Poem Without a Category

Trailing my stick I go down to the garden edge,

call to a monk to go out the pine gate,

A cup of tea with my mother,

looking at each other, enjoying our tea together.

In the deep lanes, few people in sight;

the dog barks when anyone comes or goes.

Fall floods have washed away the planks of the bridge;

shouldering our sandals, we wade the narrow stream.

By the roadside, a small pavilion

where there used to be a little hill:

it helps out our hermit mood;

country poems pile one sheet on another.

I dabble in the flow, delighted by the shallowness of the stream,

gaze at the flagging, admiring how firm the stones are.

The point in life is to know what's enough - 

why envy those otherworld immortals?

With the happiness held in one inch-square heart

you can fill the whole space between heaven and earth.

Gensei (1623-1668)

image:  Peter Bowers

When I Was Young and Poor

When I was young and poor,

when little was much,

when I was nimble and never tired,

and the hours of the day were deep and long,

where was the end that was already committed?

Where was the flesh that thinned and stiffened?

Nowhere, nowhere! 

Just the gift of forgetfulness gracious and kind

while I ran up hills and drank the wind - 

time out of mind.

Mary Oliver

image:  Peter Bowers

morning haiku

is-ness of dawn

happening now

no waiting for this

...

listening trees

alive with birdsong

smiling everywhere

...

crow breathing

song of aliveness

no thought of the next line

...

waking up

smiling at the dawn

that never arrived

tushti

images:  Peter Bowers

The Opening of Eyes

That day I saw beneath the dark clouds

The passing light over the water

And I heard the voice of the world speak out

I knew then as I have before

Life is no passing memory of what has been

Nor the remaining pages of a great book

Waiting to be read

It is the opening of eyes long closed

It is the vision of far off things

Seen for the silence they hold

It is the heart after years of secret conversing

Speaking out loud in the clear air

It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees

Before the lit bush

It is the man throwing away his shoes

As if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished

Opened at last

Fallen in love

With solid ground

David Whyte

image: Peter Bowers

The Bright Field

I  have seen the sun break through

to illuminate a small field

for a while,  and gone my way

and forgotten it.  But that was the pearl 

of great price, the one field that had

treasure in it.  I realize now

that I must give all that I have

to possess it.  Life is not hurrying 

on to a receding future, nor hankering after

an imagined past.  It is the turning

aside like Moses to the miracle 

of the lit bush, to a brightness

that seemed as transitory as your youth

once, but is the eternity that awaits you. 

R.S. Thomas 

image:  Peter Bowers

Lore

Job Davies, eighty-five

Winters old, and still alive

After the slow poison

And treachery of the seasons.

Miserable?  Kick my arse! 

It needs more than the rain's hearse,

Wind drawn to pull me off

The great perch of my laugh.

What's living but courage?

Paunch full of hot porridge

Nerves strengthened with tea,

Peat-black, dawn found me

Mowing where the grass grew,

Bearded with golden dew.

Rhythm of the long scythe

Kept this tall frame lithe

What to do?  Stay green.

Never mind the machine,

Whose fuel is human souls

Live large, man, and dream small. 

R.S. Thomas

image:  Peter Bowers

rumi love bites

let the soup simmer with the lid on

be quiet

...

let silence be the art

you practice

...

the whole of existence is 

a mirror whose essence 

you are

...

listen, and feel the beauty of your separation

the unsayable absence

...

rumi 

image:  peter bowers

unexpected silence

the troubled philosopher

finds nothing to believe in

and in unexpected silence

just smiles

at the still unanswered questions

nirmala

There is Some Kiss

There is some kiss we want

with our whole lives,

the touch of spirit on the body.

Seawater begs the pearl

to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately 

it needs some wild darling.

At night, I open the window

and ask the moon to come

and press its face against mine.

Breathe into me. 

Close the language door

and open the love-window.

The moon won't use the door, 

only the window.

Rumi

image:  Peter Bowers

Inside This River

Inside this river there is a moon

which is not a reflection.

From the river bottom the moon speaks.

I travel in continuous conversation

with the river as it goes.

Whatever is above

and seemingly outside this river

is actually in it. 

Merge with it, in here or out there, 

as you please.

This is the river of rivers

and the beautiful silence of endless talking.

Rumi

image:  Peter Bowers

Shoun & His Mother

Shoun became a teacher of Soto Zen.  When he was still a student his father passed away, leaving him to care for his old mother.

Whenever Shoun went to a meditation hall he always took his mother with him.  Since she accompanied  him, when he visited monasteries he could not live with the monks.  So he would build a little house and care for her there.  He would copy sutras, Buddhist verses, and in this manner receive a few coins for food.

When Shoun bought fish for his mother, the people would scoff at him, for a monk is not supposed to eat fish.  But Shoun did not mind.   His mother, however, was hurt to see others laugh at her son.  Finally she told Shoun:  "I think I will become a nun.  I can be a vegetarian too."  She did, and they studied together.

Shoun was fond of music and was a master of the harp, which his mother also played.  On full moon nights they used to play together.

One night a young lady passed by their house and heard music.  Deeply touched, she invited Shoun to visit her the next evening and play.  He accepted the invitation.  A few days later he met the young lady on the street and thanked her for her hospitality.  Others laughed at him.  He had visited the house of a woman of the streets.

One day Shoun left for a distant temple to deliver a lecture.  A few months afterwards he returned home to find his mother dead.  Friends had not known where to reach him, so the funeral was then in progress.

Shoun walked up and hit the coffin with his staff.  "Mother, your son has returned," he said.

"I am glad to see you have returned, son," he answered for his mother.

"Yes, I'm glad too," Shoun responded.  Then he announced to the people about him:  "The funeral ceremony is over.  You may bury the body."

When Shoun was old he knew his end was approaching.  He asked his disciples to gather around him in the morning, telling them he was going to pass on at noon.  Burning incense before the picture of his mother and his old teacher, he wrote a poem:


For fifty-six years I lived as best I could, 
Making my way in this world.
Now the rain has ended, the clouds are clearing,
The blue sky has a full moon.

His disciples gathered about him, reciting a sutra, and Shoun passed on during the invocation.





Zen Flesh Zen Bones
Photo:  Peter Bowers

Look at a Fountain

Those with no energy have gone.

You that remain, do you know

who you are?  How many?

Can you look at a fountain and become water?

Can you recognize the great self

and so enjoy your individual selves?

Do you run from joy?

Perhaps the lion

should not flee the fox.

Let your loving and your soul 

burn up in this candle.

Let a new life come.

The friend is at the door.

You are the lock his key fits.

You are a piece of candy,

the choice words of a poem,

the friend and the swallow

of silence here at the end.

Rumi

Photo:  Peter Bowers

There is a Wonderful Game

There is a game we should play,

And it goes like this:

We hold hands and look into each other's eyes

And scan each other's face.

Then I say,

"Now tell me a difference you see between us."

And you might respond,

"Hafiz, your nose is ten times bigger then mine!"

Then I would say,

"Yes, my dear, almost ten times!"

But let's keep playing.

Let's go deeper,

Go deeper.

For if we do,

Our spirits will embrace

And interweave.

Our union will be so glorious

That even God

Will not be able to tell us apart.

There is a wonderful game

We should play with everyone

And it goes like this......

Hafiz

Photo:  Peter Bowers