"Poems from Sakon Nakhon breaks from the Western tradition of navel-gazing “I” - focused poetry, using its scant four first-person poems as exceptions that underscore a broader rule of selflessness. "
Review: Poems from Sakon Nakhon
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oems from Sakon Nakhon, a bilingual collection of 91 free-verse poems by Ajarn David, an American expatriate immersed in Thailand for over two decades, offers a striking departure from the introspective “I” that dominates Western poetry. Of these 91 poems, only five — #56, #65, #74, #77, and #91 — explicitly use the first-person “I.”
This scarcity stands in sharp contrast to the self-focused tradition of Western verse, where poets often dwell on personal emotion and identity. Instead, Ajarn David crafts a selfless, universal poetry that aligns with the philosophical, spiritual, and Buddhist themes woven throughout the collection, prioritizing collective experience over individual ego.
The “I” in Western Poetry: A Legacy of Navel-Gazing
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estern poetry has a long history of centering the self, often using the first person to explore personal emotion, identity, and experience.
William Wordsworth’s The Prelude (1850) exemplifies this, as the poet’s “I” roams nature to muse on his own soul: “I wandered lonely as a cloud.” Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself (1855) takes it further, exulting, “I celebrate myself, and sing myself,” in a sprawling ode to the individual.
The 20th-century confessional poets like Sylvia Plath, with lines like “I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me” from “Elm,” turn inward to excavate personal pain. This navel-gazing — intimate and often powerful— anchors Western poetry in the poet’s psyche, making the “I” a lens for self-exploration.
Poems from Sakon Nakhon flips this script. With 86 Thai poems avoiding the “I,” Ajarn David sidesteps the Western penchant for self-absorption, offering a voice that gazes outward rather than inward, resonating with Buddhist notions of non-self (anatta).
The Five Exceptions: A Restrained “I”
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he five poems that do use “I” serve as exceptions that underscore the collection’s selfless approach, keeping the first person minimal and outward-looking rather than indulgent.
In Poem #56, “In my quiet moments / I think of you,” the speaker briefly notes an unwanted thought about another, but the poem pivots to the disruption of silence, not personal angst. Poem #65, “The spider / on the bathroom wall,” describes a huntsman spider, ending with “I let it be,” a choice that hints at a broader lesson in patience rather than self-reflection.
In Poem #74, “There are only a few things I can be,” the “I” pledges support to another, deflecting inward focus. Poem #77 opens with “When I think of Sakon Nakhon,” but quickly turns to the region’s indigo hues and mysterious paths, not the speaker’s inner world.
Poem #91’s “Tonight I dreamed of a fierce monsoon” concludes with writing “my last poem,” a quiet act of letting go.
Compare this to, say, Wordsworth’s lingering “I” or Whitman’s exuberant self-celebration. Ajarn David’s minimal use of first person feels less like a spotlight on the poet and more like a humble lens through which the world is observed, then released.
A Universal Lens: Beyond the Ego
T his shift away from “I” aligns Poems from Sakon Nakhon with a selfless, universal poetry that echoes Buddhist philosophy. Buddhism teaches the dissolution of the ego, urging practitioners to see beyond the individual to the interdependent web of existence.
Poems like #5 (“The first noble truth of the Buddha”) articulate this directly: “all life is suffering, but we live in a world of no absolutes, where everything’s entwined with its opposite.” Here, the absence of “I” lets the truth stand alone, inviting readers to contemplate suffering as a shared condition, not a personal lament.
Similarly, #19 (“Khao Phansa”) advises a daily “rains retreat” of the mind — “three minutes a day, you let your concerns fall away” — without anchoring it to the poet’s own practice. The focus is on the reader, the collective “you,” fostering a sense of shared spiritual possibility.
This universality contrasts sharply with Western poetry’s tendency to mine the poet’s psyche, as seen in Plath’s intensely personal “I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.”
Poems of Spirituality Versus Self-Indulgence
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he book’s spiritual leanings — rooted in Thai Buddhism and local mysticism — further explain this selfless approach. Poems like #76 (“Ajarn Mun could see the end was near”) honor the monk’s choice to die in the city to spare the forest from mourners, a narrative of sacrifice told without “I.”
Poem #89 (“What is the Thai way?”) celebrates “sanook” (fun) as “a high calling,” explicitly rejecting ego in favor of joy — a stark departure from the brooding “I” of Western romantics like Lord Byron.
Even when nature appears, as in #1 (“When the rains come to Sakon Nakhon”), the poem describes a vibrant, living world — waterfalls, fish, farmers — without inserting the poet’s personal musings. This stands in contrast to Wordsworth, who often uses nature as a mirror for his own soul.
Ajarn David’s poetry feels like an offering, not a confession.
Final Thoughts
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oems from Sakon Nakhon sheds the navel-gazing “I” of Western poetry, limiting its use to five understated instances among 91 poems. This departure — rooted in Buddhist non-self and Thai universality — creates a refreshing, outward-looking voice.
By sidelining the ego, Ajarn David crafts a collection that feels expansive and inclusive, resonating with the Buddhist and spiritual ideas woven throughout — non-self, interdependence, and the pursuit of universal truth.
For readers weary of poetry’s inward turn, this book is a breath of fresh air, a testament to the power of looking outward rather than within.
