Maitreyabandhu
         i.m Urygen Sangharakshita

By next morning spring was pushing back
the clouds, deepening the creases where
the farms were tucked away while the goddess,
risen above your bed in white appliqué,
offered her protection. (What was she playing at?)
Like discontented winter next to spring,
your cardigans, grey as post-war Britain,
droop beside your gold Tibetan shirt.
I found it beside your bed, the ceramic head
that Terry gave you, handsome butcher's son -
friendship's clear light of day stitched
like Dante's stars in heaven's blanket during
long talks late at night. Two policemen
turned up at your flat with your address
tucked inside his pocket. He'd bought a ticket
for the Underground at Kentish Town
then threw himself under — the scream he'd cut
in clay fixed forever. Time's passageway
reverberates with the voice of George V
'I thought men like that shot themselves'
as Leonardo's Lady, ermine twisting
on her arm, gazes through the window
(which window shall I choose: round or square?)
to where a lacquered bonnet, dotted white
with freshly fallen snow, floats across
the view as Master Bashō, staff in hand,
sets off for (or is coming back from?)
Irago. Forgive this. Forgive my foolishness.
Bless me as you once did, 'now and always'.
For March light is entering your room
and April light and May light, and soon the summer
weather will kindle Pseudo-Dionysius,
Thom Gunn, The Life of Proclus. The ducks have flown
(walked more like!) between two muddy ponds.
I wish that I could shake your hand, call you
by our intimate, by our everyday address.
from the journal PN REVIEW
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This poem is a section from a book-length poem I'm writing called "The Commonplace Book." Composed of blank verse paragraphs gathered into 12 chapters, it was inspired by a line in Wallace Stevens: "The serious reflection is composed/Neither of comic nor tragic but of commonplace." The poem, a kind of epyllion or pseudo-epic, follows the year from my teacher's death to the first anniversary.

Maitreyabandhu on "The Fallacy of Misplaced Concreteness"
Cover of Song of My Softening
A Review of Song of My Softening

"Body image plays a central role in the collection's trajectory toward self-acceptance. Early poems highlight the many ways that both loved ones and society as a whole continue to shame people for the shape of their bodies. Toward the end of the collection, poems take on a tone of celebration, none more evident than the appropriately titled 'Body Image.'"

via THE POETRY QUESTION
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Cover of Surfacing
What Sparks Poetry:
Emily Tuszynska on "Floodplain"


"Like Shepherd, I too was aware of myself as connected to the world in profound interdependence, an understanding that philosopher and biologist Andreas Weber refers to as 'enlivenment.' Every living thing around me had been animated by the same irresistible force, a 'wordless insistence' to which my body was now yielding, 'bowing / then kneeling / to each contraction as it came.' The force that was driving my daughter into the world was the same force that drove the tulip poplar's leaves to burst from their buds and their winged seeds to root themselves in the soil."
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