Poetry

Change nurtures
The shades and folds of kindly harmonies
Where a full tapestry makes port,
Woven from the quiet rituals of shared days.

But time, being the master of all change,
In every living thing,
In its own time
Wrenches a baleful sound,
Intrudes on innocence,
Darkening what comes after.

Scoured of every comfort,
The empty lands of the heart
Flinch.
Life’s passing has declared an untimely triumph
Over nature’s season-end.

Reflection sets in – a bitter servant –
Tormenting the dulling beat of all lament.
The shriven soul hesitates,
Barely releasing its grip
On the cold whisper of the sobbing, heaving scythe.

Heavy harvest drips melancholy
Into the restless, grieving soil
Where a seed lingers,
Cradling the memory of precious moments,
Weaving the promise of new harmonies
Through the waiting lands of a still open heart.

Copyright    Shelagh Gardiner 2008

 

 

{ 0 comments }

Read the full article...

Observing passing objects dissolve in liquid time,
Meandering poems emerging through the rhythm of the rhyme,

May, a month of blooming, transient flowers depart,
Arise, compassion in the lotus of your heart,
Nowhere is everywhere if you lose your strength,
Inward looking thoughts have immeasurable length,

Perhaps an education built on better floors,
Abandoning coercion, deception behind locked doors,
Divide the momentary friends, like pieces of a pie,
Mixed pictures of perfection are sure to make you cry,
Effort will reward itself, procrastination is a drug,

Have you ever witnessed a man become a slug?
Under starlit memories a petal will unfurl,
May, a month of blooming for every boy and girl.

{ 0 comments }

Read the full article...

These poems are impressions gleaned from my experience of going on retreat and pilgrimage to Sikkim.

I cannot speak of the retreat as it is clear that each retreatant has their own individual retreat, their own journey and it is a deeply personal path. I can say however that, seven months on, I find that, far from fading, the resonance held from the experience continues to sustain me. Companions have shared that they too feel that this resonance seems to become increasingly internalised.

You may look at a photograph of Sikkim and you will see what a very lovely place it is, of mountains and rivers, forests and waterfalls, – but this will not give you the experience of ‘being there’.

Poets try to communicate a taste of the experience itself. We use words in an attempt to paint what we see and experience with our inner eye and what we feel in our heart. This is a process of remembering, reflecting and translating images and impressions into word-pictures, through the use of metaphors.

Of course, words are themselves only metaphors and so one cannot transmit the true reality of the experience, but as they are the tools we use in our attempts to communicate that which actually exists in a territory beyond words (I think of music here, the music of bird song and of rivers running!) I offer these poems – in the hope that they may provide at least a glimpse, a flavour, of that beautiful, deeply spiritual place, which I hold so deeply in my heart, – Sikkim.

I dedicate these meagre ramblings to Ringu Tulku Rinpoche,
in deep gratitude for his teachings and his blessings.

Bodhicharya Retreat Centre
Sikkim
31 Oct 2010

The Dakini poem was written on the roof of the Bodhicharya Retreat Centre, inspired by a chance sighting of a huge and brilliantly radiant shooting star which seemed not to burn out on entering the Earth’s atmosphere, but to land somewhere in the valley below.

 

 

  The Sikkim poem was written on our way to Darjeeling after the retreat, when we walked, on a sparklingly beautiful morning, down the steep bankside, over a suspension footbridge thrown across the great river, to visit the Dakini’s cave. 

Photos by Anne Pargiter and Peter Ford

About the Author:  Marion describes herself as an ‘aspiring’ poet.

{ 0 comments }

Read the full article...

THE BEGGAR (BIKHARI) 

 1

Look! – here comes a beggar, limping with every step,         
            His eyes raised, pathetic, adept.
A dense sadness in the silence, the light!
            The string of life he plucks is worn from ages kept.
In the yard with the sunshine bright!
            On one point a round tear wept,
            The history of a lifetime’s plight.

2

Look! – look at the shreds and rags.
            Ah!  Time unforsaking,
Wretched and broken on life’s worn flags
            Shivering and shaking!
He spreads his bag, threadbare, flaking,
            The fellow, forlorn, sags!

3

Look at the frost formed over the years
            Fallen upon his head!
Look at the runnels formed by the tears
            Meander down a face that peers;
And etched on that chest is spread
            The cracks and fissures fierce.

4

Limping and shaking he comes to a stop,
            A silent lament in the air to drop
From out of his heart, distressed and broken,
            The lifeless staff his weight to prop,
He rends the heart in a voice soft spoken,
            “A handful of rice!”
The one cry of a whole life,
            “One handful of rice!”

5

Thus one man before others
            From his heart doth cry.
Begging from his brothers
            One handful of compassion deep
In the courtyard light
            This gloomy sight!
The grieving fern doth sigh
            Amid the laughter of the roses bright.

6

Who is this child?  Who can this be?
            Whose father was poor?
Which mother held you on her knee? –
            Two burning lamps for eyes, speaking, sure.
Whose hope opened the eyes, turned them free
            To the eyes of the sun and the moon?
Why has it faded?  Why has it withered?
            Why has this life’s light dimmed so soon?

7

Before Lord Buddha’s eyes
            This very same beggar came.
The same form, the same sighs
            Expressing a heart-felt pain.
From him passion filled the seas,
            His very words sent waves abreeze:
Humbled Bali, proud and vain:
            In such guise brought him to his knees.

8

Fallen from the blackest clouds
            To enter into darker shrouds,
Is he deity or beggar?
            Buddha speaks – his words pierce the heart,
Wandering from house to house, yard to yard,
            Now speaking with a voice of pain:
His heart in sorrow cowed.

9

From age to age the ne’er–ending tears
Distilled, repeated through the years.
Through countless, opening lips He speaks!
            He comes upon the earth
            And from his brother begs for alms -
           The beggar in the yard.

                        Laxmi Prasad Devkota

Translated from the Nepali by Albert Harris

About Albert, the translator

Born in the Gorbals in 1947 into an immigrant Jewish community, there was little choice but for me  to be submersed in the culture of the Lithuanian and Estonian families who had come to Glasgow along with my grandparents to escape the pogroms in those countries.   

Fast forward thirty odd years along various roads, paths and cul-de-sacs, I arrived at Kirtipur Campus in Kathmandu, Nepal, the main higher educational establishment of Tribhuvan University.  There I was accorded a scholarship award, regally dubbed the Shri Paach Maharaj Dhiraj Mahendra Bir Bikram Shah Dev Award for Foreign Students.  This meagre stipend was augmented by my teaching English for Special Purposes to Newar thanka painters amongst others. 

My main tasks at campus were to learn the Nepalese language and translate the poetry of Laxmi Prasad Devkota (1909-1959), the bard of Nepal. 

While living in Bhaktapur, one of the three ancient capitals of Nepal, I had eventually come to the dharma via Judaism, Hinduism and atheism.  The profundities expounded by the four noble truths impressed upon me a depth of understanding which belied the apparent simplicity of ideas expressed by the statements and, in a sense, allowed me to discard the accumulation of mere spiritual knowledge accrued through the years to arrive at an experiential verisimilitude of truth. 

One of the poems I translated was Bikhari, expressing the motif of suffering as a condition of being human. The poem also evokes an understanding of ‘compassion’ for all sentient beings.  The theme of Bikhari is aptly expressed in the following verse from the The Way of the Bodhisattva by Shantideva which I currently help to transcribe for the shedra, from the teachings of Ringu Tulku Rinpoche : 

“For sentient beings, poor and destitute,

May I become a treasure ever – plentiful,

And lie before them closely in their reach,

A varied source of all that they might need.”

      [Part 3, verse 10]

Devkota, I’m certain, had that capacity to feel deeply about the suffering of his fellow man, visibly evident in the beggar’s demeanour. 

                    

{ 4 comments }

Read the full article...

The intention of all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas
is none other than to benefit all.
If when relating to great masters
I get a different result
it’s only because of my past deeds

The nature of all phenomena is empty
and as a mirage all appears.
Depending on many causes and conditions
also my emotions, confusion and doubts arise.

Using the platform of wisdom
I’ll surf the waves of delusion
and crossing the ocean of ignorance
reach the golden beach of Dharmakaya.

May I always find in future lives,
teachers compassionate and wise.
May those teachers show patience
with someone like me.

About the author:

Maribel first met Ringu Tulku in the Autumn of  1997 in Barcelona and at that time was not a Buddhist. The following year, when Rinpoche returned to Barcelona, she took refuge with him in the Kagyu Samye Dzong there.  After that, Maribel contributed to his work by  translating the first Lazy Lama booklet into Spanish and travelled from time to time to receive his teachings here and there. She is presently living in Barcelona and works as a teacher in a primary school.  
She follows the study programme on the online shedra and feels very happy with it. This poem was the fruit of the inspiration that she received this year from receiving Rinpoche’s teachings in Barcelona in May.
 

{ 0 comments }

Read the full article...

Smell that wet sand, breathe it in
This sand is mostly ground up quartz
Ground for millions upon millions of years

Quartz is the stuff of old time radios
Quartz crystals dangle in sunny windows
Quartz is the support of gold
Gold grows on quartz, covering it like skin                  

There is rose quartz strewn about
Rose quartz known to heal the heart
All ground together in the salty sea

Smell that wet and sacred sand
Noses understand the language of quartz

Cape Breton Island
May 2011 (Cape Breton is where Madeline does her retreats.)

About the Author : Madeline first encountered the Dharma in 1966.  She practiced in the Rinzai tradition of Zen Buddhism for the first ten years, and then moved to Boulder, Colorado to study with Trungpa Rinpoche.  In the late 70s and early 80s Trungpa Rinpoche encouraged many of his students to move to Nova Scotia, Canada, and to make that location the centre of the Shambhala organization.  Madeline accepted that invitation and has been at home in Nova Scotia since 1982.

{ 0 comments }

Read the full article...

My heart got so broken
Like a delicate glass
shattered into pieces
and the life water
spilled to the ground

I became so dry

But as time went by
I found the love-glue
and glued it back together
Now I enjoy the real heart wine
that can only be drunk
from a broken glass

{ 1 comment }

Read the full article...

This is very very fine
Top o’ the line
Top o’ the line
Talk to my friends any time
Day or night, any time

Hang together vajra lovers
Hang together, don’t let go
Turbulences always happen
Don’t let go, don’t let go

There never was
There never is
This path of ours is joy
It has its own logic, fractal logic
Our path is colourful and curvy                                 

After spending time in limbo                  
It is apparent; there is no choice          
Following bright lights
Exploding with colour 
Following the path
The path of joy
Letting go will be required 
Letting go is recommended                                      
Thinking this way, once again
I feel familiar crazy wisdom 

Lovers stand steady
Lovers hold firm
Keep your eyes clear
Your voices are sweet
Your smiles eclipse the sun and the moon
Your tears wash away the eons of karma
Your blood holds the messages of the ages
Your skin is a safe place to land
Your teeth and nails are sharp enough
Your heartbeats are inscrutable 

This is very very fine
The love we share is
Top o’ the line

Madeline
December 2009
Nova Scotia

About the Author : Madeline first encountered the Dharma in 1966.  She practiced in the Rinzai tradition of Zen Buddhism for the first ten years, and then moved to Boulder, Colorado to study with Trungpa Rinpoche.  In the late 70s and early 80s Trungpa Rinpoche encouraged many of his students to move to Nova Scotia, Canada, and to make that location the centre of the Shambhala organization.  Madeline accepted that invitation and has been at home in Nova Scotia since 1982.

{ 1 comment }

Read the full article...

Lifetimes after lifetimes
It could look like that
Rolling by like mala beads
Death and birth
Birth and death
One before the other
Then another after
Now one leads
Now one follows
All in their appointed orders
Good karma, bad karma
Leading and following
Ticking past time
One and the same

Pleasing sounds of clicking beads
Holy fragrance of lifetimes past
Released by thousand year old incense
Rising on thin streams of smoke
The discipline of every moment
Visions of smoke and butter lamps
The guilelessness of hearts’ simplicity
Faith is the heart of what we do

Whose nose is it that smells this now
Whose mouth and stomach starved for food
Whose skin burned and whose skin shivered
Whose eyes cry tears both then and now
Whose bottom presses rocks for comfort
Whose sweat washes the fruits for the children
Whose voices cry for others’ pain
Many pitches merge in devotion
Many voices chant with us

A great ocean of devotion
Filled with love of many disciples
Holding together on windy seas
Praying not to lose their shape
Cracking up on rocky shores
Of panic stricken continents
Not to let the hot sun drink our moisture
We need the moisture to make our tears

Where’s the bliss I heard about
I counted the beads and did the chants
Where is it?  Why can’t I find it?
Is it before each moment of lonliness?
I take refuge in Buddha’s wisdom
                                           
To follow the path of devotion and wisdom
Which was laid out for us so clearly
A red ribbon road of endless curves
Blood red, we have to face it
Even if the day is lightless
Even if the night is darkless
With every being known or unknown
With every being seen or unseen
Open to all we do not know
We have faith in Buddha’s wisdom

Madeline
January 2010
Nova Scotia

{ 1 comment }

Read the full article...

Sadhu by Tim Barrow

by mfordscot on March 12, 2011

in Poetry

Old sadhu of Kathmandu
Where few stop to know him
Man of wisdom there amongst
His braided locks that melted into
Never ending worn out beard.

Old sadhu follows in footsteps
Of those who dwelt before him
To continue where no disciples tread
Or anyone to point toward
His outward simplistic raggedness.

Old sadhu seated beneath
A stupa of two thousand whitewashed years
With eyes of a Buddha guarded by elephants
Astride steps of feet and sweat
And prayer wheels turning in the sun.

Old sadhu always there
His hair bleached in wisdom
With wrinkled skin and coiling legs
Upon a blackened fraying mat
Amongst dusty passers by in chatter.

Jan ’96

{ 0 comments }

Read the full article...