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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The morning stars before they fade

Venus rising over the Pacific Ocean, by Japanese photographer Sho Endo

ON THIS SIDE

Over on the other side, there is a quiet cottage on a

grassy slope, where trees protect and decorate and

cast their pleasing shadows on the water; and where

children, hyacinths, and roses, cucumbers, and peppers

grow, and snowy linens hung to dry are blowing in the

breeze. Inside, bread rises in the oven, herbs depend from

oaken beams, and last night’s chicken in its steaming broth

becomes this evening’s stew, tomorrow’s casserole. An old

man and a young man and a boy are sharing rituals and

mending fences, while a woman, unaccountably serene,

sips coffee, shuts her eyes, and says a prayer of thanks for all

that grace provides.

But on this side are broken shutters, dusty shelves,

unanswered letters, leaves in piles, and moldy flower beds;

and seams half-sewn on half-done dresses; half-forgotten

words in half-read books; and pressing obligations half-

remembered, half despaired of. Morning struggles through

the cloudy panes of windows — gray and half-neglected or,

perhaps, defied. A pallid beam succeeds at last and penetrates

the barrier. It comes to rest upon the drooping pothos, which

persists in barely living, never mind the diffidence its garden is.

The ray of sullen light turns motes of dust to fireflies. At first

they float at random; then they glide; then, whimsical, they

dance as if to challenge gravity or chance; as if they will

their time aloft, to have an audience, to shine like stars.

They catch the sun and flicker. They have won a moment’s

glory. Soon it ends, but they have shone.

On the other side are peace and order; on this side is eagerness

to cross the wide, intimidating border, to be purposeful and more,

to yet achieve, to meet and to exceed an expectation, even one—

to finish what’s begun; half-perfection wishing to be whole, to be

forgiven for attaining less than paradise. But for all that, this side is

painted with the brush that, dipped in heaven’s glory, must in time

adorn the swale with yellow clover and, today, in dust makes

manifest the morning stars before they fade.

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