The Poetry, Essays and Personal Journals of Larry L. Dill
Sand Painting
The Poetry Project continues with a new collection of poems by Larry L. Dill
Plus
Story of My Life
Twelve contemporary haikus by Camen Gupta
Sand Painting
It is easy to imagine that certain mystical practices may succeed in upsetting the normal relations between the different regions of the mind, so that, for instance, perception may be able to grasp happenings in the depths of the ego and in the id which were otherwise inaccessible to it. It may safely be doubted, however, whether this road will lead us to the ultimate truths from which salvation is to be expected.
--Sigmund Freud
Work out your own salvation with diligence.
--Gautama Buddha
The Tibetans and the Navajos let the sand paintings wash away.
And I lose poems on the computer almost every day.
Anyway it seems that way. Accidentally, of course, I think.
Technology has not saved us.
But that’s not the point.
The point is supposed to be that I’m not able to let go of my ego
The way the sand painters are
Or the way they say they are
Or act like they are
Or I imagine that they are.
The point for me though is not what they are
But who we are?
Is letting go of one’s own creations
The same as letting go of one’s ego?
Or is there more to the ego than the sand painters understand
Or even I have imagined?
Perhaps in letting go of the sand
We can find ourselves.
Perhaps the ego is the letting go.
The question is whether poetry actually exists or not.
Like religion or God.
Well, religion certainly exists as a sociological phenomenon.
God as an adjunct of that. Maybe more for some.
And poetry exists in that way, too.
In certain circles.
They read it in the universities and coffee houses.
Prizes are awarded.
I’m still not completely convinced.
What is a poem?
A whole thought?
An adoration?
A prayer?
An exposition on the meaning of a moment, or a monument?
Truth distilled from messy time?
Isn’t all that just life?
I mean, what’s the difference between a poem and human
Consciousness?
Besides ink on paper.
Or now, key strokes fated for the fog.
Is poetry an act or an artifact?
Solitude
Getting into my solitude
Is a blessing
It requires a door
I’m never sure where the handle is
Accidentally I find it
And find the truth
The truth of course exists
Outside of time and space
Not sure I want to be there
Animus
She was always
Crossing over into madness
It all made sense
Anger and rage
Begets anger and rage
We saw it as a cosmic event
Death, injustice, sorrow
One more time at bat.
Sometimes your heart runs ahead
To get the ice cream
Only to find out that it will melt before you
Can get it home.
We fall in love so easily
And out so painfully
It’s hard to understand
What it is really that is going wrong.
Something about judgement
Something about truth
Something about self-restraint.
Still it’s clear
We fall in love because
We are all like wilted flowers
Waiting eagerly for the falling rain.
Giving up as we sometimes do
We hope to bring it all back together
Through triangulation
Love always requires
A third party—the unforgiven
We’re only in love
With that from which
We are eternally running away
Even if we’d stayed together
The passion would not have held.
But could we have become quietly friends?
True friends?
I don’t know.
I think about it every day.
A friendship based on a common loss.
I can’t think of anything more intimate than that.
A Prayer to St. Lucinda
Sometimes the pain’s
too hard to take
Sometimes it seems like a mistake
But ignoring pain is
much like dying
Very much like lying
Meet it they say
Go head to head
Otherwise you’re dead
I don’t know
Sometimes oblivion is so inviting
Late at night I don’t feel like crying
Another night of listening to the rain
Another way of working round the pain
Lucinda sings it all night long
Lucy, Lucy what went wrong
I want to call you on the phone
Just to hear you smile
It keeps us busy for a while
But then of course you have to go
You always have another show
I went down and down around the cliffs
The air was dry the dust in drifts
I wished you with me on the trail
I wished it didn’t feel like jail
I might run into you in dreams
Way too much mystery there it seems
I’ll hold on tight to my existence
Pretend I’d signed with the resistance
See you on the portico
The ships go by
We say hello
You write a book
I read and cry
I hide the tears at least I try
Give up your quest you say
And say Goodbye
But Lucy, Lucy
see me through
Lucy, Lucy I miss you.
Fan letter to Bob Dylan
How would it be, Bob Dylan,
If you were here?
Talkin’ ‘bout somethin’
And drinkin’ beer?
I’m readin’ about you
And playin’ your songs
Mournin’ myself
And what went wrong.
Would you be like a priest
And say, “It’s alright, my son”?
Or would you laugh at me
And say, “There can only be one.”?
Or would you keep to yourself
As you like to do,
And just listen to me
And look right through?
I wonder these things.
I don’t know why.
Why should I worry?
Why should I cry?
I know you don’t know
Anymore than I
About how to make love
Or get out of a lie.
But sometimes I just
Wish you were here
Like the women I’ve lost
And the men I revere.
Come see me, Bob Dylan,
If you’re ever in town.
I’ll sing you a song
And buy you a round.
Always on the Dream
I’ve been mad at you before
I’ve even walked out of the door
But I’ll always be your friend
Until the very end
It’s your soul that I adore
Love is more than love is for
I will love you evermore
Evermore.
Going to the mountain top
Never asking me to stop
You were always on the dream
Always on the dream.
I ask forgiveness for my sins
I hope to sing with you again
I’ll need your spirit ‘til I die
I’ll try not to make you cry.
I do know we’re growing old
Someday our story will be told
Though the legend may not hold
We know it’s true
We know it’s true
We know it’s true
Kitchen Faucet Dharma
I awoke this morning at 11:30
Unable to keep my eyes closed any longer
Against the pain of living.
All seemed hopeless.
All roads seemed to lead to nowhere.
I made coffee and drank some.
I cleaned the cabin a bit.
Threw out the beer cans
And decided to tackle the dripping faucet
At the kitchen sink.
Some people I know
Would think it time to buy a new faucet.
I had an idea it might just be a grain of sand
Lodged between the stem and rubber seat.
I used a screw driver and crescent wrench
To remove the handles and gently remove the stems.
I ran my finger around on the surface of the seats
And put everything back together.
The leak was gone.
I felt a twinge of pride.
Not exactly Columbus discovering America.
But a tiny accomplishment—tiny as a grain of sand—
On a day that had begun without a ray of hope.
I sat down on the porch
And watched the tiny wings of the humming birds
Hovering at the feeder
And felt the dharma coming home.
Story of My Life (Twelve Haiku's by Camen Gupta)
August 2007 New Hope Journal
The Poetry Project Index
Varieties of Vegan Experience Index
Complete Site Index
larrydill@newhopejournal.com
www.newhopejournal.com
copyright 2007 by Larry L. Dill