The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Song of Myself

          
               after Issa
 
 
I think it's enough just to sit and meditate, heedless
of the needs of others close to us and of
their perpetual demands that seem to sap the
strength from us. My doorway and the morning dew
are all I need to make my day, and that
is where I'll plan to be. And if that marks
me misanthropic, if that threatens to end our
relationship, I say that is not my problem, closing
my door. Thoreau knew how to spend the day
alone with his peas and beans and ledgers, and we
can do the same. So much for the ties that bind.
"We must find our occasions in ourselves,"
said self-reliant Thoreau. And so I'm going to sing to
myself. And the birds. And you. And one or two others.

Note
"Song of Myself" and the other sonnets spread throughout For Dear Life, designated by the presence of epigraphs such as "after Basho" and "after Issa" and so on, are built on haiku. The last words of each line of each poem, read vertically from top to bottom, form a haiku by a classical Japanese master.


--Ronald Wallace
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