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Brehm, John

 
9798890700520: Just This: New and Selected Poems

Synopsis

A powerful collection of poems from the bestselling creator of The Poetry of Impermanence, Mindfulness, and Joy.

In Just This, beloved poet John Brehm returns with a rich and inclusive collection of his best poems. As he faces his own mortality and health challenges, Brehm offers us a moving, elegant, and refreshingly honest look at moments of beauty, pain, and insight in his own life. The collection also contains a substantial selection of poems from his previous books, allowing us to see the evolution of his work over the past twenty years, as his Dharma practice and his poetry practice become more integrated.

For readers, the lively, accessible poems in Just This may come to feel like companions—offering wisdom, comfort, and the blessed relief of laughter—as they walk through the ten thousand joys and sorrows of their own lives.

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À propos de l'auteur

John Brehm is the author of four previous books of poetry: Sea of Faith, Help Is on the Way, No Day at the Beach, and Dharma Talk. He has published two anthologies, The Poetry of Impermanence, Mindfulness, and Joy and The Poetry of Grief, Gratitude, and Reverence, as well as a book of essays, The Dharma of Poetry: How Poems Can Deepen Your Spiritual Practice and Open You to Joy. He lives in Portland, Oregon, and can be found online at johnbrehmpoet.com.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

ONCOLOGY WAITING ROOM

Into a vase of wilted purple roses

the receptionist drops

an aspirin.
 

VISITATION WITH THE RADIOLOGIST

“It’s not a good disease to have,” my doctor says. 

I admire his grim honesty, I admire it

greatly. “Indolent, but it usually does progress.” 

Which sounds about right for me.

Two years of misdiagnosed torment

and now this. I ask him about suicide. 

He nods. “It happens,” he says. 

When I tell him I’ve seriously considered it, 

he says my disease would qualify me

for Death with Dignity, because

it’s incurable, though I might not meet 

the six-months-to-live criteria, 

just the unendurable pain part. Which will 

come back after I’ve exhausted all the treatments.  

“But they might make an exception

if it’s a choice between bending the rules

and blowing your brains out.” 

This is my doctor telling the truth, filters off.

I slide down into it as into a warm bath. 

I want to stay here forever, ask him every question. 

Maybe death is speaking through him.

What’s it like on the other side? I want to ask. 

Once you’re dead, do you stop worrying

about what people think of you?

Are you allowed to intervene in the affairs

of the living, offer invisible advice now and then,

a nudge on the arm? How shall I live

with the time I have left is the real question. 

I don’t ask it but let it blossom

into the room. This, this conversation,

this way of speaking, turns me 

toward an answer.

 

MEDITATION 

The tingling in my feet 

when I let my 

attention fall to them—

what is that? 

 

A distant call from 

deep in the earth itself? 

 

A reminder 

of where I’m from

and where I’m headed? 

 

The pull of gravity, as

a form of love? 

 

Or “gravity, the silent killer,” 

as someone once said,

someone likely

now dead.

 

“SUMMER STORM”

summer storm

the same thunder

I heard as a child

 

“LOOKING UP”

looking up

   from looking something up—

      the whole world still there

 

“I FORGIVE MYSELF”

I forgive myself

          for failing

     to forgive myself

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