David Budbill: "This Morning"

Oh, this life,
the now,
this morning,

which I
can turn
into forever

by simply
loving
what is here,

is gone
by noon.

"This Morning" by David Budbill. Text as published in Happy Life (Copper Canyon Press, 2011).

Art credit: Untitled photograph of a snail looking at its reflection in a bubble in Berdichev, Ukraine, by Vyacheslav Mischenko/Caters News.

David Budbill: "What We Need"

 
                                                      The Emperor,
                                                      his bullies
                                                      and henchmen
                                                      terrorize the world
                                                      every day,

                                                      which is why
                                                      every day

                                                      we need

                                                      a little poem
                                                      of kindness,

                                                      a small song
                                                      of peace

                                                      a brief moment
                                                      of joy.



"What We Need" by David Budbill, from While We've Still Got Feet: New Poems. © Copper Canyon Press, 2005.  

Art credit: "Leaf Fight in Shinjuku," photograph by Ed Jacob. Caption for series of images: "Last weekend, while wandering around in Shinjuku, [Japan], we decided to check out the view from the Tocho Building. Coming down, we came across this autumn festival. I don’t think I’ve ever seen kids having so much fun as they did in this box of leaves."

David Budbill: "The Ubiquitous Day Lily of July"

There is an orange day lily that blooms in July and is
everywhere around these parts right now. Common.
Ordinary. It grows in everybody's dooryard—abandoned
or lived in—along the side of the road, in front of stone walls,
at gas stations and garages, at the entrance to driveways,
anywhere it takes a mind to sprout. You always see them
in clusters, bunches, never by themselves. They propagate
by rhizomes, which is why they are so resilient, and why
you see them in bunches.

There is an orange day lily that blooms in July and is
ubiquitous right now. The roadside mowers mow a lot
of them, but they don't get them all.

These are not the rare and delicate lemon yellow day lilies
or the other kinds people have around their places. This one
is coarse and ordinary, almost harsh in its weathered beauty,
like an older woman with a tough, worldly-wise and wrinkled
face. There is nothing nubile, smooth or perky about this flower.
It's not fresh. It's been around awhile and everybody knows it.

As I said, it's coarse and ordinary and it's beautiful because
it's ordinary. A plant gone wild and therefore become
rugged, indestructible, indomitable, in short: tough, resilient,
like anyone or thing has to be in order to survive.



"The Ubiquitous Day Lily of July" by David Budbill. Published online by The Writer's Almanac, September 4, 2013. © David Budbill.

Art credit: "Tiger Lily Bloom," alkyds on mounted canvas, by Linda Richter. Caption: "The intense orange and yellow of the tiger lily comes to life. Sometimes just one and sometimes a row of them line the back roads of New Hampshire. Lush and green foliage sets off the brilliant orange of the blossoms."

David Budbill: "The Sixth of January"

The cat sits on the back of the sofa looking
out the window through the softly falling snow
at the last bit of gray light.

I can’t say the sun is going down.
We haven’t seen the sun for two months.
Who cares?

I am sitting in the blue chair listening to this stillness.
The only sound: the occasional gurgle of tea
coming out of the pot and into the cup.

How can this be?
Such calm, such peace, such solitude
in this world of woe.

"The Sixth of January" by David Budbill, from Moment to Moment: Poems of a Mountain Recluse. © Copper Canyon Press, 1999.

Photography credit: "Watching the Snow Falling," by akinosora (originally color).

David Budbill: "Into the Winter Woods"

Long-johns top and bottom, heavy socks, flannel shirt, overalls,

steel-toed work boots, sweater, canvas coat, toque, mittens: on.



Out past grape arbor and garden shed, into the woods.

Sun just coming through the trees. There really is such a thing



as Homer's rosy-fingered dawn. And here it is, this morning.

Down hill, across brook, up hill, and into the stand of white pine



and red maple where I'm cutting firewood. Open up workbox,

take out chain saw, gas, bar oil, kneel down, gas up saw, add



bar oil to the reservoir, stand up, mittens off, strap on and buckle

chaps from waist to toe, hard hat helmet: on. Ear protectors: down,



face screen: down, push in compression release, pull out choke,

pull on starter cord, once, twice, go. Stall. Pull out choke, pull on

starter cord, once, twice, go. Push in choke. Mittens: back on.

Cloud of two-cycle exhaust smoke wafting into the morning air



and I, looking like a medieval Japanese warrior, wade through

blue smoke, knee-deep snow, revving the chain saw as I go,



headed for that doomed, unknowing maple tree.

"Into the Winter Woods" by David Budbill, from Happy Life. © Copper Canyon Press, 2011.

Photography credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer, found at this link (originally color).



 

David Budbill: "Sometimes"

Sometimes when day after day we have cloudless blue skies,

warm temperatures, colorful trees and brilliant sun, when

it seems like all this will go on forever,

when I harvest vegetables from the garden all day,

then drink tea and doze in the late afternoon sun,

and in the evening one night make pickled beets

and green tomato chutney, the next red tomato chutney,

and the day after that pick the fruits of my arbor

and make grape jam,

when we walk in the woods every evening over fallen leaves,

through yellow light, when nights are cool, and days warm,

when I am so happy I am afraid I might explode or disappear

or somehow be taken away from all this,

at those times when I feel so happy, so good, so alive, so in love

with the world, with my own sensuous, beautiful life, suddenly

I think about all the suffering and pain in the world, the agony

and dying. I think about all those people being tortured, right now,

in my name. But I still feel happy and good, alive and in love with

the world and with my lucky, guilty, sensuous, beautiful life because,

I know in the next minute or tomorrow all this may be

taken from me, and therefore I've got to say, right now,

what I feel and know and see, I've got to say, right now,

how beautiful and sweet this world can be.

"Sometimes" by David Budbill. © David Budbill.

Image credit: "Couple Walking in Woods," oil on board, by James R. Smith.

David Budbill: "The Three Goals"

The first goal is to see the thing itself
in and for itself, to see it simply and clearly
for what it is.
No symbolism, please.

The second goal is to see each individual thing
as unified, as one, with all the other
ten thousand things.
In this regard, a little wine helps a lot.

The third goal is to grasp the first and the second goals,
to see the universal and the particular,
simultaneously.
Regarding this one, call me when you get it.

"The Three Goals" by David Budbill, from Moment to Moment: Poems of a Mountain Recluse. © Copper Canyon Press, 1999.

Photography credit: Unknown (originally black and white).



 

David Budbill: "Tomorrow"

Tomorrow 
we are
bones and ash,
the roots of weeds
poking through
our skulls.

Today,
simple clothes,
empty mind,
full stomach,
alive, aware,
right here,
right now.

Drunk on music,
who needs wine?

Come on,
Sweetheart,
let's go dancing
while we still
have feet.

"Tomorrow" by David Budbill, from While We've Still Got Feet. © Copper Canyon Press, 2005.

Photography credit: Unknown.

David Budbill: "Winter: Tonight: Sunset"

Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first

through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop

and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.

I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening

a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky.



"Winter: Tonight: Sunset" by David Budbill, from While We've Still Got Feet. © Copper Canyon Press,  2005.

Photographic credit: Unknown.