Poetry Chaikhana on a Cold Winter Night

Buddhist temple front, Albuquerque

A short tribute to this lovely poetry blog an email from whom lands almost daily in my mailbox with a poem and commentary. I remember my cousin introducing me to this many years ago – occasionally I would read the mail but even if not, the fact that a piece of loved creativity walks into my mailbox often gives a warm feeling inside. Thanks go to Ivan M. Granger who has been running this initiative.

Here is the  beauitiful Haiku he shared:

This cold winter night
by Buson

English version by Sam Hamill

This cold winter night,
that old wooden-head Buddha
would make a nice fire

So, would you burn your beliefs for survival?

As a thanks:

Lovely Haiku, Ivan
Weather is chilly here too
Warm thoughts though I share

Have you written a Haiku? Care to share it in the comments section? Have you managed to follow the structure (5-7-5) and talk about nature in every one of them (as traditionally done apparently)?

A Single Eye

Loneliness is a strange companion.
She comes to visit me
when I am alone
or among a hundred.

She's my best friend
when I think of my brothers
out there
in some other Universe
or the whole span
of my physical existence
as the blink of someone's eye
and of their existence
as the blink
of someone else's eye
and of their existence further ---

Loneliness, my friend, my companion,
I blink my eye.

Another resurrected poem (originally published in the quarterly New Quest, a journal of participative inquiry, edited by the legendary Dilip Chitre).

Are we by ourselves in the whole wide universe? As lonely (7 billion lonely ones), we have thought a lot about this. Maybe we are not, as we discover more and more water on the moon and even that asteriods can replenish their own water!!

Poems resurrected on National Poetry Day

Today happens to be national poetry day,  I suddenly realized

and out of the tattered green book

below are a couple I have revived:

Formula Poetry

Poetry is spewn

from the exhaust pipe

of a revving car

desperate

at an unending red light

on a vast open road,

fed into mad frenzy by an imginary accelerator

held back

by real brakes, strong chains.

Poetry is a revolt

asking for the freedom of flight

poetry is a revolt against the red light;

the question is —–

does poetry turn the light green

does the revolt turn into a revolution?

Since I couldn’t stop at one, here’s another:

Day after God

What’s the good

if today

they remember me as a great poet,

if tomorrow

as a great leader

and maybe day after

as a God —-

What’s the good

if day after

they still search for Gods.