Tell me truly who you are,
not from afar, but to my ear.
Do not fear:  I shall not castigate,
excoriate. Dissemble not:  No
equivocation. prevarication.
Tell me truly what's in your heart.
Is terror there, or guilt? Rage ablaze
from needs unmet? Do unhealed hurts
leave you reeling in a maelstrom of
doubt? Open up your heart
and let your agonies fly out.
In gentle ways let us discuss
worth of self. Let light penetrate hate,
mollify madness, assuage pain.
Let your forthcoming,
my love for your realness,
heal us both.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

There are reasons why
some men are shy,
and women too,
when wearing silk,
lie on their beds
alone and cry.
No mother's milk
to satisfy
the cruel thirst
for love and touch.
The rule first
is to beware,
when wearing silk,
of men who stare
or fingers touch;
this much we know.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

We all die, but do we ever live?
We once were children,
but did we ever grow up?
When we graduated from college,
did we do what we loved,
or did we work on Wall Street
to make millions, if not billions?
When we married our spouses,
were we always faithful,
or did we sleep with others?
When we joined the country club
that never allowed Blacks and Jews,
did we ever think we were racists?
Did we love our children,
or did we prefer playing golf instead?
When we joined the Episcopal church,
did we pray to God, or was it more
important to join the socially elite?
Did we ever come to realize
we have always been fakes.
Did we finally have an epiphany,
or did we follow our hollow ways?
I fear the latter. That's why I pray
for you every night of every day.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Why am I writing a poem
in the middle of the night?
Because I am brilliant?
Probably not. Every human
being is a brilliant poet.
It's just that so many
are unconsciously afraid
to be their real selves.
What a tragedy! I feel
for those people. They
are both the guards
and the inmates. They
both flagellate themselves
and cry out for help.
The sentence for all
of them is lifelong.
Everyone's greatness
is imprisoned for as
as long as they live.
Do not be afraid to
be your real self. Do
not hide your brilliance.
Share it with all others.
Make Earth shine even in
the middle of the night.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

The world at peace.
Will it ever happen?
Perish the thought, you say.
Are you happy with killing?
Kisses are sweeter.
But bombs deal death instantly.
Sorry, but love lasts forever.
Why this bizarre dance?
Dizzy dances, you say?
Why not lifetimes of love,
glorious days, dreams of delight?
Why not kiss a bomb turning it
into red roses? It's not magic.
It's love everlasting.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

As human beings, we experience illusion,
but our goal is to become infinite.
Enlightenment is the path to become one with God.
Life, as we live it, is a joke of sorts.
Love is, often unconsciously, our ultimate destination.
Each of us has a soul, and if it is saturated with love
when we die, we really do not die;  rather,
our souls meld with God. To call worldly things
is not meant to be a pejorative. It's just that the vast
majority of us live false lives. What most of us call Heaven
is actually when are our souls are filled with love.
If we are "marterialized," which is  to say, we hunger
for wealth, fame, or power--not to empower others,
but to oppress them--then we do die and our souls
return to Earth hopefully to realize what our real
goal is. Buddha and Christ, for example, came to know
this and lived their lives accordingly. When one realizes
her/his soul is swollen with love, she/he knows
intuitively, she/he will meld with the invisible,
never-ending, always present love of God, never
needing to be smothered with the stench or wars,
the paucity of kindness, the endless pain of iniquities.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

In June of 1989, 14 poets, all alumni of Columbia University, took a trip to Moscow. I was one of them. We flew from New York City to Moscow via Helsinki, Finland. We met with the editors of NOVY MIR (NEW WORLD), the most famous literary magazine in the Soviet Union, which broke up in 1991.We all gathered around a large oak table mixing Americans with Russians. We began reading only one poem each. When each Russian recited his poem. he stood up. I was impressed. Each Russian poet spoke perfect English. Eventually, it became my turn. I recited I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN. When I had finished reading, I went around the long oak table and handed each Russian poet a copy of my poem. I had made many copies of my poem in Topeka, KS, my hometown. Copy machines were illegal in the Soviet Union for fear that dissident, underground revolutionaries might wish to spread their fervent hopes of democratizing their nation to millions of their fellow citizens.

The next day, we 14 Americans were going to attend a meeting of the Soviet Writers Union. As I was getting out of our bus and stepping on the sidewalk, I heard a voice crying, "Mr Hawks, Mr Hawks! Please stop. I have something for you." As I looked to my left, I recognized a Russian gentleman from the day before. When he reached me, he said "I am Evgeny Chramov. You gave all of us a copy of your beautiful poem. I was so taken by it, I stayed up all night translating it into Russian. I had to type it again, so if I saw you today, I would be able to give you my translated copy." He put his briefcase on the sidewalk, opened it, and pulled out his Russian translation, and handed it to me. I was stunned. I said "Mr. Chramov, how thoughtful and generous of you to stay up all night translating my poem into Russian! Bless you, Mr Chramov." As we were walking together into the building, I stopped and spoke to my new friend. "Mr. Chramov, I have a favor to ask of you. Would you be willing to read your translation of my poem in this meeting?

"Of course! I'd be honored to do that," said Mr. Chramov. When it came time for him to read, Mr. Chramov, standing up,  read his translation of my poem. I was elated. The meeting soon came to a close. A woman who had chaired the meeting walked by me without stopping and said to me, again in perfect English, "You really are a poet, aren't you?"

Her comment, and Mr. Chramov, I have never forgotten.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS