“HELLO, MY NAME IS...”

 

 

Those labels that you gave me:

I dumped them on the floor

As soon as I got home today,

And one by one did sort

Through every category,

While contemplating which

Neat designation might apply

To one so poor and rich

As I, who pinned each label on

Before that empty self

Which from the looking glass assessed

The features of my wealth.

 

“An artist you are not,” I said,

“For Art is too much style;

Philosopher you cannot be,

Because of your denial

Of formulae to those who seek

A system. Neither do

You anything approximate

To teacher or guru,

But somehow are a hybrid growth

Evolved in sun and rain.

You spread your boughs, revealing

What labels cannot name.”

 

I took your laundry tickets

And flushed them down the bowl.

So now when people ask me

What mantra suits my soul,

I say, “Hello, my Name is...”

And peel away my face!

And leave them with a looking glass

To occupy the space.