|Tintinnabulation by Robert Green|
I already wrote a poem this morning, and here it is. It's interesting that it is times of upset and confusion that generate poetry. August is that for me, and this morning I'm afraid I'm coming down with an infection. I wrote my friend, It feels odd, as if I went back into a very familiar room that has a certain scent and quietness, like a Victorian novel in which nothing much happens.
The title of the poem refers to a Tibetan Buddhist concept that there is a world of timeless eternity (great natural peace), and then the small messy world of us (samsara, its relentless pounding waves), but they are not really any different. They are mingled (nice word). It is easier for me to think in the common metaphor: we are lotus blooms with feet in the mud. There is a jewel in the heart of the lotus.
Absolute and Relative Worlds
by Jeanne Desy
Nature goes on, vast and nonjudgmental,
turning leaves into heaps of trash -
it is as if a song is playing far away,
deeper than my own tintinnabulation
quieter than the soft pervasive tone
of the central unit. It is a stream of songs
about the rising waves, the Western wind,
being asleep in the deep. It is faint and blue . . .
it is interrupted by the cat, who is nervous
because Tom is in the shower,
and the door to her box is closed.
|Tibetan healing mandala|