ROBERT PHILLIPS
BUCOLICS
MOP
& NEST
i.
Neighbors drape their mop
across
the fence. It hangs,
worn-out, passed-out hag,
gray hair hanging down
above
the daffodil bed,
offensive to any eye.
ii.
Each day a robin
alights
on it, pecks out
strands to weave in his nest—
testament to mans’
absence
of aesthetics, robins’
deft resourcefulness.
WISTERIA
& FENCE
i.
Without the fence, I’m grounded.
With the fence I soar, I bloom,
blossoms spilling like grapes,
lavendering the air with perfume.
With a wild love I wind
tendrils, adorn bare boards,
reaching, clinging, twining.
I grasp for my support.
ii.
This climber takes advantage.
Its roots are undermining me.
Can’t you see I’m already leaning
due to its ascendancy?
Some day I’ll simply be crushed.
It’s like affairs of the heart:
there’s the lover and the beloved.
For God’s sake, cut the upstart dead!
Hollowed
out, clay makes a pot.
Where
pot’s not is where it’s useful.
—Lao
Tzu Te Ching
(Translated
by Le Guin)
When I’m doing nothing
is when I’m most
productive. The mind
empty as a pot
begins to fill—
images, ideas, plots.
Air travel is ideal.
Strapped in by strangers,
unoccupied for hours,
simply have a drink
and think. The note
book begins to fill.
Hotel rooms work well.
Sniffling air-conditioner,
a bed, a chair, a desk—
and only me, a figure
in a Hopper window.
Perfect for writing.
