Being a BuddhistOne who loves poetry cheers every masterful embodiment of poem and encourages every poet finding their fingers and toes and beginning to make primal sounds.
Have confidence in your own spiritual potentiality, your ability to find your own unique way. Learn from others certainly and use what you find useful, but also learn to trust your own inner wisdom. Have courage. Be awake and aware. Remember too that Buddhism is not about being a Buddhist; that is, obtaining a new identity tag. Nor is it about collecting head-knowledge, practices and techniques. It is ultimately about letting go of all forms and concepts and becoming free.
--John Snelling, Elements of Buddhism
Alana sends poem by Carl Phillips:
Bright WorldForgive me for what I thought was poetry. Thinking seldom is.
—And it came to pass, that meaning faltered; came detached
unexpectedly from the place I'd made for it, years ago,
fixing it there, thinking it safe to turn away, therefore,
to forget — hadn't that made sense? And now everything
did, but differently: the wanting literally for nothing
for no good reason; the inability to feel remorse at having
cast (now over some, now others), aegis-like, though it
rescued no one, the body I'd all but grown used to waking
inside of and recognizing, instantly, correctly, as mine,
my body, given forth, withheld, shameless, merciless—
for crying shame. Like miniature versions of a lesser
gospel deemed, over time, apocryphal, or redundant — both,
maybe — until at last let go, the magnolia flowers went on
spilling themselves, each breaking open around, and then
apart from, its stem along a branch of stems and, not of
course in response, but as if so, the starlings lifting, unlifting,
the black flash of them in the light reminding me of what I'd
been told about the glamour of evil, in the light they were
like that, in the shadow they became the other part, about
resisting evil, as if resistance itself all this time had been
but shadow, could be found that easily. . . What will you do?
Is this how you're going to live now? sang the voice in my
head: singing, then silent—not as in desertion, but as
when the victim suddenly knows his torturer's face from
before, somewhere, and in the knowing is for a moment
distracted, has stopped struggling — And the heart gives in.
(-Poem by Carl Phillips.)
What is poetry, is indeed...its own...embodiment.
Never allow anyone to form your mind. No one could receive your enlightenment for you; do not allow them to construct your opinion.
Have none of it. Not mind, not opinion. Only the full feeling face of the person before you. Only unconditioned receptivity of the reality of the one presenting themselves, as they are, before you. What you feel as they reveal is what you feel. Trust it, watch it,.
Zen Master Dogen wrote: "Do not follow the ideas of others, but learn to listen to the voice within yourself."