Friday, February 24, 2017


I was zonin' this morning watching some steel cut oats dance around in a pot while the coffee maker gurgled, and thought of this David Budbill poem I had on my fridge for a long time.  

Bugs in a Bowl

Han Shan, that great and crazy, wonder-filled Chinese poet of a thousand years ago, said:

We're just like bugs in a bowl. All day going around never leaving their bowl.

I say, That's right! Every day climbing up
the steep sides, sliding back.

Over and over again. Around and around.
Up and back down.

Sit in the bottom of the bowl, head in your hands,
cry, moan, feel sorry for yourself.

Or. Look around. See your fellow bugs.
Walk around.

Say, Hey, how you doin'?
Say, Nice Bowl!

from Moment to Moment: Poems of a Mountain Recluse (Copper Canyon Press). 
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