How people come, from delight or thescars of damage,to the comfort of a poem. Mary Oliver I’ve been writing since I was very small. My first poem was a simple metaphor. A child clings to her mothers hand like a limpet clings to a rockI cant remember writing the words but they gave voice to a deep […]Read more "Spelling"
If Buddhism in the West becomes solely a means to pursue personal spiritual growth, I am apprehensive that it may evolve in a one-sided way and thus fulfil only half its potential. Attracting the affluent and the educated, it will provide a congenial home for the intellectual and cultural elite, but it will risk turning […]Read more "Missing Class"
The trees walk to the very end of the forest. Some of them lean over into the water. You can see their reflections in the surface of the lake. You can also see the water-boatmen skating across the face of the sky. You can’t see the long white fluffy cloud in the face of the […]Read more "Running in Sweden"
‘You better make sure you vote’, Jayne said, and I thought, hmmf. What’s all the fuss about, we’re just going through the motions, we won’t leave, what will be the good of that?! Anyway, I arranged to vote by proxy while I was away and left for France. I spent ten days or so there, hanging out with […]Read more "Instant in a Mug with Cows"