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Poetry... maybe influenced by Buddhism... maybe not... suggestions?
I'm interested in getting into reading poetry. I never took a poetry class, barely studied any literature in college and own no collections of poetry. My favorite poem, to my limited knowledge & to date, is "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg.
Does anyone have any suggestions? I am a bit more interested in a collection of multiple writers but I am open to all suggestions. It could be Buddhist influenced, or not.
Part of why I ask is my wife and I are watching "The Great Debaters" and the characters' lives seem so enriched by poetry... I'm envious of having such beauty in one's life.
Does anyone have any suggestions? I am a bit more interested in a collection of multiple writers but I am open to all suggestions. It could be Buddhist influenced, or not.
Part of why I ask is my wife and I are watching "The Great Debaters" and the characters' lives seem so enriched by poetry... I'm envious of having such beauty in one's life.
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And furthermore, I don't recommend Jack Kerouac's "Dharma Bums" for anything approximating real Buddhism either- not even as a snapshot of early "American" Buddhism.
My brief answer is don't waste your time on it. Take it with you if you have a whole lot of time on your hands, like you plan to get stuck in an airport or something, but prioritize it waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back on your reading list. Unless you want to know about the early Beatnik movement, in which case Kerouac and Ginsberg are must-reads, but only for that purpose. As serious literature or Buddhist literature it's just not happening.
Maybe try Robert Bly and find names associated with him- I don't think it's Buddhist but I remember it to be good reading. And I'm thinking maybe Robert Creely too, and Gary Snyder. The main character in Dharma Bums is based on Gary Snyder, and it might be worthwhile for that reason, but I don't think so. Better to read Gary Snyder's own poetry, and then find the names of people that he associated with- except of course for Kerouac and Ginsberg. I'm sorry I'm so down on Ginsberg tonight, but for me anything after Howl was a real disappointment, and as I look back Howl needs to be taken in the perspective of other better writers of that time period.
IMHO.
With that avatar you'd better be giving things away for free...:D
Gertrude Stein is a good suggestion though.
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Maybe these Zendo
http://villagezendo.org/2010/11/study-text-winter-2010/
When we realize actuality,
There is no distinction between mind and thing
And the path to hell instantly vanishes.
If this is a lie to fool the world,
My tongue may be cut out forever.
Once we awaken to the Tathagata-Zen,
The six noble deeds and the ten thousand good actions
Are already complete within us.
In our dream we see the six levels of illusion clearly;
After we awaken the whole universe is empty.
No bad fortune, no good fortune, no loss, no gain;
Never seek such things in eternal serenity.
For years the dusty mirror has gone uncleaned,
Now let us polish it completely, once and for all.
Who has no-thought? Who is not-born?
If we are truly not-born,
We are not un-born either.
Ask a robot if this is not so.
How can we realize ourselves
By virtuous deeds or by seeking the Buddha?
http://www.hsuyun.org/chan/en/home.html
To be honest I find many modern poets obscure, yet when one does hit the nail on the head, more real for me than most of the poets from pre WW1 (some sort of watershed) I love Philip Larkin but perhaps we each have to find our own connections.
Someone mentioned Basho, and I do love his "Narrow Road to the Deep North".
There are various anthologies, I suppose another google would help!
Not really sure just what you would call "Buddhist" poetry, though you have not specified that anyway.
I always find the following "Buddhist" (if we want to use the word), but others may disagree...
For the garden is the only place there is, but you will not
find it
Until you have looked everywhere and found nowhere
that is not a desert. (W.H.Auden)
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. (T.S.Eliot)
Then we have the whimsical fancies of Billy Collins, "Shovelling Snow with Buddha"....
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.
All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.
After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?
Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.
Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.
Anyway, hot soup calls and I must go. Happy trawling....