Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition;
and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner,
the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful,
obscurations dense, propensities o too long standing,
the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated.

           The Tibetan Book of the Dead
          translation:  Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup


Free Tibet your sticker tells me…
Yes, I think, perhaps I should –
and the noble thought compels me,
uninformed, half-understood.

Will their freedom help my Karma?
Upgrade my reincarnation?
(Soul who could not dare to harm a
fly… much less a Buddhist nation.)

Not to justify aggression
by the ever-brutal Commies,
let us grant no glib concession
to the Maoists – or their mommies.

Slogans echo in the void,
shining in bardos of the dead;
stopped by the light, I am annoyed
impatient for the change from red.

A bumper crop of human woe
beams forth a mandate to my brain
while red Dakinis circle slow
in Buddhist hells of karmic pain.

The eastern concepts here diverge
and bow before brutality.
They make this driver long to merge
with incorporeality.

Then I glimpse a monkish fellow
swathed in saffron, calmly seated.
His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow;
mine the traffic; stalled, defeated.

In his gaze of stern displeasure
I perceive the orient stars
calculating man’s mismeasure
trapped, exhausted, among the cars.

Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire
he extends an accusing hand:
Western slave of base desire:
come and  liberate my land !”

I meditate before the stop light:
am I ready for the task ?
Should I just refuse it outright
Can’t it be someone else ?  I ask…

Must I free this mountain nation
from the Buddha, demons and Reds?
Shall your sticker’s declaration
shatter the yoke and raise their heads ?

Somebody ought to free Tibet,
and heed this Himalayan cry.
Maybe we should get upset…
The red light changes. Cars pass by,

predestined for benign events
and unconcerned for persecution;
oblivious to dissidents
awaiting execution.

Once I hoped to write like Ginsberg –
but Allen Ginsberg went to hell.
His bolder Buddhist poetry glitters,
then opens like an empty shell.

In vain one searches for the pearl
within the lyric art he showed us.
Open wide his rotten oyster –
seek the center of the lotus.

Perverted lost Semitic soul –
lyrical ranter,  mind unhinged…
He celebrated sin and shame
while crew-cut culture cringed.

His beatnik aircraft took off fast,
flew into bardos of the ******
promising enlightenment –
but the cockpit was unmanned.

Señora Muerte que se va llevando
todo lo bueno que en nosotros topa!...
Solos -en un rincón- vamos quedando

los demás... ¡gente mísera de tropa!
Los egoístas fatuos y perversos
de alma de trapo y corazón de estopa...;

manufactores de fugaces versos;
poetas de cuadrícula y balanza,
a toda pena, a todo amor adversos..:

los que gimen patética romanza;
lacrimosos que exhiben su película;
versistas de salón y contradanza;

cantores de la tórrida canícula;
del polo frío, del canoso invierno...
líricos de alma exánime y ridícula!

Bardos que prostituyen el eterno
jardín, y que florecen madrigales
de un olor soporífero y externo...

Vates ultra-sensibles y banales
que ningún vaho de verdad anima.
Gramáticos solemnes y letales...

Malabaristas de estudiada esgrima!
¡Oh tristeza perenne de las cosas
que no tienen sabor, -hechas a lima!

...En un rincón quedamos las tediosas
gentes sin emoción, huecas y vanas...
¡Lléguense las nocturnas mariposas

fúnebres, y que lloren las campanas...!
Este fastidio que me está matando...
¿dónde las almas íntimas, hermanas...?

¡Señora Muerte se las va llevando!

Mucho les importa la poesía.
Hablan constantemente de la poesía,
y se prueban metáforas como putas sostenes
ante el oval espejo de las oes pulidas
que la admiración abre en las bocas afines.

Aman la intimidad, sus interioridades
les producen orgasmos repentinos:
entreabren las sedas de su escote,
desatan cintas, desanudan lazos,
y misteriosamente,
con señas enigmáticas que el azar mitifica,
llaman a sus adeptos:
-Mira, mira…

Detrás de las cortinas,
en el lujo en penumbra de los viejos salones
que los brocados doran con resplandor oscuro,
sus adiposidades brillan pálidamente
un instante glorioso.
Eso les basta.

Otras tardes de otoño reconstruyen
el esplendor de un tiempo desahuciado
por deudas impagables, perdido en la ruleta
de un lejano Casino junto a un lago
por el que se deslizan cisnes, cisnes
cuyo perfil
-anotan sonrientes-
susurra, intermitente, eses silentes:
aliterada letra herida,
casi exhalada
-puesto que surgida
de la aterida pulcritud del ala-
en un S. O. S. que resbala
y que un peligro inadvertido evoca.
¡Y el cisne-cero-cisne que equivoca
al agua antes tranquila y ya alarmada,
era tan sólo nada-cisne-nada!

Pesados terciopelos sus éxtasis sofocan.

Have gone through many portals surfing on the bardos of indefinite universes listening to Sate having a triple bipass in the dark without the sleep of twilight upon him. The 3 girls are stars sailing in the night sky leaving the last one with me, feline and fragile an aging withering vessel, like me, her only mother. I have played in the desert with a mad man. I have climbed the mountain with ******. I have been gutted for the last time. The freedom is astounding to have made it this far, this far. Hearty laughter replaces tears, or rage. I know you think you are smarter than everyone else, a trickster, such a clever fellow. I have found you out, and think of you as a poor mans version of little blownapart...short, a little pawn on the board of life. The other psychopaths are so much smoother than you, and the *** is much better. You know, I can't even remember your name, of course you never remember the name of butcher paper when you throw it in the garbage now, do you?

Cual hieráticos bardos prisioneros,
los álamos de sangre se han dormido.
Rumian arias de yerba al sol caído,
las greyes de Belén en los oteros.
El anciano pastor, a los postreros
martirios de la luz, estremecido,
en sus pascuales ojos ha cogido
una casta manada de luceros.
Labrado en orfandad baja al instante
con rumores de entierro, al campo orante;
y se otoñan de sombra las esquilas.
Supervive el azul urdido en hierro,
y en él, amortajadas las pupilas,
traza su aullido pastoral un perro.

One day the Queen of Ireland was sitting on her throne
She had her very stylish professional business suit on
She had her hair neatly coiffured
On her lap she had a Chromebook computer
which she was avidly looking at
And strangely, she was crying, yea! she was sobbing to herself
Her Top Aide seen her and immediately rushed over  
"Your Majesty, what's the matter ?" he inquired
But she couldn't answer him such was her distress
"Is it the state of the world" he asked, "is it...is it the climate crisis or the... the Brexit (the UK leaving the EU European Union), what!!!"
The Queen looked at him almost pleadingly and then finally she blubbed
"No! It's.... it's Bardo, he's written another poem"
"Bardo! " replied the Aide a little exasperated, "Not him again. You can't be getting upset your Majesty every time he writes a poem"
The Queen went on dreamily "What a beautiful heart but what a tortured soul"
She then looked at her Aide in a strict kind of way and said "It's no good, I've got to meet him, I've got to know him"
Her Aide cautioned against it, he said "Your Majesty shouldn't lower herself to seeking out some obscure poet guy, sure poets are two a penny in this country"
This angered the Queen, she stamped her foot and then said forcefully
"I'm the Queen of this country and he is one of my subjects in My Kingdom
I have a right, I have the authority"
So, so she issued a proclamation/ decree
In every parish in Ireland posters were put up seeking the identity and whereabouts of the poet Bardo.

Suddenly a lot of Bardos started popping up all over the place
Yea, lots of people were coming forward claiming to be Bardo
It was said in one County a strange man wearing a mask and riding a horse, with a sword dangling by his side came forward
He said "Are you looking for Zardo ?"
'No!' he was told "we're looking for Bardo"
"Oh!" he said and went off disappointedly.

The Queen knew these people they couldn't all be Bardo
So she used set them a test
"If you're Bardo", she'd say, "then recite to me a new Bardo poem, yes! A brand new poem"
This invariably would throw them all off
Suddenly they'd start getting nervous and unsure of themselves
"So you... you want a new Bardo poem"
Yes! would reply the Queen, you must have some newer poems or bits of poems
So one of the Bardos would begin rather shakily "Mmmm... Aaah... then they'd start to recite
"The Sweetness that was, it is no more
It's... it's flown out the feckin' door "
The Queen could tell straightaway "You're not Bardo "
Another of the Bardos began "The sadness it never ceases, it's a ceaseless sadness/ It's not a gladness, it's.. it's more of a badness.... your Highness "
Again the Queen passed a speedy judgement "Neither are you Bardo",
The Queen began to despair a bit about the dishonesty of people
She began to feel very gloomy and disheartened
That was until... until one day out of the blue she received a strange letter which was unlike all the other letters
It was from a lady who was a former nurse
She said her and a friend of hers had been Carers for an elderly couple for many years
And they had a son who they still kept in touch with, they'd go out for the occasional meal
Often he'd drink too much and then he'd start talking and would tell them that as a hobby to take him away from the stress of his job
He used write things mostly poems and he'd post them online somewhere
He said he wrote under a pseudonym but he wouldn't tell them what it was
She said that when the Queen issued her decree she went and read some of Bardo's poems
And she thought she could recognise some of the stories her friend told in Bardo's poems.  She suspected he might be... yes! Bardo.

The Queen was intrigued by this letter
It gave her new heart...new hope
But how... how could she proceed
Finally she hatched a plan, she thought she'd just visit Bardo's house on the pretext
That they'd received a report that Bardo lived around that area somewhere
She'd just ask him straight out if he knew of him
And see what his reaction was.

So the next day she set off in her big chauffeur driven BMW car
They pulled up to the driveway of a house
The house locked a bit ramshackley, in poor condition
It could have done with a new coat of paint
The tarmac too was very worn
And there were weeds growing in the flowerbeds
Inside the porch sun room it looked a bit rough as well
There were tools strewn around it like someone was working there
She rang the front doorbell
After a few moments a figure in a beanie hat answered the door
The Queen introduced herself and then asked if he knew of a poet named Bardo living in the area, that they'd received a report
The figure looked a bit stunned at first, then he smiled and bowed a short bow as if acknowledging who she was
Then he said "Bardo.... it's not a very original name for a poet, is it, is he any good ? "
"He's a wonderful writer I think", the Queen replied, "his poems they really speak to me, I'm a big fan, I'd love to meet him"
The figure pondered a moment then shook his head in a kind of amateurish theatrical way and said "Mmmm No, I'm sorry I don't... I don't know this... this Bardo"
Then he smiled and said "If I was a poet, an Irish poet writing under a pseudonym
I'd call myself something like... like Spudy Potato"
"Do you write?" asked the Queen
Here the figure stumbled a bit in his answer
He said"No!" and then stammered "Not...not really"
The Queen got a funny feeling about him, his replies and demeanor didn't seem to ring true somehow
So she changed tack, she said they'd been driving all day long and wondered might she possibly have a cup of tea as she was parched, she even said she'd pay for it,
The figure declined her offer to pay, saying instead he'd be greatly honoured to have her as a guest
Although he said he'd have to apologise for the state of his house
"It's a real Man Cave" he said inviting her in, "not much feminine influence here unfortunately".
"You live here all on your own", the Queen asked
He nodded and said a bit wearily, "All on my lonesome" and then smiling added "I have no one to talk to now not since my cat passed away"
(The Queen remembered Bardo's cat poems Tommy Tigers and The Defector)
"You're a cat person", she said
He smiled nodding his head "Cats are funny".
"You don't get lonely living alone ?"
"Oh! " he shrugged, "sure we're all alone in the end anyway" he said enigimatically
(The Queen was reminded of a Bardo poem The Great Alone)
He added again smiling "Didn't Oscar Wilde once say 'Living with yourself is the beginning of a lifelong romance'
When he went off to make the tea the Queen watched after him, she could see an inner room where there was a computer set up like a workstation...
As she waited she took a look around the porch sunroom, she could see some dust upon a table and on the window sills
And she noticed there were holes in the carpet which seemed very old
And also there were some spindly spiders up on the ceiling
She was reminded of the Bardo poem "I'll do anything for you Baby but I won't clean my house".
When he came back with two big mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits
The figure apologized again for the state of the room
He explained he liked to keep it looking a bit rough
As he thought no thief or burglar would be interested in robbing such a poor looking house.
She asked did he work from home
He replied "Ever since the Covid yes! we've had to work from home"
The Queen was reminded of the poem "Working from home".
Suddenly the figure went to say something but seemed to have some difficulty getting the words out
He stammered "Wh..wh...wh" then he stopped and apologised, he said he had a bit of a stammer sometimes
The Queen remembered in the poem 'Working from Home' Bardo had a stammer
He went on "What I wanted to say was why do you like this poet so much ?"
She thought for a moment and then said almost dreamily "It's the things he writes about Loneliness, longing, being empty inside, about his youth and the hope he had when starting out... it's like he's trying to make sense of his life...and he's funny... quirky things like that"
"But why would you be interested in those things, sure you're a Queen, you must have everything, your life must be so full"
"Sometimes it gets so lonely", she replied sadly, "it's like you're living in a bubble, I often wonder what's it all about, I feel so lost and alone sometimes... and so empty inside"
Suddenly the Queen sat up in her chair as if regaining herself  
She said, she admitted "You know"I haven't been completely honest with you, calling on you today
It was no accident
We received a report that you wrote poetry and that you post it online in secret
We thought that you might be him... that you might be Bardo
The Queen noticed a marked reticence or reluctance in the Poet
"Oh!", he said
So to assuage the situation she asked "Would you recite to me one of your poems... I'd love to hear one... please"
"Oh!", the Poet replied shyly, "you don't want to hear any of my ramblings"
"Oh yes I would ", she replied enthusiastically, "would you not recite one... one for your Queen"
She fluttered her eyelids, "Please! Pretty please "
The Poet smiled at this and at her enthusiasm
"Well I have one that I never showed to anyone, it's a bitter type of poem, a bitter Blues type of poem, it has some coarse language now
It's about a poet who writes but never seems to get anywhere, he feels he's been left behind... forgotten
It's called... I know you're not supposed to use clichés but this saying sparked/ inspired the poem, it's called "I couldn't even get arrested "
"Read it to me please ", said the Queen expectantly, "I'd love to hear it"
So the Poet rose to his feet and cleared his throat and began...

"I couldn't even get arrested

My soul it sings like a sad violin
Busking on a street where few ever come
From another street I hear loud applause and cheers
They want the young not some old gun like me
I couldn't even get arrested.

They pass me by and they don't bat an eye
Like I'm someone not worth knowing, my story not worth telling
"You think you're something special", they seem to say
"Man you're just wasting your time, you ain't got that Do Re Mi" -
I tried, Lord I tried, ain't no one tried harder than me
But I couldn't even get arrested.

I feel like Vincent Van Gogh must have felt
Pouring my heart out for all to see
Naked I stood there
But no one wanted me
All that time I gave to rhyme and nothing to show for it
Was I just ******* my life away
I couldn't even get arrested.

Browsing down the bookstore
Seems these days everyone's got a book but me
Young girls and boys writing books like their toys
Just for fun so it seems
But me, I couldn't even get arrested.

Is it a Jinx or what
Has someone put a spell on me
Or is it you're just no feckin' good...
I couldn't even get arrested.

So I guess I'll just keep plugging away
Putting it out there and hoping some day
Knowing nothing will ever come of it
I'm battered and broken and too old to care
I couldn't even get arrested".

The Poet stopped and looked over at the Queen a little uncertainly as if seeking her approval
She looked speechless, spellbound even
She rose to her feet and then exclaimed excitedly "Bardo!! It is you!"
She went on "I think... I think I'm in love with you"
"Yea", the Poet said a little dismissively, and gesturing to his room "come and live in relative poverty and obscurity with me"
As she stood there looking at him she was reminded strangely of a story from out of the Bible
The story of the sick lady who was trying to get to Jesus
But was hampered by the crowd
And she thinks "If only I could touch the hem of his garment I know I'd be healed"
She thought as she looked at him "If only I could kiss him I know I'd be made whole"
She edged closer to Bardo
"You've got lovely dark blue eyes"
He replied  looking down at her "Y'know you've got the loveliest, the cutest little nose there Queenie"
The Queen was reminded of Bardo's poem 'Little Perky Nose'
Her face moved closer to his, then suddenly she made a sudden lunge forward
She placed her lips on his and kissed him
(She even slipped in a bit of tongue there)
Suddenly there was this blinding flash
Outside, the Queen's big car had turned into this big bank of leaves
Which then collapsed on the ground and blew away in the breeze
Her chauffeur too, he'd turned into this big... this big Badger, he went scurrying off into the undergrowth
The Queen herself too, why she'd been transformed
Now instead of a Business suit, now she wore this lovely dress with lovely flower designs and  bright colours on it
And her hair, now it fell naturally in lovely thick long tresses down her back
Her face too, had been transformed, was radiant, she had these lovely rosy cheeks and brilliant shining eyes
The Poet looking at her, strangely he could only speak to her in the Irish (as Gaelige... pronounced '*** gale-le-ga')
"Ta tu go h-alainn", he said (translated 'You are beautiful '... pronounced 'Thaw too gut hauling ')
"Ta tu cailin deas" (translated "You're a Lovely Girl"... pronounced 'Thaw too Colleen jass"....)

He took her hand in his, needless to say from that day forth they both lived  happily ever after.

Bardos de frente sombría
y de perfil desprendido
de alguna vieja medalla;

los de la gran señoría,
los de mirar distraído,
los de la voz que avasalla.

Teólogos graves e intensos,
vasos de amor desprovistos,
vasos henchidos de penas;

los de los ojos inmensos,
los de las caras de cristos,
los de las grandes melenas:

mi musa, la virgen fría
que vuela en pos del olvido,
tan sólo embelesos halla

en vuestra gran señoría,
vuestro mirar distraído
y vuestra voz que avasalla.

Mi alma que os busca entrevistos
tras de los leves inciensos,
bajo las naves serenas,

ama esas caras de cristos,
ama esos ojos inmensos
ama esas grandes melenas.