’s like a mouse cat in a trap…
*Should I? Should I?

often the solution
is easy, simple


1
I went to the local psychiatrist -
the first consultation was free
and I said:
'I got a problem -
every night
I fear there's someone
below my bed
And when I look underneath
I fear someone's on my bed'

The psychiatrist nodded
at the end of the hour
and said:
'Easy, now just come and see me
2 hours each, twice a week;
will cost you $100 each hour
and within 2 months
I'll have you fixed'

It didn't sound so
simple
or easy on my wallet
so I didn't go back to my shrink



2
Three weeks later
the shrink saw me
at the shops
and she said:
'Why didn't you come back
to see me
about the phantom below your bed? '

'Oh, '* I said, *'it was all fixed
easy and simple
The waiter at my local bar
he just told me
to saw off the legs of my bed
and that fixed the problem
quick, plain and easy
and he gave his advice for free'

the gentle day
Sirs
gives way to sweet night
and we come to give swift pleasures  
Sirs
and the coins you may offer
keep our bodies
but the pleasures we offer
Sirs
the nights we give to you
our contortions and exertions
disfigure us, distort us day and night
Sirs
your Pleasures are our pain
for us the plain and painted yotaka

the flowers of spring
are not as lovely as you;
the mountain air in solitude
not as pure as you

I saw you only once
in the Grand House of the Lord of the Lands
and we exchanged glances as you sang
And though you sang
from a printed text for all
your eyes gave me
songs of longing and love


O where are you now
most gentle beloved?
I hear your owners move you
at the request of the Grand Lords
and though I
come to so many sessions
in which you might sing
and hoping each night
I might see you again
as I carry cups and meat for the feasting Lords
and that there as you deliver them the songs in the texts
I come that
you might look again at me
and give me the songs in your eyes


the flowers of spring
are not as lovely as you;
the mountain air in solitude
not as pure as you

Little Tim and Little Sam
were playing by a stream
and Tim went off
to ease himself
and Sam grew impatient
waiting so long for him;
and so he ran along
to catch up with Tim

And there was Tim
behind a tree
at the stream
looking at a naked woman swim -
so Tim and Sam,
both growing boys, stood
side by side watching the phenomenon

And suddenly Tim ran off
and Sam followed his friend
and catching his breath, he said:
Why did you run away?

And Tim's reply was
to the point, and firm:
*My mom warned me
if I looked at a woman naked
I'd turn to stone -
and how true, for while at the stream
I felt something of me harden!

at Graveyard 659
the ghosts are floating in a meeting

“Someone ought to put up a
wall round our graveyard,”
opines one wise bearded ghost

“And why?” asks the Chair

“Why?” screams the reply
*“Can’t you see what's up
with those mortals? -
there's such huge demand
everyone’s just dying to get in...”

the visiting speaker is at the end
of a brave, unconventional lesson
on self-esteem and confidence
"Does anyone in this class think
he or she is stupid?
Stand up anyone
who thinks he or she is stupid"

the seconds tick away;
there is no response
and then little Tommy stands up
and the guest speaker says:
"Do you stand up because
you think you are stupid,  Tommy? "

"No, sir," replies Tommy
*"I just feel sorry to see
you standing alone"

Who's that?
It's me
But I'm me too
and so are you;
also my neighbor
thinks she's me
and voices on the phone too go:
...me...me...me...me...
but really,
why does everybody think
they're me?

what do you do with this?
you come to a poem
and this poem is not about love
about sweet things
and comfy nights
and this is not about cliches
and our religion
this is not an opportunity to preach
and to speak about how great one's own culture is
this is not about any ready-made ideas
and yummy stuff or funny
you can't laugh, you can't cry
or shout in jubilation or indignation
what do you do with this?
this is not about
a sweet moment
a nice description of nature in its glory
oh, what do you do with this?
this doesn't feed your pet notions
you come to this poem
and it's been about nothing
you can cling on to:
what do you do with this?

I am content here
in my open
with the trees and the birds that sing
and the clouds above
and the moon that radiates at night;
and the feel of the warmth of the sun on my
arms and chest and legs
and the feel of the cool water
on my face;
not for me all the revelations
and the vanities
and the theories
and the pomposity
of the life here
and the life hereafter;
for I am content here
in my open
with the trees and the birds that sing

Yeah, the boss called me in
he sat there drumming on the table edge
with his fingers
and then asked me how long
I'd been here
and I said: "5 minutes"
"No, no, " he said. "I mean
how long have you worked for me? "
"Oh, " I said, "12 months"

"And what did you tell me, " he said,
his arms folded
"at the job interview? Didn't you say
you have 5 years' experience in this kind of job? "
"Yeah, " I said

"Well, I've just checked and you never
had experience before
This is your first job!
Explain! "
"Well, I learn fast…" I said
"See, I've fitted in so well. No one's noticed."
"No I don't mean that! " he said,
drumming on the table edge again
"Why didn't you tell me the truth? "

"Oh, " I said, *"cos the job ad also said
I should have imagination
So now, Sir, I've got experience
and you very well know I've got imagination"

see
Nasrudin walks
along in the streets
and sees a mirror
lying on the kerb

Oh! what a waste, says Nasrudin
a good mirror thrown away
like this…

Nasrudin picks up the mirror
and looks in it
and then throws it away:
*No wonder
they threw this mirror  away!
What a face!
Who’d want to look
at a face like that!

This is not a poem but my reflections on one aspect of the creative mind...I thought I'll share it here as we are, as people involved in poetry, part of this creative mind...



1
All of us, to varying degrees, lead the creative life. We are all creative.
Observing ourselves in our creative moment, or on reflection, one notices that the silence of the mind is one of those moments when the creative mind is at work. Or is it still?, you wonder.
It is a beguiling silence. A quizzical stillness. A paradoxical one – for while it appears to be still, the creative mind is working…perhaps working in a very different sort of way, but hey - it’s still work. For after the silence comes that creative idea, that blast of ideas.
Observe it in your mind. See it for yourself.


2
Before the silence in the mind has gone much work. One has the input of all that has begun since one’s birth. Or perhaps even as one was in the womb. All that one has ever done and contemplated.
Then there is, just before the silence, the specifics. The immediate task and the work one has put towards its fulfilment. One has considered deeply the task at hand, the creative question at hand…one has gathered the information, one has fed the mind with all that one knows in relation to the creative issues at hand…One has worked intensely and long on the questions…
Then from somewhere deep within, the mind says: *“I have enough…That will do…Leave me to work it out…”
And that is when the silence begins…

3
Observe it in yourself the next time you are involved in this creative process...no matter how trivial the creative process might appear to you…
The silence is there…it’s as if the mind is exhausted, yet it is not…There does not seem any answer or creative idea or result apparent to you, but you know something is happening in the stillness of the mind…of the creative mind there deep within…

4
And you might even be engaged in routine matters, in things that are totally unrelated to the creative mind or your creative endeavour…You think it’s over…you might even think: “No, I’m not going to have a creative solution here…The sparks are gone…the fire’s dead…”
Just the silence, the stillness of the mind…But just then it happens…That creative mind rolls out towards you in waves…or like a tidal wave…and in its wave, the mind offers you a pearl – that pearl of the creative idea: a poem, a solution, an illumination…

That is the silence that is part of one’s mind…Observe it…It’s there – that creative silence, all part of one’s mind…

see what’s in mind
bundled in the thoughts
and far and deep within;
see, one says one is of a particular group
or particular region;
hear one say “I am this;”
or “I am that;”
and some cling to a religion or philosophy
and so make a Self;
they identify themselves:
“I am of this religion;”
Or
“I am of this persuasion;”
Or
“I am of this faith;”
see and hear the cacophony of human discord:
“I am of this country;”
“I am of this ancient lineage;”
“This is my religion;”
“This is my faith;”
“I am this…I am that…”

O we love our badges, our titles
and decorations the Great Leader
pins on us, don’t we?
And we love all the fancy ribbons and rewards
the Politburo promises, don’t we?
We just live by our Red Book;
each group with its own Divine Red Book

“Come on, little children
gather round Daddy and Mommy;
we have sweets
and candy for all of thee”

But can one plunge deep and see
and drop one’s conditioning?
And what happens when one does that?
And can one drop one’s history
one's addictions
and beliefs and mental formations and faith
and dependence and identity?
What happens?

Perhaps only then one sees with clarity

I will not sing you a song of praise
O gentle moon
there are too many modern people around
too many enlightened minds tonight
they reckon they don't need your light;
there are too many elect
and too many going to Heaven
and if I sang in praise of you
they will throw their Blessed Books at me
and they will say
'You moon-worshiper, you go to hell!'
(they fancy words like idolator)

O so most divine moon
O godly moon
O most sacred moon
I shall not sing in praise of you;
there are too many bloodthirsty wolves around

“Americans” prefer two
and then one within;
The "British" think one is splendid
and two within –
as for the rest of the world,
I think,
we’re pretty easy on this

don't you hate it? -
when you write a poem
and you adopt this persona
you use "I"
(yeah, the first person)
and your reader is so ****** literal-minded
and takes the "I" to be "you"
and comforts you, or winks at you
offers heavy commiseration
or provides motherly or
fatherly advice
or grandpa's advice
(as the case might be)...
and you want to scream:
Hey, it's not me!

it's like the novelist
who's asked by their readers:
Is this novel about your life?

*Hey, it's not me! It's not me!

you know, people like
to write about their lives
in terms of likes and dislikes
about their their loves and hates
another poem about
how they feel today
which is the same as they did yesterday
and no prizes for guessing
how they’d feel the next day -  
and as you know
how people like to write
about truth, justice, and love
and about the dark corners in the mind
about their religion, their nations and eternity?
their culture, their identity, their sanctity? -
but me, I like to write
about nothing
cos I’m just the same
as them other poets
(we’re all human)
for all that is nothing too
so in natural conclusion
Socratic fashion
or Aristotelian school
so when I write about nothing
I write about what them other poets write about
and when they write,
like me,
they too write about nothing

*We all do, vainly speaking

CROW 1

Hey - you've got the vantage point
higher up on the tree
Tell me if you see
any signs of food -
a dead roach, some rats or carcass
with its guts open,
something like that…
or even an open bin or scattered bits,
leftovers…you get the idea…
Just give me a caw
when you see some…



CROW 2**

Oh - don't you ever think
about anything but food?
The higher vantage point here
really has put me into a philosophical mood -
and now I'm meditating over
life and death and meaning
and all you think of is food…