Living is no laughing matter: you must live with great seriousness like a squirrel, for example- I mean without looking for something beyond and above living, I mean living must be your whole occupation. Living is no laughing matter: you must take it seriously, so much so and to such a degree that, for example, your hands tied behind your back, your back to the wall, or else in a laboratory in your white coat and safety glasses, you can die for people- even for people whose faces you've never seen, even though you know living is the most real, the most beautiful thing. I mean, you must take living so seriously that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees- and not for your children, either, but because although you fear death you don't believe it, because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

		  II

Let's say you're seriously ill, need surgery - which is to say we might not get from the white table. Even though it's impossible not to feel sad about going a little too soon, we'll still laugh at the jokes being told, we'll look out the window to see it's raining, or still wait anxiously for the latest newscast ... Let's say we're at the front- for something worth fighting for, say. There, in the first offensive, on that very day, we might fall on our face, dead. We'll know this with a curious anger, but we'll still worry ourselves to death about the outcome of the war, which could last years. Let's say we're in prison and close to fifty, and we have eighteen more years, say, before the iron doors will open. We'll still live with the outside, with its people and animals, struggle and wind- I mean with the outside beyond the walls. I mean, however and wherever we are, we must live as if we will never die.

	 III

This earth will grow cold, a star among stars and one of the smallest, a gilded mote on blue velvet- I mean this, our great earth. This earth will grow cold one day, not like a block of ice or a dead cloud even but like an empty walnut it will roll along in pitch-black space ... You must grieve for this right now -you have to feel this sorrow now- for the world must be loved this much if you're going to say ``I lived'' ...

I Wind shakes the grass. Its upright posture Is torn apart. A voice awakens The ashes. The news is written On vanishing dew.

II It encircles the reeds and flows Along the two banks of the stream. The reflection on the water Has no light. Suddenly a splash. The shadow of a face Descends like night on stone.

III Leaning against the wind, he stands. Grass withers between his brows. The stars descend into the midnight river, Emptied by the storm. He who has never worn shoes Has gone far away but is still inaudibly near.

           (translated by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung)

Relax. This won't last long. Or if it does, or if the lines make you sleepy or bored, give in to sleep, turn on the T.V., deal the cards. This poem is built to withstand such things. Its feelings cannot be hurt. They exist somewhere in the poet, and I am far away. Pick it up anytime. Start it in the middle if you wish. It is as approachable as melodrama, and can offer you violence if it is violence you like. Look, there's a man on a sidewalk; the way his leg is quivering he'll never be the same again. This is your poem and I know you're busy at the office or the kids are into your last nerve. Maybe it's sex you've always wanted. Well, they lie together like the party's unbuttoned coats, slumped on the bed waiting for drunken arms to move them. I don't think you want me to go on; everyone has his expectations, but this is a poem for the entire family. Right now, Budweiser is dripping from a waterfall, deodorants are hissing into armpits of people you resemble, and the two lovers are dressing now, saying farewell. I don't know what music this poem can come up with, but clearly it's needed. For it's apparent they will never see each other again and we need music for this because there was never music when he or she left you standing on the corner. You see, I want this poem to be nicer than life. I want you to look at it when anxiety zigzags your stomach and the last tranquilizer is gone and you need someone to tell you I'll be here when you want me like the sound inside a shell. The poem is saying that to you now. But don't give anything for this poem. It doesn't expect much. It will never say more than listening can explain. Just keep it in your attache case or in your house. And if you're not asleep by now, or bored beyond sense, the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry. Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar. There's an awful shrug and, suddenly, You're beautiful for as long as you live.