why i hate to write poems

I never wrote as much in my own language than

in  this one here.

It is weird, in some ways i reach the same limits

as  with each language and with all words,in other ways

I have to probe so deeply into all communication and meaning

 that i feel at times as much enrichment  as despair.

On the inter-being, the space between two humans filled

with love, touch, joy, compassion and mindfulness as well as

differences, hurt, mistrust and quarrel nothing can be more

difficult than written  language when there are no arms, no voice 

 and no smile  across long periods of time and thousands of miles

and one remains in longing, doubt and loneliness.

And i know well how much writing can construct and destroy.

But  it has no power on life, it can only come out of it

and try to touch another one in the best way possible,

 always with the near  certainty of being

misunderstood or put away in a folder for later.

We all live in our own world and skin, and even with the deepest

feeling and truest presence letters can do nothing but confuse.

So i prefer poetry as my view on and inner experience of  life 

is at root  poetic and flows out of my innocence and unyielding

growth: it is nothing but walking out of the very me.

Only i wonder why i need so many words,

why? One is longing, one is presence-

why must be so much in words?

Life is poetry in suffering, sadness, sharing, love, in dying,

in all ugliness and decay and beauty, in all.

There is no other poetry. It is chaos, incalculable  flow.

It is beautiful and terrible.

It is love in nascendi and consciousness of good and bad.

And if this is true there is a  poetry we cannot want to see.

The poetry of war, abuse, poverty, cruelty, which has seduced

so many and killed so many.

This one calls us to act, to find not to art but to our center

of  kindness, to our way how to be a human on this planet,

not only to travel vaguely like shadows but to participate,

to give our life as in love. To be not Buddha but Bodhisattva,

not to sit next to suffering  but to take our (re)incarnation and 

feeling for others seriously.

And here is the mystery of sacrifice, it is simple,

here is the reason why poetry and art mean nothing

per se if not in doing.

And here is true poetry, in living from inside and in giving.

Now, not tomorrow.

This is why i feel bad writing poems and needing them,

i need them to stay near me and my essence, not to be better,

just to be near me and sometimes a you.