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While We've Still Got Feet
"Budbill is the perfect antidote for those who find contemporary poetry distanced and obscure."--American Libraries
- GenresPoetry
170 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 1, 2005
5 people are currently reading
127 people want to read
About the author
David Budbill
31 books44 followersDAVID BUDBILL was born in 1940 in Cleveland, Ohio to a streetcar driver and a minister’s daughter. In 1969 he and his wife, Lois Eby, moved from New York City to Northern Vermont where they lived together for 47 years until his death in 2016. David’s colorful life included being a track star in high school, attending Union Theological Seminary in New York City, teaching at Lincoln University (a historically Black college in Pennsylvania), laboring on a Christmas tree farm, playing myriad musical instruments, working for racial and economic justice, tending a large vegetable garden, cutting his own wood, riding a mountain bike, and writing a staggering amount of creative material. David had a gift with the written word, with storytelling, and with striking the heart of the matter with astonishing clarity and simplicity.
During his prolific career David authored eight books of poems, seven plays, two novels, a collection of short stories, two picture books for children, dozens of essays, and the libretto for an opera. He also served as an occasional commentator on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered. His honors include an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters from New England College, a Guggenheim Fellowship in Poetry, and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. David loved to write but he also loved to perform and did so in many venues—from schools and prisons in Vermont to avant-garde performance spaces in New York City—often with bassist William Parker and other musical collaborators.
Life in rural Vermont provided much of the inspiration for David’s work, be it cutting wood, putting a vegetable garden to bed, a bird’s song, or the struggles of working folks. He was keenly attuned to the world’s suffering and had a passion for social justice, particularly issues of race and class, that infused much of his work. David lived his life to the fullest—aware of his relative privilege but determined to enjoy and savor what he had, particularly the simple things: a neatly stacked woodpile, a good meal and lively conversation, a cup of tea. He lived with incredible love for this life—for humanity and for the natural world around him.
During his prolific career David authored eight books of poems, seven plays, two novels, a collection of short stories, two picture books for children, dozens of essays, and the libretto for an opera. He also served as an occasional commentator on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered. His honors include an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters from New England College, a Guggenheim Fellowship in Poetry, and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. David loved to write but he also loved to perform and did so in many venues—from schools and prisons in Vermont to avant-garde performance spaces in New York City—often with bassist William Parker and other musical collaborators.
Life in rural Vermont provided much of the inspiration for David’s work, be it cutting wood, putting a vegetable garden to bed, a bird’s song, or the struggles of working folks. He was keenly attuned to the world’s suffering and had a passion for social justice, particularly issues of race and class, that infused much of his work. David lived his life to the fullest—aware of his relative privilege but determined to enjoy and savor what he had, particularly the simple things: a neatly stacked woodpile, a good meal and lively conversation, a cup of tea. He lived with incredible love for this life—for humanity and for the natural world around him.
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Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews
April 5, 2017
T'was only a week ago I read David Budbill's Moment to Moment. I didn't want the moment to end, so I inter-library loaned a few more, reading While We've Still Got Feet in two days.
It's very similar to the first. Short poems. Simple style. Constant allusions to ancient Chinese (Han Shan, especially) and Japanese (Ryōkan, especially) poets. Bud almost acts like he's a reincarnation of these guys, due to his heading out for the mountains (in this case, Judevine Mt. in Vermont's Green Mtn. chain) for a life of seclusion. Um, with his wife. And plenty of visitors. With the occasional visit to New York City.
OK, so there's a touch of Thoreau's Walden to it in that respect. Ole Henry David's shack on the pond was only a mile or so from home, and he could visit Mums and Dad any day of the week. But I digress. Back to the reincarnation thing. Here's a poem that visits the theme:
Different Names, the Same Person
More than a thousand years ago when I lived in China,
my name was Han Shan. And there were more of me
before that.
And plenty after also. Two hundred years ago,
in Japan, I called myself Ryōkan.
All of us:
independent, hating literary artifice and arrogance,
yet neither misanthropic nor taciturn,
friendly and talkative rather, but
preferring to live alone, in solitude, removed
and in the wilderness, keeping to that kind
of emptiness.
We've always been around, in lots of different places,
in every age. It's just, only some of us
get known.
There's one of us, I'm sure,
in your neighborhood
right now.
For a touch of his naturalistic bent, there's this:
Winter: Tonight: Sunset
Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first
through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop
and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.
I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening
a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky.
Very nice. As Mark Twain said of classics: "My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. (Fortunately) everybody drinks water." I feel this away about Budbill's poetry. They hydrate the body poetic. No nonsense. And his poignant flair for lamenting old age and impending death hits a sweet spot, too. Who wants to give it up?
Finally, to hammer home the Chinese connection, Budbill writes poems where he references the "Emperor," just as Han Shan and friends did so many years ago. Only in Bud's case, the "Emperor" is the President (of the Disunited States of America), and the bad reputations of both are not far apart:
What We Need
The Emperor,
his bullies
and henchmen
terrorize the world
every day,
which is why
every day
we need
a little poem
of kindness,
a small song
of peace
a brief moment
of joy.
Hear, hear! I say. Time for more moments and more Budbill....
It's very similar to the first. Short poems. Simple style. Constant allusions to ancient Chinese (Han Shan, especially) and Japanese (Ryōkan, especially) poets. Bud almost acts like he's a reincarnation of these guys, due to his heading out for the mountains (in this case, Judevine Mt. in Vermont's Green Mtn. chain) for a life of seclusion. Um, with his wife. And plenty of visitors. With the occasional visit to New York City.
OK, so there's a touch of Thoreau's Walden to it in that respect. Ole Henry David's shack on the pond was only a mile or so from home, and he could visit Mums and Dad any day of the week. But I digress. Back to the reincarnation thing. Here's a poem that visits the theme:
Different Names, the Same Person
More than a thousand years ago when I lived in China,
my name was Han Shan. And there were more of me
before that.
And plenty after also. Two hundred years ago,
in Japan, I called myself Ryōkan.
All of us:
independent, hating literary artifice and arrogance,
yet neither misanthropic nor taciturn,
friendly and talkative rather, but
preferring to live alone, in solitude, removed
and in the wilderness, keeping to that kind
of emptiness.
We've always been around, in lots of different places,
in every age. It's just, only some of us
get known.
There's one of us, I'm sure,
in your neighborhood
right now.
For a touch of his naturalistic bent, there's this:
Winter: Tonight: Sunset
Tonight at sunset walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first
through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop
and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue,
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.
I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening
a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky.
Very nice. As Mark Twain said of classics: "My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. (Fortunately) everybody drinks water." I feel this away about Budbill's poetry. They hydrate the body poetic. No nonsense. And his poignant flair for lamenting old age and impending death hits a sweet spot, too. Who wants to give it up?
Finally, to hammer home the Chinese connection, Budbill writes poems where he references the "Emperor," just as Han Shan and friends did so many years ago. Only in Bud's case, the "Emperor" is the President (of the Disunited States of America), and the bad reputations of both are not far apart:
What We Need
The Emperor,
his bullies
and henchmen
terrorize the world
every day,
which is why
every day
we need
a little poem
of kindness,
a small song
of peace
a brief moment
of joy.
Hear, hear! I say. Time for more moments and more Budbill....
May 10, 2017
I've had a hard time trying to figure out why I do not love Budbill’s poems as much as I expected. I love Classical Chinese poetry. In fact, that, ironically, is why I feel his work's a bit off. For me, his emulation goes too far. The Chinese poems are timeless, but he restates them rather than bringing their essence into modern perspective (at least in most poems). The similarities are too contrived. This especially bothers me when he uses Chinese poets’ names and “the Emperor” as though he were a time traveler. I think poet Jane Hirshfield does a better job of making us feel the zen moment without forgetting our own time and place.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed this book. I especially like the moments when he admits his own hermitage is very different from what the ancients experienced. He still enjoys modern conveniences and trips to the big city for dining and entertainment. Not surprisingly, this is one of my favorite poems:
“What Would I Do Without Her?
or
The Hypocrite Tells the Truth for Once
I play my flutes and write my poems
about my purity and solitude
up here on Judevine Mountain
while she balances the checkbook
and worries about where the next
dollar is coming from while I play
my flutes and write my poems
about my purity and solitude
up here on Judevine Mountain."
Nevertheless, I enjoyed this book. I especially like the moments when he admits his own hermitage is very different from what the ancients experienced. He still enjoys modern conveniences and trips to the big city for dining and entertainment. Not surprisingly, this is one of my favorite poems:
“What Would I Do Without Her?
or
The Hypocrite Tells the Truth for Once
I play my flutes and write my poems
about my purity and solitude
up here on Judevine Mountain
while she balances the checkbook
and worries about where the next
dollar is coming from while I play
my flutes and write my poems
about my purity and solitude
up here on Judevine Mountain."
June 9, 2020
"Tonight at sunset, walking on the snowy road,
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first
through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop
and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.
I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening,
a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky."
-- "Winter: Tonight: Sunset"
my shoes crunching on the frozen gravel, first
through the woods, then out into the open fields
past a couple of trailers and some pickup trucks, I stop
and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue
green, purple, yellow, gray, all at once and everywhere.
I pause in this moment at the beginning of my old age
and I say a prayer of gratitude for getting to this evening,
a prayer for being here, today, now, alive
in this life, in this evening, under this sky."
-- "Winter: Tonight: Sunset"
September 7, 2023
I love David Budbill's poetry. Heavily influenced by ancient Asian poets such as Han Shan, he writes about the struggles of living a simple, reclusive life while still being drawn to the contemporary world and civilization, fighting the ambitious urge. Simple poems of awesome power and important ideas.
A sample of poems from this book, via the Writer's Almanac:
Winter is the Best Time
The Woodcutter Changes His Mind
Smoke and Ash
A sample of poems from this book, via the Writer's Almanac:
Winter is the Best Time
The Woodcutter Changes His Mind
Smoke and Ash
May 13, 2023
4 1/2 stars
September 16, 2024
My summary: Ignore the evil emperor as best you can, enjoy where you live, look up the ancient Chinese poets for inspiration, and go out dancing while you’ve still got feet!
December 31, 2021
Another gem by Budbill. Lots of thoughts on our impending deaths; simplicity; the turning seasons; hard work in preparation for a winter's rest; enjoying community with friends, neighbors, and strangers juxtaposed alongside a deep and growing desire and need for solitude as well; humorous, self-deprecating cracks on his (our) human frailties of pride, lust, or anger; all this and much more to pause us in our tracks and prod us to think about our brief time on this wonderfully complex planet, an existence filled with surprises, joy and pain.
Read
April 12, 2013811.54 B9272w 2005
March 28, 2008
By a modern-day Cold Mountain
November 17, 2008
A lot of fun to read. Many in a form similar to the translated Chinese poets.
December 5, 2022
Another great book by David Budbill. Like Tumbling Toward the End, it is largely influenced by ancient poetry, and largely focuses on the inevitable death that Budbill is inching closer toward as he ages. Budbill accepts this, and in his poetry he emphasizes that he wants to enjoy life -- nature, friendship, the pleasures of flesh and food, and so on -- while he is still alive. "While we've still got feet," as he says. He accepts death, but for now, death can wait.
And because of this theme, I (oddly) liken Budbill's poetry to the later comics of Harvey Pekar, another writer with an acute sense of his impending demise. Pekar's comics and Budbill's poetry belie that their respective acceptances of death are reluctant. Pekar was downright afraid to die; Budbill simply just doesn't want to die. Here, he seems to want to hold onto the present, stretch it out and make it last -- every day he wants just one more day in the sun, or in the snow, on his mountain, with his flute and his books and his tea and his family.
Keeping this perspective in the back of your mind, it makes reading their respective work all the more bittersweet, given that both have passed, somewhat prematurely. Pekar died from an accidental overdose of antidepressants (following his third cancer diagnosis) at 70 in the summer of 2010; Budbill passed from Parkinson's disease at the age of 76, a little more than six years ago as of this writing.
Budbill's poems in this collection seem to have been mostly written in 2003, about 20 years ago, when he was still healthy. Not that long ago, but long ago enough. I like to imagine him sitting up there in his self-made home on a real mountain with a pretend name ("Judevine"), sipping tea and thinking up poems, and waking up just like I do every day; by reading these books, in a sense, he still is; in a realer sense, he is not, and the world is worse for it, as I wish he could have continued to write and produce simple poems on the simple pleasures and complex wrongs of this world well into his 90s or 100s; unfortunately, it was not to be.
After all that work!
A bucket of ash
and smoke
gone
into the air.
And because of this theme, I (oddly) liken Budbill's poetry to the later comics of Harvey Pekar, another writer with an acute sense of his impending demise. Pekar's comics and Budbill's poetry belie that their respective acceptances of death are reluctant. Pekar was downright afraid to die; Budbill simply just doesn't want to die. Here, he seems to want to hold onto the present, stretch it out and make it last -- every day he wants just one more day in the sun, or in the snow, on his mountain, with his flute and his books and his tea and his family.
Keeping this perspective in the back of your mind, it makes reading their respective work all the more bittersweet, given that both have passed, somewhat prematurely. Pekar died from an accidental overdose of antidepressants (following his third cancer diagnosis) at 70 in the summer of 2010; Budbill passed from Parkinson's disease at the age of 76, a little more than six years ago as of this writing.
Budbill's poems in this collection seem to have been mostly written in 2003, about 20 years ago, when he was still healthy. Not that long ago, but long ago enough. I like to imagine him sitting up there in his self-made home on a real mountain with a pretend name ("Judevine"), sipping tea and thinking up poems, and waking up just like I do every day; by reading these books, in a sense, he still is; in a realer sense, he is not, and the world is worse for it, as I wish he could have continued to write and produce simple poems on the simple pleasures and complex wrongs of this world well into his 90s or 100s; unfortunately, it was not to be.
After all that work!
A bucket of ash
and smoke
gone
into the air.
August 11, 2023
I recently found this poet and have quickly come to enjoy his work. This is the second book of his poetry I have read. I guess everyone has poetry that speaks to them, if we look for it. This poet is mine. I moved from Florida to the mountains in North Carolina and have found the peace that was so obvious to Budbill in his Vermont mountain area. Unfortunately, I did not do it early in my life but forty-five years after moving to Florida as an young married man. The spirit in which David Budbill writes is all around me.
February 2, 2018
Traditions of spirituality and a sense of wilderness speak clearly through Budbill's poems, a volume that I expect to dip into and continue to read meditatively. Budbill's poetry offers a sense of the present moment and eternity and the paradox of rulers and the ruled dealing with the same constraints.
January 10, 2018
Magnificent. This is the kind of poetry book everybody should read in their lifetime. To remind them of what’s important in life. All I could think of is ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’ when finishing this. It’s what I needed. It humbles you, it brings you back to the ground, it inspires you.
March 14, 2017
Excellent. Will read his other books now.
Swede
Swede
December 4, 2022
Zen and the art of mountain-retreat maintenance.
June 25, 2025
Not as consistently satisfying as Budbill's masterpiece, Moment to Moment, but there is still plenty to savor here.
January 31, 2015
It is unfortunate that this collection is my introduction to Budbill's poetry, because what I found here is disappointingly simple and shallow. A good poem--at least for this reader--should invite the reader to linger and muse about what he or she finds in the lines within the poem. Far too often in this collection I found too little. An example:
"What We Need"
The Emperor,
his bullies
and henchmen
terrorize the world
every day,
which is why
every day
we need
a little poem of kindness,
a small song
of peace
a brief moment
of joy.
It's the poetry equivalent of Thomas Kincaid's paintings.
"What We Need"
The Emperor,
his bullies
and henchmen
terrorize the world
every day,
which is why
every day
we need
a little poem of kindness,
a small song
of peace
a brief moment
of joy.
It's the poetry equivalent of Thomas Kincaid's paintings.
January 22, 2017
This is the first book of Budbill's that I have read. I enjoy reading the translations of some of the old Chinese hermit poets so I was curious to read this. I can't say that I read every poem, it didn't grab me in the way some books of poetry do but there are some that speak to me especially a poem called This Shining Moment in the Now this is certainly what we strive for in meditation, and as he describes it exactly what I find with good honest physical labor "when I am all body and no mind"
August 12, 2010
A few of the poems here are simple and pointless, but then a few like "Going Home" on page 78, "Look at Her Now," on Page 76 ,and "April 3, 2003 and "Love Song" on pages 70 and 71 are poignant, life-giving, and inspiring. A keeper.
April 1, 2017
Exuberant, surprising, wry, honest, life affirming, and highly entertaining.
Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews