General Meditation Camp, Dagshai
Singing, trembling, weeping,
then carrying buckets in the rain.
In the kitchen the women are singing
as they wash dishes upon the floor.
They don't bother
with the mountains outside the spattered windows;
is enough, along with the passage
of dishes, tin clanking
from hand to hand
as the song merges,
tremulous and loud,
so that each woman marvels
at the magnitude
of her own voice.
Silent Meditation, Dagshai
All day and night,
in the empty space;
is too free.
Only I have been listening
to the wind in the trees
I feel joy,
then I feel nothing.
An eerie laughter in the afternoon
drifts across the valley
as birds swoop, dodge,
hover and disappear over the ridge
the idyllicisms of an earthly life
and the laughter, the way it was
ringing of sex, undeniably fleeting
like all things of this life;
our pleasures, our touches
even our great loves,
buried in the sleep
of another lifetime.
of this frame into black:
the valley, speckled with butterflies
the light green leaves just beginning
to obscure the branches,
the corner of the red roof
from where the woman's laughter comes
bubbling with its
peculiar sexual innocence,
all fading, dot by dot, into black.
Then there is the warmth of spring,
the air, thick like liquid
and even the laughter
©2008 by Anne Cammon
Anne Cammon is a writer of poetry, fiction, essays and reviews. She
curates a literary edition of Art Waves on WKCR, featuring
contemporary works of poetry, fiction and new music in a
choreographed, experimental format. Her work has recently been
published in Nth Position, Poor Mojo's Almanac[k], Words-Myth, Verse
Marauder, and more. For more information see her Web site.