Category: Poems (page 38 of 73)

Past Buddha in a green waterfall making music from the falling drops. Spinning on a small rock, talking to a turtle. Red doves pecking at grains of sand on the little beach. That effortless river flowing backwards through stillness and fire. Gauze of the waterfall’s spray in the surrounding air, a song whose chorus fades out just before completion, the refreshing loop and gurgle of memories floating away. Leaf boats on the surface of the water, the honey-coloured rocks lending the stream a sheen of treacle or molasses, reeds shimmying in the submarine breeze.

Present Buddha sitting in a glade for several seconds, then gone to perch like a ladybird on a wet leaf. An eyedrop rolling down the chasm of the upturned leaf, a pinball in the fern’s erratic machine. Watching loneliness float away like a trail of smoke in the glade. Buddha was just there. The scent of sugarcane burning through the night. The manic energy of that desire in the dark. Candles of skin. Miniature whirlpools and short, sharp cracks. The earth rolling over. Poisonous berries growing from sunset-coloured fungi. Entropy, the waterfall’s big wheel.

Future Buddha on a plain immense, a turtle mountain, scanning the horizon for gold, or a rainbow. Fingers playing with tiny wheels. Setting soft cogs in motion. Observe the effects: a day comes rushing like a myth, backwards, from the mouth of Buddha, a little sparrow. That universal whistle blowing through space, through your eyes. I watch and say nothing, for my heart is too busy telling me, with each trembling thump, just how constant is that friend called time, and how determined its inevitable foes. Sand falls from the sky in diamonds.

And I saw a field of Buddhas and there you were, running fast up a hill, laughing. And I saw you laughing and my heart burst, like a small block of granite beneath a sculptor’s chisel, a million shards of myself flying through the air. And my heart burst and I saw us running down a hill, towards another field, into the exploding afternoon. And I saw us running and I saw that we were laughing, trying to hold hands as we ran, falling over each other in the grass. And we were falling over each other like we were on the moon, in exquisite slow motion and full colour.

And then I felt the long ache of our addiction and the tingling of you in my veins and I was crying. And the tingling of you in my veins made me run as fast as I could towards the moon. And I ran as fast as I could and you were there, breathing in the lunar dew. And you were there, holding out your arms, laughing at the faraway earth with long and bursting laughs. And the earth was as faraway as old sadnesses, a photo we might have looked at once but no longer find necessary. And the photos got old but we never did, laughing and running through green snow.

And the field of Buddhas began to run towards us, slowly at first but with gathering speed. And they were slow at first but they soon sped up, falling over us as we ran together through that mint green field of tomorrow. And we fell all over each other in that green field of sunshine and explosions, laughing at ourselves and poking fun at Buddha. And we poked fun at Buddha because we were invincible, standing there in the future valley. And we were invincible because we were both there, holding onto each other as the moon fell out of the electric time machine sky.

This one’s a secret, between us three. You, me and Buddha – our secret machine. A dim machine with four long limbs, two hearts and one desire. Explodes upon impact with water or fire. A new machine in time, its discernable hum. The clock that will not lock, an horizon’s tilt. A pink smoke machine, a bubble-gum vending Buddha. Lights go out around the world. Someone asks a question but it’s only “what?” – we’re looking for a “wow”. And that’s not even a question.

This one’s a secret, between you and me. There’s no one else listening, and the hotel’s open. I have an interview with the manager. In my mind she’s tall, though I haven’t met her yet. I’m still carrying the machine with me – though I know it’ll trigger palpitations in passers-by, strong motion in pavements and maybe even innovation in poetry. Powerful machine! Drilling stacks, plasmic karma, ornamental crushes. Through the gates of doom, blindfolded and shining!

This is the secret that you told me. Something about an exploding pink Buddha, replete with hums. Something you found under your bed and sent to Buddha in the mail. Delivered to me by mistake or Buddha’s intervention. Forwarded to me, on a sea of single and return tickets. Trying to understand instructions written in a language neither yours nor mine but something close to both of them. The language of tiny numbers. Lonely sound of Buddha counting down the secret days.

Send me your sunshine. Only you can make this buddha machine run. When there’s just one the drone creeps and the loops begin to skip. Buddha needs two machines to set up his feedback mantra, his fearful explosions. Buddha’s playing your melody. Buddha’s sweating underneath those robes. Your sunshine is Buddha and the sound of the northern sea drowns out my southern gales, my hail and cloud. I’ll post them somewhere else.

Through the chat rain and the weather reports, I can sense the glow of long evenings. Send them to me, too. Preferably on a floppy disk, in Buddha format. Compatible as two bombs. Bam! The machines that hum and create their own sunshine, a kind of quicksand sound I’d happily throw myself into, hoping that you’ll come along. Teen movies starring Buddha. Family sagas in several parts. No more sad bildungsroman. Happy Buddha.

The phone’s earworm keeps drilling its designs. There’s no need to send them on, just yet. Buddha can wait. I’ve stored batteries inside my special air-raid shelter, from within which all I can hear is the sun. How Buddha revolves on a marble-white mandala. An obscure graph that documents our melodic rise and fall. I’ve already sent you that. Check your messages. It’ll come in the mail. Buddha relaxes. Buddha on rollerskates.