A spontaneously composed poem is…

Calligraphy spontaneously composed by Chogyam Trungpa, a Tibetan Buddhist master

Spontaneous poem is like

Brushstroke journey

One moment following into the next

black ink on white paper

shape out of the formless

punctuation for the sheer hell of it

Even a pause is continuation of the flowering

Even silence speaks….

And then off we go again

Sometimes soaring into rarified alpine airs

leaping peak to peak like proverbial Tibetan snow lion

sometimes plunging into fetid valley

padding on pulpous paws through rotting underbrush

sniffing for putrid carcasses of much-loved meals

senses alert, stripes incandescent

with immanent appetite

and hot fresh blood smell of the

next hot fresh kill.

And then we swoop away again and from smooth lines we

occasionally

SLASH DOWN VIOLENTLY

or even back track

or scribble violently from side to side

from side to side again and again

going over the same side to side slashing

with slight variation in angle maybe

or maybe not and then

we can move to circling round and round

perhaps expanding

then contracting

smooth neat lines overplaying their precious simplicity

until repetition births complexity

smoothness becomes rough

clarity gets messy

and it’s like we are in gritty back alleys

in a large city

a couple of homeless sleeping near a large restaurant dumpster

and undying shiny wrapper garbage

the only signs of life

in such dark, street-lit dark alley undergrounds

(you never know where you might end up!)

Then on we go with a brave long stroke into

new vistas of fresh white paper

stroking soft

stroking smooth

rejoicing in bright clean freedom once again

like well-trimmed sloop cresting the waves

and beating forward into resplendent challenge

of salt spray wonder

and adventures

as yet unimagined

yet now glistening on the upthrust, rainbow sporting

prow.

Published by The Baron

Retired non-profit administrator.

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