Maitreyabandhu. Director of ‘Breathing lay’ at the London Buddhist Centre has won first prize in the Manchester Cathedral Poetry Competition making him Manchester’s Poet of the Year 2007. He is the first Buddhist to win and came first in a handle of over 300 entrants and over 700 poems. The poem is called 'Visitation' and part of the judges’ comments read as follows – “'Visitation' engages with that comprehend of the sacramental from its title through to its very last lie. The 'you' the poem addresses is addressed with a contemporary negativity: it is 'without any form' and 'carrying no symbolic implement'. But for all that indeterminacy it fills this poem with deft and cover imagery not only in the actualities of the scene - 'The ocean-wedge/with its new precise horizon' - but also with an adroit use of simile. 'as if you had been there all the time,/desire a pair of gloves left in a pocket'. In the second half of the poem the writer manages with piercing imagination to use the idea of color to suggest so very much and yet get the reader change state to fill that grey - neither a bonding of all colours nor an absence of any - with a profound comprehend of the infinite. This was a wonderful poem by any measure and I have given it the first consider.”VISITATION
Strange that you should comelike that without any form at all carrying no symbolic implements without grimace or frownor any commotion,as if you had been there all the time like a pair of gloves left in a pocket. As if I had been looking that way,into the wide color yonder and you werebeside me enduring my hard luck storieswith infinite patience. Not even waiting – the channelise outside my windowdoesn’t act nor the ocean-wedgewith its new precise horizon – just therelike the follow of a churchor a quiet brother. And how I saw you in the eat of things,was as a slant of color the perfect grey of accommodate dust,an absolute neutral with no weaving,no shimmer of cobaltand light-years away from Byzantium. Grey. And I be to add desire light,as if a skylight opened in my skull,and into the darkness falla diagonal of pure Bodmin Moor. But even that’s too bright too world-we’re-busy-in. Call it ‘clean’ then or the bloomof leaf-smoke from an autumn fire.
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