Poetry, anyone?

[Clive Staples]

Vajradhara--I'm really liking your poetry, both your own and the stuff by Ryodon. Who is that, btw? Man, this is so refreshing compared with the board that I usually post to.

[Vajradhara]

Originally Posted by Clive Staples

Vajradhara--I'm really liking your poetry, both your own and the stuff by Ryodon. Who is that, btw? Man, this is so refreshing compared with the board that I usually post to.

Namaste Clive,

thank you for kind words

here's a bit of info about him...

Taigu Ryokan (1758-1831) (nicknamed Great Fool) lives on as one of Japan's best loved poets, the wise fool who wrote of his humble life with such directness. He is in a tradition of radical Zen poets or "great fools" including China's P'ang Yun (Layman P'ang, 740-811) and Han-shan (Cold Mountain, T'ang Dynasty), and Japan's poets of the Rinzai School: Ikkyu Sojun (Crazy Cloud, 1394-1481) and Hakuin Ekaku (1686-1769). Ryokan had no disciples, ran no temple, and in the eyes of the world was a penniless monk who spent his life in the snow country of Mt. Kugami. He admired most the Soto Zen teachings of Dogen Zenji and the unconventional life and poetry of Zen mountain poet Han-shan. He repeatedly refused to be honored or confined as a "professional" either as a Buddhist priest or a poet. "Who says my poems are poems?/These poems are not poems./ When you can understand this,/ then we can begin to speak of poetry." Ryokan never published a collection of verse while alive. His practice consisted of sitting in zazen meditation, walking in the woods, playing with children, making his daily begging rounds, reading and writing poetry, doing calligraphy, and on occasion drinking wine with friends.

[Vajradhara]

A winter sun rises huge and bright,
lights the south corner of my house.
Eyes closed, I sit warming my back,
ch'i stirring through every muscle,
serene. Soon it's like sipping wine,
like the refreshment of hibernation.
Body genial, its hundred bones clear,
spirit serene, no thoughts anywhere,
I've forgotten where I am, boundless
mind all emptiness rendered whole.

-Po Chui-I

[Vajradhara]

Without desire everything is sufficient.
With seeking, myriad things are impoverished.
Plain vegetables can soothe hunger.
A patched robe is enough to cover this bent old body.
Alone I hike with a deer.
Cheerfully I sing with village children.
The stream under the cliff cleanses my ears.
The pine on the mountaintop fits my heart.

-Ryokan

[Phi]

The First Traslation, The Riddle
Lillith in Sumaria did shelter in a tree
Within an old and hallowed trunk a simple home to be

And where ever went the Lillith was Old Wisdom wont to go
And coiled herself beneath the roots and guarded Lillith so

And high up in the branches the Anzu built her nest
That nothing falling from the sky keep Lillith from her rest

Old Sin, the moon, shone blessings down upon the peaceful scene
And Lillith with her guardians grew contented and serene

Had Inanna left the three in peace and in sweet nature's arms
Would YWHW's man have ever asked the Lillith for her charms?

And had he not then bullied and thought himself her king
The world of men need not have feared the serpent's bite and sting

And the great old dragon-bird might well have lived in peace
Had Adam not disturbed her nest with evil lust/hubris

And Adam's sons, the rabbis, might have better told the story
Than to say that Sin was evil when the moon is ought but glory

If you would know of Lillith's tale it started not with Hebrew
Go back to old Sumeria and knowledge from the Nammu

If you would know whence Lillith came and understand the fall
You must go to the Nammu of the deep abyss of all

(Oracle of the Nammu
The beginning of the cycle now called the "fall of man,"
Is in truth, the fall of Womanpride when Manhubris began.

[Phi]

The Second Translation: The Cycle
And you may see the mystery
of Lillith shut within the tree
Is that the Old Ones put her there
no food scant light and little air

In hopes that she a spirit bright
might die and fall to dust one night
And closed her in with daub and wattle
thinking her bright soul to throttle

For in a cycle out of time
did Lillith rage and enter mind
Of woman angry woman strong
the lifeblood of the Amazon

Who slaked her lust then gelded men
& instilled worship of her ken
With priestesses that prophesied
& men enslaved & woman-pride

And took the babies that were male
& burned them live in fires of Bel
When men were nought but for the lust
and women brought them to the dust

And to the ashes of the pyres
except poor slaves enchained as sires
Imprisoned them and used them bitter
and led them know the woman fitter

To be the One and Only One
and woman great and man anon
Inanna who was goddess/woman
and asked for help to rid the vermin

From a tree in her own yard
might well have known in her hard heart
And using woman's wisdom subtle
set spell on man his mind to muddle

Gilgamesh who wished to please
released the female god Hubris
And following Inanna's quest
freed Lillith serpent and bird/beast

And Lillith angry from her trap
and mad with anguish made a map
Of stars that showed the cycle sad
Of woman-all-good & man-all-bad

But cycles must be balanc-ed
by laws of Nammu still unread
So cycle after Lillith's own
Has left all womankind to moan

Until a cycle pure & sweet
of Equal Knowing can repeat
The wisdom of the All & All:
"Pride riseth high before a fall."

(Oracle of the Nammu
Strive for the cycle of the Phi
Where both the line and circle be
For both the circle and the line
Create life's spiral for all time.

[Ain_Soph]

Emptiness....
...a peaceful void.
Brings no rapture of a song destroyed.
All it takes...
A single note when struck in passion
Will bring the hope.
The music comes from above,
Takes the void....
...fills with love.

The void is filled, no heart is seen.
The music comes as too much for me.
Now the songs will overflow
Drowning out a single call
To plant a love and let it grow
And topple over silent walls.
From the chaos of discordant songs
Comes the words for the poetry.
When the chords come out all wrong
It drives on mad...
...to sit and think...
...and know the truth...
...you will not see.

Open Up!
Now what you see in me:
Destroyed a wall built in pain
To hold in the harmony
That binds the soul from the endless plane.

-by me

[Pathless]

Ah, thank you Vajradhara! I love having a captive audience to post my silly surrealist drivel for.

The Show That Can't Be Cancelled, Happily
9/2/01

You know, I've been pouring over these uniforms
lately, finding colloquialisms of distinction
without which the borders, I think,
would be undefined. Knowledge blows away
and the curtains close over the face of nature,
self-surgeoned. You hadn't believed you were
the actor, had you? Come now. Wake up
in the scratch-mixture of the raw materials.

Ah, you can never stop eating. Shake your head.
Go on, and on and on. You know it,
but try to shrug responsibility into
a comforatable shoulder harness.
It doesn't fit you!
Reach up into the never,
expand your ether nerves
as always.

[Pathless]

Mo' drivel.

Drops In the Bucket
9/5/01

Admit it. You're astounded at all the puzzles that put
into the fixture, and the brevity of the contents come
sweeping out in magnified folds. Cognitive patterns apprehended
by or inside the brain; how you perceive it is determined
by the repeating moments of your youth. Living constantly,
breaking to the building point, crying at the interminable bliss
of prayers receding

Nevermind the moon,
blur beyond an individual or group
and get with the whole movie.

Being this one rolling acorn on the ground, it's
hard to lose sight of my field of vision. Aspire to the
tree sounds like wise words, but I've buckled myself in
for the long ride. The barrows wind down into the gallow
valley. The horseman is infamous among the locals, and they
fear him, carry their hands in towards their chests and
breathe out long prayers, pulling protection against the wheezing
of age, against climate change. A shame.

[Zenda71]

I am enjoying everyone's selections. Insight, indeed!

A few originals, although I don't think they match the caliber of the others posted here. But if it's insight you want ...

====================

Giggly boy,
You make my heart glad.

I know someday you won't
Think I'm amazing
Or endlessly amusing
Or maybe even worth talking to.
You might even hate me.

But I'll remember
How you laughed applesauce at me across the table,
How I stayed up all night with you while you cried,
How you splashed me from the bath tub
And wrapped your arms around me at bedtime,
Sighing the day away,
Your fingers smelling curiously
Like buttered toast.


===========================


In my early days
I asked questions earnestly
Who am I?
What should I do?
What does it all mean?
As if the answer meant life or death.

Now I know
That asking is the journey
And death the answer.

I will take my time.

==============================



They dance
under the sweltering sun
For release, for connection, into the sky.
Shedding the vestiges of their corporeal forms from their shoulders
Like a temporal cloak, irrelevant now.
Becoming
Streaks of color and pinpoint brightness
Merging into the earth.

They are here -- familiar, almost visible.
I can feel them, smell them.
They become visceral in the swaying bodies
Wrapping the dancers in ecstasy, strength, sorrow, and hope.
Transferring their energy into the dancers' sweat
Mounting their souls ...
All that is left is a smear of color
Dribbled along the horizon.

They are here.
They are always here.
But we
are not always looking.

===============================

[Vajradhara]

Listen up, old bad-karma Patrul,
You dweller-in-distraction.

For ages now you've been
Beguiled, entranced, and fooled by appearances.
Are you aware of that? Are you?
Right this very instant, when you're
Under the spell of mistaken perception
You've got to watch out.
Don't let yourself get carried away by this fake and empty life.

Your mind is spinning around
About carrying out a lot of useless projects:
It's a waste! Give it up!
Thinking about the hundred plans you want to accomplish,
With never enough time to finish them,
Just weighs down your mind.

You're completely distracted
By all these projects, which never come to an end,
But keep spreading out more, like ripples in water.
Don't be a fool: for once, just sit tight.

Listening to the teachings—you've already heard hundreds of teachings,
But when you haven't grasped the meaning of even one teaching,
What's the point of more listening?

Reflecting on the teachings—even though you've listened,
If the teachings aren't coming to mind when needed,
What's the point of more reflection? None.

Meditating according to the teachings—
If your meditation practice still isn't curing
The obscuring states of mind—forget about it!

You've added up just how many mantras you've done—
But you aren't accomplishing the kyerim visualizatiion.
You may get the forms of deities nice and clear—
But you're not putting an end to subject and object.
You may tame what appear to be evil spirits and ghosts,
But you're not training the stream of your own mind.

Your four fine sessions of sadhana practice,
So meticulously arranged—
Forget about them.

When you're in a good mood,
Your practice seems to have lots of clarity—
But you just can't relax into it.
When you're depressed,
Your practice is stable enough
But there's no brilliance to it.
As for awareness,
You try to force yourself into a rigpa-like state,
As if stabbing a stake into a target!

When those yogic positions and gazes keep your mind stable
Only by keeping mind tethered—
Forget about them!

Giving high-sounding lectures
Doesn't do your mind-stream any good.
The path of analytical reasoning is precise and acute—
But it's just more delusion, good for nothing goat-****.
The oral instructions are very profound
But not if you don't put them into practice.

Reading over and over those dharma texts
That just occupy your mind and make your eyes sore—
Forget about it!

You beat your little damaru drum—ting, ting—
And your audience thinks it's charming to hear.
You're reciting words about offering up your body,
But you still haven't stopped holding it dear.
You're making your little cymbals go -cling, cling—
Without keeping the ultimate purpose in mind.

All this dharma-practice equipment
That seems so attractive—
Forget about it!

Right now, those students are all studying so very hard,
But in the end, they can't keep it up.

Today, they seem to get the idea,
But later on, there's not a trace left.
Even if one of them manages to learn a little,
He rarely applies his "learning" to his own conduct.

Those elegant dharma disciplines—
Forget about them!

This year, he really cares about you,
Next year, it's not like that.
At first, he seems modest,
Then he grows exalted and pompous.
The more you nurture and cherish him,
The more distant he grows.

These dear friends
Who show such smiling faces to begin with—
Forget about them!

Her smile seems so full of joy—
But who knows if that's really the case?
One time, it's pure pleasure,
Then it's nine months of mental pain.
It might be fine for a month,
But sooner or later, there's trouble.

People teasing; your mind embroiled—
Your lady-friend—
Forget about her!

These endless rounds of conversation
Are just attachment and aversion—
It's just more goat-****, good for nothing at all.
At the time it seems marvellously entertaining,
But really, you're just spreading around stories about other people's mistakes.
Your audience seems to be listening politely,
But then they grow embarrassed for you.

Useless talk that just makes you thirsty—
Forget about it!

Giving teachings on meditation texts
Without yourself having
Gained actual experience through practice,
Is like reciting a dance-manual out loud
And thinking that's the same as actually dancing.

People may be listening to you with devotion,
But it just isn't the real thing.

Sooner or later, when your own actions
Contradict the teachings, you'll feel ashamed.

Just mouthing the words,
Giving dharma explanations that sound so eloquent—
Forget about it!

When you don't have a text, you long for it;
Then when you've finally gotten it, you hardly look at it.

The number of pages seems few enough,
But it's a bit hard to find time to copy them all.
Even if you copied down all the dharma texts on earth,
You wouldn't be satisfied.

Copying down texts is a waste of time
(Unless you get paid)—
So forget about it!

Today, they're happy as clams—
Tomorrow, they're furious.
With all their black moods and white moods,
People are never satisfied.
Or even if they're nice enough,
They may not come through when you really need them,
Disappointing you even more.

All this politeness, keeping up a
Courteous demeanor—
Forget about it!

Worldly and religious work
Is the province of gentlemen.
Patrul, old boy—that's not for you.

Haven't you noticed what always happens?
An old bull, once you've gone to the trouble of borrowing him for his services,
Seems to have absolutely no desire left in him at all—
(Except to go back to sleep).

Be like that—desireless.

Just sleep, eat, piss, ****.
There's nothing else in life that has to be done.

Don't get involved with other things:
They're not the point.

Keep a low profile,
Sleep.

In the triple universe
When you're lower than your company
You should take the low seat.

Should you happen to be the superior one,
Don't get arrogant.

There's no absolute need to have close friends;
You're better off just keeping to yourself.

When you're without any worldly or religious obligations,
Don't keep on longing to acquire some!

If you let go of everything—
Everything, everything—
That's the real point!

~Patrul Rinpoche

[frogsong]

I have wrote a few poems over the years. Here is my contribution to this thread. Enjoy!

Just Visiting

I remember sometimes walking
where I've walked before
when the light was different
And the birdsong extra bright.

But it was the people's faces
They were so clear
their souls shone through
the multitudes
were multitudes of stars
The clustered knots of people
constellations in a soulful sky.

I think I must have loved them then
All the people that I met
perhaps I sat for a little while
Perhaps I hummed a tune.
And then got up to walk again
As I have walked before
After having visited
the white and golden pathways
that thread the City of God.

[Vajradhara]

These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God today. There is no time for them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

[Quesocoatl]

I was recently nominated Poet of the Year by the International Society of Poets. (One of several, of course.)

I won't be attending the convention as it would seem I have more important things to attend to but.. I did manage to snag page one of their book (good enough for me) with this poem here:

Dusk.

Gaze falls, unfettered
Dust
Conspires
The raddled strains of time

Dull blackened pace
The sidewalk rolls
Like clouds before his eyes

Alone and killing insects
Tending rubberbands like vines
Old liar sleeps
He only keeps
That which he's left behind

Child's hoard of bluing pennies
Red reoccuring dream
Drones endless
Molds
Regurgitating
Ghost in his machine

Alive.. but never breathing

Awake ...but not quite listening.

~C. Lee
(circa 2000)

[Quesocoatl]

Corporal Clegg
(as recorded by Pink Floyd)

Corporal Clegg had a wooden leg
He won it in the war, in 1944.
Corporal Clegg had a medal too
In orange, red, and blue
He found it in the zoo.
Dear, dear were they really sad for me?
Dear, dear will they really laugh at me?
Mrs. Clegg, you must be proud of him.
Mrs. Clegg, another drop of gin.
Corporal Clegg umbrella in the rain
He's never been the same
No one is to blame
Corporal Clegg received his medal in a dream
From Her Majesty the queen
His boots were very clean.
Mrs. Clegg, you must be proud of him
Mrs. Clegg, another drop of gin.

~ Waters