Two poems of the East

Venus at dawn over the Pacific Ocean, by Brocken Inagloryon Wikipedia

THE ONLY WAY

I am not afraid of dying. I’ve already died at least a thousand times and come out, maybe chastened, maybe childlike, on the other side. I might have said, if I had words for it, I hate it here. I want my old life back. But there’s no future in that, is there? “Onward,” says my wise friend, pointing easterly. 

Without a more appealing prospect, I obey and turn and see a light, a brighter one than shone before, and hear a softer, sweeter voice than what was shrill and screaming in the pain of yesterday, the dream I’d just awakened from. 

And so it is (as if it were a choice I’d made – my will instead of, in the end, the only way to bliss), toward that new star, benign in April’s misty dawn, above new streams and gently rising hills, that I begin.

For Rod Colvin, April 2014

KRISHNAMURTI’S SECRET

I don’t mind what happens,

Krishnamurti said. I nod.

I know exactly what he means,

and yet I can’t help wondering

if Krishnamurti ever loved

a rugby team

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