Since it is National Poetry Month I have been attempting to write one new poem for each day of the month. So far I am maintaining my output despite my other workloads. Because poetry is not only one of my favorite avocations, it is also one of my favorite occupations.
Though some of my new poems have been necessarily short and/or very simple because I have been pressed for time given my other pursuits.
I will not be posting every new poem I write here (on Wyrdwend) because a couple have turned out to be really good indeed and because I shall enter them in contests or otherwise seek publication for those. For instance last Saturday (4/8/17) I wrote one entitled The Carpentry of Dead Men which I thought to be particularly good.
But I will try to post at least one of the poems I have written every week.
With that I give you this poem for this week’s First Verse: The Master and the Guru.
Inspired by something a friend said about “modern gurus and experts” and their never-ending advice.
Enjoy, and have a good evening folks.
Also, and less I be remiss, thank you for your readership and on-going support.
THE MASTER AND THE GURU
The Master took me to his forge
A hammer placed he in my hand
The guru with his tongue disgorged
His tales of wondrous, foreign lands,
The Master bade me strike the steel
To work upon it what I will
The guru told me, “sit and learn,”
As he spoke in fitful turns,
And when I erred throughout my Work
The Master’s hand made me his clerk
But when the guru spoke of truth
He said all things are thus, “for-sooth!”
The Master bade me work again
When failure stained my heart within
The guru said, “Do not lose heart,
All truths to you are but a part (apart)…”
The Master said, “You’ve learned enough,
Now practice til you perfect-up!”
I asked him when that day would come
He laughed at me and sent me home,
My guru, on the other hand
Mentioned not his future plans,
Nor did he bid me practice more
“Just wait awhile, I do implore –
For always there is more to learn…”
In that he marqued, and most profound,
In endless thought I’ve never found
How it is we may surround
An end to knowing, to that ground
Plowed and furrowed, waiting still
For seeds to grow, for crops to till –
The mind it is a hollow hall
Fathomless, without recall
The guru knows this, yes he does
And warrants then his work because,
The Master makes, the guru speaks
The one insists, the other seeks
Solutions that can never end
In anything, but will suspend
That day you come to know at last
That knowing is not action
In this world…