Vox Populi
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Sam Hamill: Old Bones
I.
All the quiet afternoon splitting wood,
thinking about books, I remembered
Snyder making a handle for an ax
as he remembered Ezra Pound
thirty years before,
thinking about Lu Chi.
Using the ax, I forget the ax.
Closing my eyes, I see.
II.
Thirty-one new yellow daffodils
bloom in the little garden.
Alder-seed covers everything
with little flakes of rust.
A breeze through evergreens.
Distant bird trills.
When Hui Neng tore up the sutras,
his bones were already dust.
III.
Wanting one good organic line,
I wrote a thousand sonnets.
Wanting a little peace,
I folded a thousand cranes.
Every discipline a new evasion;
every crane a dodge:
Bashō didn’t know a thing about water
until he heard the frog.
—
From Habitation: Collected Poems by Sam Hamill, published by Lost Horse Press. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.
Photograph by Ian Boyden
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I know this poem well but still marvel at it.
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Poetry is the long memory of humanity, the simple truth of being awake and aware of the nature around and within us.
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Beautiful thoughts. Couldn’t help smiling at the last line. This is a poem for reading often.
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A perfect poem to read today, or any day. I love how the acts of remembering nest inside each other.
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Fabulous poem– xj
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I love Hamil’s poem. I don’t know when I’ve ever heard of anyone speak of Hui Nong and the sutras.
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Thanks, John. I love Sam Hamill’s poetry for its careful craft and its koan-like wisdom.
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