Poems by Eric Colburn

The Buddha doesn’t “lie”, or “rest”, he sits,

A verb implying something more of will,

A verb whose sibilant curt sound fits

The simple satisfaction of staying still,

And, too, that sitting can sometimes be hard.

Asana, sit-in, babysitting—pose,

Protest, or care—the Buddha in my yard

Blends and transcends these meanings. Buddha shows

What the trees show, what the soil knows, the weight

Of our existence. Trace it in the plumb line

That runs from the tip of his head down his spine

To sit-bones where he rests his own weight while

Weighing the world... The Buddha doesn’t wait,

He sits. Life may be suffering. Sit with it. Smile.

Nothing in nature is ugly. The sky like a bruise

Has a lividly beautiful bronze-black hue, and the dead

Rat in the street spills its guts in a gross but engrossing

Way, and the purples and blues of its veins, and the red

Of its blood on its fur, and even its beady dark eye

Seeming to see me—it's… lovely? Black pearl of the muse,

Unlovely orb in a rodent's sharp face, there is no thing

Less charming than you, but you teach me, still, that my I

Has a presence and, too, an illusory quality. Time

Will arrive when the best of our comrades will rot like this rat,

But for now, in this part of a second that sways like a tree

In a storm, we stand proud, like a sailor aloft on the mast,

Hearing the thunder afar like the ominous chimes

Of a midnight that hasn’t arrived. For now, let us be.

Eric Colburn