Someone’s written a book
collecting poems he considers
worthy of re-recording, and also
advising us how to read them.
Thanks but no thanks.
I don’t want to be instructed
in how to respond to a poem;
I just want to respond –
to let it all absorb me, wash
through me, creating images,
feelings, sensations: known
and loved or thrillingly new.
So many expenses –
green slip for the car reggo,
replacement TV
for the one that died,
the rising cost of food –
I’m dreaming up
‘creative’ Christmas gifts:
a free Tarot reading
or Reiki treatment,
a rare book already pre-loved …
I learn to move slowly
so the feet won’t trip
nor the fingers slip.
I move deliberately, oldly,
not freely, not boldly —
mustn’t lose my grip!
The Buddhist friend
who brought me
this wooden statuette
back from Cambodia
(or was it Thailand?)
thirty-plus years ago, told me:
‘It’s conditional. The Buddha
must be kept high, above
all other objects or images.
You have to promise.’ I did.
The highest point
in my present home
is atop the kitchen cupboards.
No matter how often
I place the statue facing out
into the room, overlooking us all,
I always find it moved. (By itself.
No-one here any more besides me
to climb up and do that.) Buddha
turns always towards the light.
