I’m not surprised that many monastic zen poets
Were ambivalent about their poetry habits,
Wondering, sometimes in verse, whether verse
Was problematic, a distraction from any satori.
The zen mind doesn’t go in for ruminating,
And it’s hard to compose without ruminating.
We’re all grateful, regardless of tradition,
If, one evening, we have a mossy, tranquil mind,
And a frog jumps in. We’re all grateful
When the subconscious and/or the divine,
The background cultural radiation, delivers us
A few effortless lines. But mostly, even when
We fool around with collage and found phrases,
We bury ourselves to the ears in rumination.
There is nothing enlightened or enlightening
About poetry composition. The pond is not
The croaking frog, and the jar that bottles
Lightning can’t itself be spun from lightning.
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