The Poetry of Presence
yagr
Veteran
If there are no objections, I thought that perhaps a poetry thread might be of interest. I've only very recently been introduced to poetry. I've been around it, of course, but it was like a sales-person who I've frequently seen in the offices where I work but I never had any interaction with them and didn't even know their name until a few months ago. My first few dates with poetry have gone well and I'm enjoying making its acquaintance. The thread title is actually an anthology of Zen poems. I don't yet have a copy, but the Zen master where I attend morning meditation has read out out of it many times. So, if you find a poem that you enjoy and think we might too, feel free to add it.
I am
standing in the eye of the primordial forest;
dew-soaked grass crushed beneath bare feet;
the touch of clover flowerheads tickling toes.
Yet, I am neither grass nor clover flowers.
I am
breathing slowly, deeply; inhaling all the wonder;
the scent of wildflowers, damp moss and conifers;
permeating my body and saturating the stillness within.
Yet, I am not wildflower, damp moss or tree.
I am
teased by the swirling upon my tongue as it settles;
tasting the last vestiges of heavy, mist-laden smoke;
bringing moist hints of earthiness and terpenes.
Yet, I am neither the earth nor the majestic pines.
I am
ever-present consciousness filling with nature’s harmony;
a symphony of soft birdsong and distant rushing waters;
accompanied by the verdant forest’s more subtle melodies.
Yet, I am neither birdsong nor the distant rushing river.
I am
opening lids warmed by the rising sun to greet the day;
a rich palette of yellows, purples and greens materialize;
revealing the kaleidoscopic masterpiece on visual canvas.
Yet, I remain aware that I am not a yellow, purple or green.
I am
filled with awe and wonder; mind completely overwhelmed;
until the thought, “I am blessed,” follows “I am undeserving”;
awareness recedes as the echoes of mind obscure the stillness;
and I foolishly believe myself to be blessed and undeserving.
Comments
Great idea @yagr ! Love a good limerick!
Tee Hee!
There I was in the Tavern/pub/bar drinking wine and ambrosia …
https://sufi-tavern.com/category/poetry/
bee cause
I am a yam - not
Yakking about silence
cracked yokes
of the mourning, noone and knight
… and now back to the zennith limericks …
https://www.shortpoems.org/zen-poems/
You are here
Now
What else matters
Don’t blame them, the poet-mystics.
Their job is to wrap up infinite space for you.
Certainly they’ll miss a few corners,
Here and There.
Meshe Mooette: Wrapping Presence
https://www.buddhistinquiry.org/article/when-i-could-do-nothing-buddhism-and-the-practice-of-poetry-in-a-time-of-pandemic/
Abode of the Beloved
Oh Companion That Abode Is Unmatched,
Where My Complete Beloved Is.
In that Place There Is No Happiness or Unhappiness,
No Truth or Untruth
Neither Sin Nor Virtue.
There Is No Day or Night, No Moon or Sun,
There Is Radiance Without Light.
There Is No Knowledge or Meditation
No Repetition of Mantra or Austerities,
Neither Speech Coming From Vedas or Books.
Doing, Not-Doing, Holding, Leaving
All These Are All Lost Too In This Place.
No Home, No Homeless, Neither Outside or Inside,
Micro and Macrocosm Are Non-Existent.
Five Elemental Constituents and the Trinity Are Both Not There
Witnessing Un-struck Shabad Sound is Also Not There.
No Root or Flower, Neither Branch or Seed,
Without a Tree Fruits are Adorning,
Primordial Om Sound, Breath-Synchronized Soham,
This and That - All Are Absent, The Breath Too Unknown
Where the Beloved Is There is Utterly Nothing
Says Kabir I Have Come To Realize.
Whoever Sees My Indicative Sign
Will Accomplish the Goal of Liberation.
— Kabir
Soundwaves vibrate the eardrums... the bird singing, is now me
Light rays float across the eyes, creating images label-free
Consciousness's sense doors begin to open wide
Welcoming the present moment, which the self once denied
Consciousness turns inside out, reflecting on itself
The flowing moment now present, no longer is it stealth
There's still as sense of wonder, but no self in sight
Just the sense doors wide open to life's wonderful delight
This is one of my favourite poems. I really should try to memorise it...
By Leigh Hunt.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
This is one by a famous Dutch poet about getting old, I’ve attempted a translation.
By Vasalis
If there's music for that, I want to hear it:
I want music for old people, who are still powerful,
and plowed with long, deep furrows
and incredulous. Those who know the lust and the pain.
Those who possessed and lost.
And if there is wisdom that is not fatigue,
and brightness, which is not mortification,
I want to see it, I want to hear it.
And otherwise I want to be crazy and cloudy.
Do you folks mind original poetry? Hopefully not, and hopefully this isn't too awful. The form is haiku which may have some connection with Zen...maybe? Anyway...
Morning Fog
Cloak of mystery
Obscures all in illusion
‘Til sun breaks the spell
Early Birds
Crepuscular light
reveals avians feasting
on earthy wrigglers
And on the topic of impermanence, a classic from Shelley...
Ozymandias
We have had a couple of Haiku threads in the past...
Poetry is life
Poets write of life
Other scribble incoherence
Loudly proclaiming their ignorance
To the the deaf
Flashing their ignorance brightly
to the blind
In their arogance
Thinking themselves
Brilliant
If you wish true poetry - look around you and listen.
Life is poetry
All else a poor attempt at mimicry
As for me
I am no poet
I merely doodle blindly
Peace to all
Bravo @Lionduck
We are poems, expressions of being. We are songs of our own creation. We are the site of our seer.
This is the book of the thread title… a book of mindfulness poems.
https://poetryofpresencebook.com/poetry-of-presence/
I Said To The Wanting-Creature Inside Me
I said to the wanting-creature inside me:
What is this river you want to cross?
There are no travelers on the river-road, and no road.
Do you see anyone moving about on that bank, or nesting?
There is no river at all, and no boat, and no boatman.
There is no tow rope either, and no one to pull it.
There is no ground, no sky, no time, no bank, no ford!
And there is no body, and no mind!
Do you believe there is some place that will make the
soul less thirsty?
In that great absence you will find nothing.
Be strong then, and enter into your own body;
there you have a solid place for your feet.
Think about it carefully!
Don't go off somewhere else!
Kabir says this: just throw away all thoughts of
imaginary things,
and stand firm in that which you are.
By: Kabir
Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night
with plans and the simple breath
that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness
as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow
as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness
that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.
By Naomi Shihab Nye
Allow
There is no controlling life.
Try corralling a lightning bolt,
containing a tornado. Dam a
stream and it will create a new
channel. Resist, and the tide
will sweep you off your feet.
Allow, and grace will carry
you to higher ground. The only
safety lies in letting it all in –
the wild and the weak; fear,
fantasies, failures and success.
When loss rips off the doors of
the heart, or sadness veils your
vision with despair, practice
becomes simply bearing the truth.
In the choice to let go of your
known way of being, the whole
world is revealed to your new eyes
By: Danna Faulds
Keeping Quiet
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language,
let's stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves
with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead in winter
and later proves to be alive.
Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
By: Pablo Neruda
Poetry of presence is about that which flows
Like the path of a mountain steam on and on it goes
Or it can be likened to a needle in the grove
Of life's long playing record, always on the move
And thus have I heard (or so it's been said)
This flow carries on when the body is dead
This came to me one day, and I believe you could call it poetry:
The rocks shape the river,
The river shapes the rocks.
Rock on
Rock and roll
… and welcom ✅