Hi everyone,

Visiting my mom and other family in my hometown, Phoenix, Arizona.  Here’s a poem I just wrote as I sit here in the local Starbuck’s, the morning after….

Yesterday Christmas in Phoenix

Today hot chocolate at Starbuck’s

Intersection of “Muebleria del Sol”, Chevron, Big Lots, and Circle K

Observing life on the road

Sun and shadow

People looking for caffeine, sugar, some kind of happiness

Six days ’til next year.

A million possibilities.

Wishing you and all beings ease, happiness, peace, freedom.

♥   Gayle

An introductory haiku to set the context for the second one.

Profound insight gained

During a five day retreat

Up at Spirit Rock:

Your bright red toenails,

Done at the nail salon?  OM

Mani-Pedi Hum

–Jennifer Scaff King

I loved both of Sati’s beautiful poems about her father.   I was especially moved by Sati’s second poem, the whole poem, but esp. these two lines:

Even coldness has a holy touch-
your forehead white and proud against my hand.

It brought back my last experience with my father — at least with my father’s physical body. As my father lay there – cold – in the funeral home – a private viewing for my mother, sister, and me before the closed casket funeral the next day – I too ran my hands over the forehead and structure of my father’s peaceful 91 year old face.  I’ve always been told I looked exactly like him. Being there that day I saw my own death mask.   I was deeply touched by the connection I felt with him, and the inevitability of my being in that  self same repose one day.

Although this is a Dharma Road poetry blog, I imagine — and hope — there will be buddhists and non-buddhists alike meeting here.   Some will believe in reincarnation or won’t;  others, in heaven or not.  Personally I am most comfortable with not assuming anything. The truth is simply that I don’t know. What I know is there is great mystery and love and compassion.  And gratitude. (and lest I fall into the trap of pollyana-ism, what I also know is that there is dukkha, or suffering).  My dad was definitely not a buddhist;  he was culturally Jewish, but a dyed-in-the-wool atheist.  Still he lived his aging and dying with a huge amount of equanimity.  I was amazed, and so grateful.

Here’s a poem I wrote shortly after my dad’s death.  Two years after his death, it still rings true for me.

Reflection in the Wake of Dad’s Death

Part I

So here’s the problem.

If I believed in heaven OR reincarnation,

I would know where my father’s spirit has gone—

Well, more or less.

Without a particular belief system,

I don’t know.

Dad believed when you die, it’s just all over.

I don’t know if that’s true either.

What to do?

Develop some expertise in

Not knowing.

Part II 

You ask, how do I do this? Funny you should ask.

 Part III  

Gayle’s recipe for developing expertise in Not knowing: 

One part Mary Oliver poem —

              …Still, what I want in my life

             is to be willing

             to be dazzled —

             to cast aside the weight of facts

             and maybe even

             to float a little

             above this difficult world.

             I want to believe I am looking

             into the white fire of a great mystery….

One part David Wagoner poem—

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you

           Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,

           And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

           Must ask permission to know it and be known….

One part David Whyte saying—

The deeper conversation starts right here, and the first question is not far from       exactly where you are.

One part the Dalai Lama’s laugh.

Put it all in the oven and bake daily.  Don’t stop baking.

Prep time:  none.   Oven temperature: as hot as you can tolerate, and cooler when you need it cooler.   Baking time: as above, forever.  Serves: all beings.

Part IV  

So this is how it is now.

I wake up every day not knowing.

Dazzled, or floating…

I try to find my nearest question.

I laugh, sometimes I cry.

I think of you, Dad.

Wherever else you are (or aren’t),

you are here now,

in my heart,

now.

Part V

Months later, the baking continues.

There is Not Knowing and there is peace, an okay-ness with not knowing.

♥   Gayle

Excerpts are from the poem “The Ponds” by Mary Oliver; the poem “Lost” by David Wagoner; and from a talk given by David Whyte at the Herbst Theatre in San Francisco on May 29, 2009.

I have two poems that I wrote after my dad died. Here they are..

The process..

I see you take in a shallow sip of air
gently tether the pulse
for just a while.

I watch you keep the patterned cycle
flowing softly
now and then.

In the space between
I hear a new sound
Playing with the breath.

In the space between
I sense an opening
dancing with forces.

In the space between
I feel the leaving
Of one heart for a greater.

In the space between
I see how gently you pick it up,
embrace the beauty that you are.

and this one too..

For Tim.

We wrap your form, carry you,
feeling the bodies weight
one last time, watching.

Details of your form
the lines and moles,
the tiny frame, humbled by the struggles
show a heart that sought freedom
that carried burdens silently
and too alone.

Even coldness has a holy touch-
your forehead white and proud against my hand.
I am in the domain of angels,
humans- what can they do here?
In a place of remnants
where all we know has fallen
leaving a shell for angels and the earth
to cherish and take apart in their holy way.

Love,
Sati

from Dhammiko…

Yes. We know.  We know.  We invited you to post your poetry, and then made it really difficult. Well, WE didn’t.  It’s in the nature of the blog.   We’re sorry.  It’s techno-dukkha.  And just because we’re on Dharma Road, that doesn’t mean there isn’t dukkha to practice with.  Yes, we’re practicing! and hope you are too.

So, here’s the next step in our attempt to make posting easier.  Because it’s a blogsite, you  can’t post directly, but you can send your post to this email — dharmapoets2@gmail.com  and we’ll post it for you.  (please do your best proof-reading and editing prior to sending to us.  thank you.)

Please let us know if you have a poem title, or some other title you want for your posting.  Also Exactly what name you want us to use (ie first name only or full name or pen name).  Also we’d would like you to say a few words about who you are and/or a few words about your posting (ie what this poem means to you, and/or a brief reflection about the poem).

with much metta,

♥  Gayle

Moving to the edge, camping out in city squares and patches of green, ‘OWS’ rushes from the cemented pathways of our trajectory to self destruction. It resists a future scripted by soulless machinery which cheer leads a less than human military-industrial-empire that pummels the earth in its maddened claw. It is a reclamation of soul….we shall find our soul waiting or us in the night, at the brink, in the exile from the known. I’ll meet you there, in the wilderness of the now.

“You, darkness, that I have come from
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone
and then no one outside learns of you.

But the darkness pulls in everything -
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them!
powers and people -

and it is possible a great presence is moving near me.

I have faith in nights”

Rilke

“…everything which surrounds the conscious, its edges, its limits and which threatens death and extinction, which can be a place of misery and exile, may also be the occasion of new insights for the community or individual” chetwynd

thanissara

thanissara here -

to start with the dark… this was a poem that i wrote somewhere along the way, probably after a therapy session! – but i started rummaging around for it today as i felt it spoke to the times we are in… well the darker side of the times.. but then with OWS i feel some hope, something is breaking through, some sanity, some cry from the heart that screams out… we need to turn round, we need to return, to truly touch the earth….before its too late..

From the Edge

1.
It is only
the long stretch of night
that draws into my wounded soul
which heaves
under a neat exterior.
The wail
of a beast
who knows no soothing
I hear your pain
circling and circling
ripping thru
shreds of coherency
The night darkness
The night of no stars
Plummets
Plummets
I can’t sense the holding

2.
Finally
the bandages removed
and the raw
stinking
superating
gash opening
thru that trap door
open shut tight.

We fall
like drunks
no reference points
down
we rush
thru layers of sainty
that dissolve quick behind me
Where shall we land?

I wanted to tell you about the poetry benefit that SF Insight held for the Khuphuka Project on Oct. 14, 2011.  We had about eleven poets sharing their poetry (one actually SANG a couple of Langston Hughes poems, which was amazing), and about sixty people attending.  About five or six sangha members volunteered to bake cookies. We also had tea. However, it turned out to be the single warmest night I think in San Francisco history, so we had to dash out and buy cold water to drink instead! No problem!  The whole event was a little like a Tibetan sand painting, first nothing is there, than something beautiful is created, then it is intentionally dismantled.  We arrived an hour before “showtime” to a bare room.  The set up crew (six sangha members who’d met for some Mexican food down the street prior to the event,  and were, therefore, emotionally and physically nourished) set to work, setting up chairs in 3 arcing lines, setting up tables and putting on tablecloths, one table at the front door with lots of Khuphuka literature and CDs, one table for the drinks, another for the cookies.  As more people arrived, they too joined in to help create the ambience.  We created a podium out of a music stand covered in front by a lovely piece of cloth, and decorated the walls with left-over event flyers, and art work from the children of KwaZulu Natal, who had sent it to a kindergarten class here in the San Francisco bay area, in appreciation for art the children here had sent them.  Our event flyer was created by the incredibly artistic and generous Wendy Ricks, and featured a poem on it by Thanissara.  I’m including it here, so you can see how beautiful and inspiring it was.

After the event was over, the beautiful setting was quickly dismantled, and we left the room as sparkling and clean as a floor might be after a Tibetan sand painting has been swept away.

Poetry events have lots of benefits.  Aside from the obvious (and wonderful) raising of money for worthwhile projects ( this benefit raised over $800), there is the opportunity for poets to share their poetry, and for the community to hear it. There also is the opportunity for the poets and others in the community to collaborate — to work together, and play together — to make something beautiful happen.  And because of this there is a natural opportunity to build community.

Poetry is an extraordinary art form, and best, I think when shared out loud.  Poetry benefits are not difficult to put together; I think the world could use more of them.  Just sayin’.

♥   Gayle