Enlightened
Bruce McRae

Buddha in the trenches,
shell-shocked, gnawing a biscuit,
rats in his hair.

Buddha among the landmines,
counting his fingers,
ears peeling with explosions.

He who was and is.
Sergeant Gautama in the mud.
The incorporeal lotus
urging his forces forward.

We are alive before we are born!
he cries into a wind of lead.
We are all light’s children.

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Bruce McRae’s Comments

When asked to write comments on my poems I’m usually at a loss for words. Explaining a poem is much like explaining a joke. The joke is no longer funny and it stops making sense. If necessary to understanding the poem/joke it suggests the poem/joke didn’t work and needs further mention.

I can tell you all my poems are written in bed in the early hours of morning, and that I’m egged on, usually, by who and what I’m reading at the time. I’ve written over 12,000 poems, give or take, and I haven’t a clue as to the origins of these particular poems. I do know that I wrote them last year, but after that … I’m lucky I recall my name and remember the way home each day.

They do border on what they call magical realism, if that’s any help. Other than that—enjoy!

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