Poetry, anyone?

[Quesocoatl]

Originally Posted by faryal

salam,
(read it on the net)

The Last Rainbow Warrior Is Dead

Bitter funerals in silence held
Twelve coffins laid to earth
To dust all human hope to wither
The last rainbow warriors is dead

Ours is the world of tragedy
Ours is the world of grief

For countless,
gray days of dismay
It's been snowing black ashes
upon these devastated lands
Dreadful are the storms
that grind these mountains to sand

Hear the voice of destruction
as it screams through our souls
With the vast storms it walks
Proud destruction in human form

[Zenda71]

Originally Posted by 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

This rang so true with my experience. Thanks for posting, Vajra.

With metta,
Zenda

[pseudonymous]

the first layer of me
was shed like a
maelstrom of emotions
and words that cut and burned
and raged like a wild fire
at me and from me
were
hate hateful hatred
all defensive
and all repetition
until it burned away
all semblances of me
and I knew I felt nothing

the second layer of me
was shed like a **** heap
of inflated words
and definitions
upon definitions
lip service in place of experience
shown the light of day
by the experiencial fact
that I did not know anything

the third layer of me
was shed like the skin
of the snake that lived
in the tree of knowledge
of good and evil
the skin falling to the ground
like pages of books
I have lived and read them all
and come away
knowing I am nothing

the fourth layer of me
is an empty cup
drunk dry three times

© 2003 DC Vision

[Karehndiujo Mohmid]

Now you've departed and gone to the Unseen-
On what strange ways you've gone from our world!
You shook your feathers and you broke the cage;
You flew away, far, to the soul's own world.
You were a hawk, encaged by Mrs. World.
You heard the drum and flew to Where-no-place.
You were a nightingale among the owls-
The garden's scent came; you went to the rose.
You suffered headache from these bitter dregs-
At last you went to the eternal tavern...
The rose flees from the autumn-daring rose
That you went on in the autumnal wind!
You fell like rain on the terrestrial roof,
Run here and there, escaping through the spout.
Be silent-there is no more pain of speaking:
You are protected by a loving friend!

~ Rumi

[Vajradhara]

refrigerator magnet poetry:




Who am I?
Dream Body is death
Enough!
See Sun as Moon
and Heaven as Earth
How?
Stablize the spirit
Keep Virtue intact
Calm the mind
Truth is sublime.

[IlluSionS667]

MOONLIGHT SONATA

1 a.m., somewhere in May
bright moonlight illuminates
a small teenage bedroom
giant posters of bigbreasted women
hang proudly over a yellow wall
10-inch model sportscars
are carefully planted on a black wooden shelf
a large expensive stereo
with CD-changer and double-deck tape
is playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

There's a picture of a little dog
hanging next to an American flag
and on the desk in the corner
lie some recently bought heavy metal CD's
some pictures of a school trip two weeks ago
some precious old comic books
and a small Mickey Mouse shaped desk lamp
Next to the desk stands a backpack
filled with books of chemistry,
physics, geometry and algebra.

And on the bed placed in the middle
lies the half-naked body of a 16-year old boy
with a yawning black hole in the side of his head
covered with seemingly gallons of blood
Next to him lies a smoking pistol,
a torn picture of a 16-year old girl
and a small paper with some quickly written words:
All I need is love
dot dot
bloodstain

IlluSionS667, 10 - 04 - 2000

[Karehndiujo Mohmid]

This is one of my favourites:
http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/stc/Co...t_Mariner.html

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

(We were forced to read it in middle school.)

[Pathless]

Hafiz wrote these. He was a Sufi kind of guy. The translations are by Daniel Ladinsky. Thank you, Daniel Ladinsky.

When The Violin

When
The violin
Can forgive the past

It starts singing.

When the violin can stop worrying
About the future

You will become
Such a drunk laughing nuisance

That God
Will then lean down
And start combing you into
His
Hair.

When the violin can forgive
Every wound caused by
Others

The heart starts
Singing.



You're It

God
Disguised
As a myriad things and
Playing a game
Of tag

Has kissed you and said,
"You're it--

I mean, you're Really IT!"

Now
It does not matter
What you believe or feel

For something wonderful,

Major-league Wonderful
Is someday going
To

Happen.



The Sun Never Says

Even
After
All this time
The sun never says to the earth,

"You owe
Me."

Look
What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the
Whole
Sky.

[Pathless]

Solitude Coupled With the Many


With dead beer in hand, I go nowhere.
Adrift on the wind and currents of a local river,
I swim adrift. With head held aloft,
but not in pride, I swear in wonder
at the airplanes riding high overhead.

Five stars or countless stars--who cares?
How many cycles have to be counted
until it matters and we breathe free?
Counting all my doubts, I burn my useless
carcass on a pyre I call dumb luck.

In this moment, I smile. How many times
did my master with the most Holy name
strike me? Now we are laughing together.
The meadow is burning. It is burning
and we are laughing. All the while,

All the while miracles course through my veins
like the most common sand. It occurs to me
like a common thought that I am standing alone.
Here, on the shore. Here, running along the beach
with the waves crashing against my legs, I am alone.

--"pathless"

[Vajradhara]

I've built a grass hut where there's nothing of value.
After eating, I relax and enjoy a nap.
When it was completed, fresh weeds appeared.
Now it's been lived in - covered by weeds.

The person in the hut lives here calmly,
Not stuck to inside, outside, or in between.
Places worldly people live, he doesn't live.
Realms worldly people love, he doesn't love.

Though the hut is small, it includes the entire world.
In ten square feet, an old man illumines forms and their nature.
A Great Vehicle bodhisattva trusts without doubt.
The middling or lowly can't help wondering;
Will this hut perish or not?

Perishable or not, the original master is present,
not dwelling south or north, east or west.
Firmly based on steadiness, it can't be surpassed.
A shining window below the green pines --
Jade palaces or vermilion towers can't compare with it.

Just sitting with head covered, all things are at rest.
Thus, this mountain monk doesn't understand at all.
Living here he no longer works to get free.
Who would proudly arrange seats, trying to entice guests?

Turn around the light to shine within, then just return.
The vast inconceivable source can't be faced or turned away from.
Meet the ancestral teachers, be familiar with their instruction,
Bind grasses to build a hut, and don't give up.

Let go of hundreds of years and relax completely.
Open your hands and walk, innocent.
Thousands of words, myriad interpretations,
Are only to free you from obstructions.
If you want to know the undying person in the hut,
Don't separate from this skin bag here and now.

[Postmaster]

I really love much of the stuff I've read on here, some of things I read have taken me away if only for a brief moment.

[Postmaster]

Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago.

You’re a Flower

Yet still in this same world we die

You’re a living thing as I

We both see different worlds

You have never lied

So pure there you lay

If only you see your beauty as I do

That’s the price you pay for eternal peace

[Pathless]

Smiling Across the Room to You

Was it something that entered you
or something that was always there?
Across the room, sitting cross-legged
on the couch, my friend smokes
something handmade and handed down.
It flows like syrup out of me,
emptying the spit of spirit like a
humdrum claptrap ooze.

Days ago, this place was simple
and shaped like the roots of trees,
pure action and reaction, but now
the sound goes on, the nonsense of static
spreading like a wing, swinging
from stone to upturned stone, pushing
past a muscular shoulder of road into
what white noise is measured here.

And it is measured in beats, clicks and claps
and clips of film snipped and reeling,
snarling whips and pieces of what is real.
In between the pages of a dictionary,
pressed into planting like a flowering seed,
the surrealist dips his hair into ink
as if he were some ancient and drunk
Taoist, wielding pliancy like a harmless weapon.

Clearly, there was nothing special about the sun
that day in my memory, as it bent down
like a shot of the worst liquor--but not at
all like that. No, it was clear and free,
a shapeless fountain that flew upward and out
and how he forgot his name to gain it
that nameless day in July. So temperate and
so mild and then the rain fell as if it were
a sympathetic sensation. There were
echoes of insects thrumming inside a connected
skull, skeleton blooming its electric candlefire
there in the pouring rainstorm.

"So, what happened?"
No one there to ask.
A big, frightful grin,
a shuddering curtain, a quiver, a strong,
strong cup of coffee that cut like
language itself back up to some original hole
which yawned and fell, endlessly pouring, endlessly
falling in love.

[Pathless]

Alright, y'all. Don't let me monopolize this thread with my surrealist drivel--and I will if you let me! Please, someone, post something!

Ocean Roll On


I am drunk and the music has tangled me up
like it has so many years ago. Times before
have me floored like a flower exploring
the space between pages, like an MC on a mic
poppin questions to the Absolute.

In the netherworld comic strip of my memory,
I am peeling an onion, an ongoing onion made
of mercury and sand. And somewhere between
here and there, you and I open our hands
and they are empty, as empty as Aquarius.

When you opened me, you never told anyone
that I was serious, did you? The deck of cards
was stacked before it was cut, shuffled with
salt and somewhere along the coast a man
is running on and on at the mouth.

In a small, unaware country, a woman sits and
waits. Where there was once a dock, there
is only a contrived daisy resting its way through
its growth cycle, a temporary burst of sunshine
rocking the gravel of the ground

And when it stuns us, we shout, "What have we done?"
Because, like all wisdom, we know that we ourselves
are to blame, and if we can smile at that,
we can smile at that and be happy in simplicity.
Yet, I strive for something more and so

Make my world sick in the process. I’m not talking
a vomiting sort of sickness, some retching disease,
but perhaps a slow rot, sweet like a cherry, diluted
slightly so as to produce a flatulent smell
like a flat tire. If meaning is random,

Then we have spoken too much philosophy
in close quarters, dissected too many pale frogs
under the moonlight of sterile amps, cracked
so many fibrous tentacles to reveal their tender
insides like sushi. And that is outrageous.

But when you stop and float there, when you really
look at it like you are doing now, what opens up
is a simple screen door, then it bangs shut
again, leaving you behind, miles behind, under
stretching dotted lines like stretch marks,

Those colorless and affectless lines on the road
that bore us. Before, when I mentioned salt water,
what caught in my throat was the emotion.
A figure moves me and I stutter with my hand,
an impotent gesture, perverse, poignant, irrelevant,

And striking. The proverbial they flipped the century
like a turtle shell and when they were done,
they cut it in half like a mild stick of butter.
Somewhere, we know there is a mountain–
a clear mountain of blue.

But there is a blue bird singing a simple sound
over the green ocean that unfolds below.
Around the city the hammer falls and explains
a peculiar human game that grows from the notion
that we are separate and we are separate

While fences separate us, they keep us apart
from strong cables colored green and stretchy
like the stalks of daisies. Daylight strikes
like a benevolent weapon, automatic, compassionate,
and this is my idea of God, one single point

Exploding; one innocent eye that watches as if it were
a hawk overflowing with hilarious emotion,
tumbling somersaults of laughter, summer turning to fall
and back again through spring, through the frozen sheet
or dismal rain of winter, the overcast tea-colored sky

Brimming overhead, hiding that secret grin.
Tell me what you see, tell me what you mean.
When you outstretch your hand like that, would you
like me to take it? These mixed signals confuse me,
so much smoke, crushed waste in an ashtray

Waiting for a redeemer. What concrete, fictional mythology
we have, and what wonder! Where can I sign up
for touch? Who teaches love these days?
For in empty classrooms they sit, our children,
blindfolded by ridiculous wars, the bigotry

Of it all offending their fresh eyes. But when
I stretch out my lips to speak, the imagery seems
so silly and slick, split like a bad painting
under artificial light, like some elementary newspaper
collage, letters collected together in a ransom message.

If we are fortunate, that melts and buckles back to nature,
where proverbs are unsung and there is a quality
of unconcern. A thick curtain has been thrown back
over everything, and that moment of laughter
hurls itself across the rolling hills.

But certainly I misspeak, and love the grammatical errors
in a sensual way. The sense of the movie is nonsense,
as he would have it, pondering fields of lilies like some
boisterous philosopher, a blind individual shucking
salty sea creatures, digging in, really reaching for meaning

Where there is a full bowl of nothing. So, dip in the ink!
Revel in the peelings of a sense of urgency. Somewhere,
a zealot kneels in fervent prayer; somewhere, a sinner
sinks in the lust of self-destruction, smiling at the progress
he is making. His teeth are crooked

And through them we can see the windows of eternity flapping
like some mad teenager’s jaw, with all the residual effects
of chewing tobacco and too much pizza sliding across his tongue.
Several years later, he has a child of his own, and thus
the mystery goes on, spinning and straight.

[Lightkeeper]

Originally Posted by Vajradhara

A NIGHT OF SOLITUDE


In the still night by the vacant window,
wrapped in monk's robe I sit in meditation,
navel and nostrils lined up straight,
ears paired to the slope of shoulders.
Window whitens-- the moon comes up;
rain's stopped, but drops go on dripping.
Wonderful--the mood of this moment--
distant, vast, known to me only!

~Ryokan

Thank you for the beautiful words. It reminds of a little poem I wrote in the mood of a moment.

Sundance
The river hurries,
bears furry
fish scurry.
At peace
in a perfect world.