Is this what you are trying to say?
You cannot describe it or draw it,
You cannot praise it enough or perceive it.
No place can be found in which
To put the Original Face;
It will not disappear even
When the universe is destroyed.
--Mumon (13th c.)
the cultural videos stream past
grift, killings on high seas,
murders in Syria, ICE cruelty,
Brown University; Queen singing “just
killed a man” as man in White House shovels
money into offshore accounts with his family
it comes Christmas, we pretend to believe
a prince of peace will unseat a king of power
while the echo of God fades off into dusk
I can no longer believe in any of it, belief
has cooled in outdoor pit with snow and frost
we are left with the sorrow of unexplained loss;
When everything fell away I was beyond hope
and felt ok about it, hope was a borrowed belief
not mine, what was mine was stark appearance
the undeniable. That is where truth takes us -- to
the undeniable. And leaves us sitting in a chair.
We listen to the rants of the insane. Making things up.
None of it, none of it can be believed. So we sit, sit
and wait for the ranting noise to break and dim
leaving us in a new silence of dissolution and
disillusionment. None of it is true. None worth
our valuable consideration. It is a dark time, one
writes. Will there be a new renaissance? Will there --
Some vague memory reaches back to imaging
such a thing, a reprieve, a new birthing of honor and
respect, a new fairness and justice, melodies, bells --
a man I once knew died outside his house-fire down
an off-grid road, his guitars burnt up, his music
gone off into winter sky followed by his soul, swirling --
we did not get along. Still, I prayed for him these days
later. What matter who gets along with whom? Silliness.
The house burned down. He fell to ground. And died.
What we do is hear stories of what is taking place. No
opinion about the goings-on matters. What matters is
trying to remember our humanity, the feel of it, the small
sense of the miracle that we have had anything to do with
any one-another at some point in time in some place -- the fact
of it; and the uselessness of opinion or hurt feelings.
the cultural videos stream past, we watch a while, then
turn to tidy dishes, listen to night mutter into its sleeve
return to what once was called prayer, inviting silent God
to sit a while in quiet room, a candle flame separating
darkness for a little while, not knowing anything to say
not saying anything, the way God doesn’t, the breath of it
Nothing before
Nothing after
This life this moment
When I’m in prison
I’m in prison
No intention intervenes
When listening, listen
When speaking, speak
No other agenda
Because there is
No other, no
Other anything
Hugging friend
Saying “yo bodhidharma!”
He’s put on weight
No paper in
No paper out
Open mouth, flashlight
Thirty plus years
In and through steel doors
Out and hand back man-down
Been through six seven wardens
Eight nine education staff
Ten eleven lobby officers
I figure I was incarcerated
In 1672 for stealing chickens
A plucking innocence ignored
But seriously, week after week
We go through security, detectors
As suspects carefully watched
Not bringing drugs in
Not taking drugs out
But for poetry and wisdom
Philosophy of ordinariness
Theology of present moment
Existentialism if being-there
These things are undetectable
No machine is set off
Nobody exclaims “you dirty rat”
We do our time
Keep heads down
Hardly count at all
In prison today talk about trust and truth. New fella, three weeks in. He spoke about the dual difficulties trusting the guy coming to you with a scheme and the guy showing up all sincere and friendly. The mistrust evoked about both.
As it was we’d sent in Emily Dickinson’s poem:
Tell all the truth but tell it slant — (1263)
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind
Which poem entered the conversation with ease and familiarity.
Our conversations have no agenda but for open conversation.The men begin it. We never know where it will go.
We always send in a poem, just to have.
There’s an unhiddenness about the morning.
Which is what “truth” in Greek translates as —
ἀλήθεια, alḗtheia, 'truth'. Unhidden!
Afterwards we saw two friends, longtimrrs, not seen in a while.
A good morning!
Body in bed, mind off into unrecognizable locations, spirit dwelling in different bodies.
You cannot convince me that I reside in a single place with one identity, or that you do, in one particular piece of geography, one linear time, one psychic narrative.
We are ubiquitous stories unraveling in multiple geographic arisings fashioned by innumerable longings and spiritual revelations.
Night sittingThe hermit doesn’t sleep at night:
In love with the blue of the vacant moon.
The cool of the breeze
That rustles the trees
Rustles him too.
Ching An (1841–1920)
if you ask me who I am I will tell you the truth.
I have only one request:
Don't ask!
Three promises:
Contemplation, Conversation, Correspondence.
...as held by Meetingbrook Dogen & Francis Hermitage“m.o.n.o.”(monastics of no other).
Contemplation is the promise of simplicity.
It is a gift of poverty inviting open waiting, receptive trust, attention, and watchful presence. It is a simple Being-With.
It is attentive presence.
Conversation is the promise of integrity.
It is a chaste and complete intention to listen and speak, lovingly and respectfully, with each and all made present to us. It is a wholeness of listening and speaking.
It is root silence.
Correspondence is the promise of faithful engagement.
It is responsible attention and intention offered obediently to the Source of all Being, to the Human Family, to Nature. It is a faithful engagement with all sentient beings, with this present world, with existence with all its needs & joys, sorrows & hope.
It is transparent service.
…………………………………………………………………
Meetingbrook Dogen & Francis Hermitage invites & welcomes individuals interested in the practice of these 3 promises in their life. Whether the interest is in conversing, praying, deepening, learning, or even holding these 3 promises, we invite you to enter the inquiry and stillness.
May the loving light and the compassionate peace of the Christ and the Bodhisattva accompany and support the efforts of each one.
………………………………………………………………..
Quotes:
1. We are going to have to create a new language of prayer. (Thomas Merton, Calcutta 1968)
2. When you go apart to be alone for prayer…see that nothing remains in your consciousness mind save a naked intent stretching out toward God. Leave it stripped of every particular idea about God (what he is like in himself or in his works) and keep only the awareness that he is as he is. Let him be thus, I pray you, and force him not to be otherwise. (Anonymous)
3. I long for a great lake of ale. / I long for the men of heaven in my house. / I long for cheerfulness in their drinking. / And I long for Jesus to be there among them. (Brigid, Celtic saint)
4. It is not by closing your eyes that you see your own nature. On the contrary, you must open your eyes wide and wake up to the real situation in the world to see completely your whole Dharma Treasure, your whole Dharma Body. The bombs, the hunger, the pursuit of wealth and power - these are not separate from your nature….You will suffer, but your pain will not come from your own worries and fears. You will suffer because of your kinship with all beings, because you have the compassion of an awakened one, a Bodhisattva. (Thich Nhat Hanh)
5. He who truly attains awakening knows that deliverance is to be found right where he is. There is no need to retire to the mountain cave. If he is a fisherman he becomes a real fisherman. If he is a butcher he becomes a real butcher. The farmer becomes a real farmer and the merchant a real merchant. He lives his daily life in awakened awareness. His every act from morning to night is his religion. (Sokei-an)
... ... ...
(First pronounced 10december1998)
It seems like I get
confused sometimes
these days leading
up to Christmas/nativity
are not different from days
leading up to Good Friday/Easter
to be born is to die
to die is to be born
Христос воскрес!
Воистину воскрес!
Χριστός ανέστη!
Αληθώς ανέστη!
(Christ is risen!
He is truly risen!)
Ιδού, σας φέρνω χαρμόσυνα νέα.
Σήμερα γεννήθηκε για εσάς ένας σωτήρας.
Behold, I bring you good news:
Today a Savior has been born to you.
Who can separate these proclaiming words?
What knife can slice them apart?
That’s my confusion.
The attempt to cut one into two
The way misogynists and racists
push and pull and tear and sever
that which is whole and unified
complete and of a piece
I stop calling one thing something else
I look out over this grey afternoon
at what is born and dead, gone and come
a Tathāgata, thus come, thus gone
A Christos preceding existence or
manifestation -- the energy of eternal return
ultimate affirmation, yes and yes and yes
with every no a returning yes, MU! --things
as they are, being as it is, life and death
appearing and disappearing, a baby cries, we are
touched, a friend dies, we are touched --
rise up! don’t give up the ship! if you are
tired take a nap, if you are a dreaming dog
wag your tail, if it snows let it snow,
Нам дано быть в этом мире.
(Nam dano byt' v etom mire.)
(We are given the opportunity
to be in this world.)
I watch the birds
They come and go
Night snow on the feeder
I read Jo’s letter
31 years ago, it falls from box
She’d her first bone marrow transplant
It is found prose poetry, she combs
Daughter’s hair, who combs hers
Husband reads paper by fireplace
Then-child now lives down south
Jo and David are gone
Coffee cup down, kitchen empty
“The life of a monk is a semi-ecstasy and forty years of aridity.” (Thomas Merton)
Road-plow goes by
Easting toward town
Thomas Merton died
Fifty-seven years ago
Twenty-seven years
To the day he was received
Into novitiate of Trappists;
A mysterious death in Bangkok —
Anyone who knows God is threat
To country and church
Our absent brother
Prayed for and to
All this time
As nothing passing
there are two footbridges
two brooks ten pet graves
as I walk incline of Ragged Mtn
it is so cold
fingers in gloves hurt
not even winter yet
I used to practice meditation
now I just sit just walk
just make coffee just write this
Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves.” (James Joyce, Ulysses)
I’ll bite —
To answer your question
I don’t know
You asked
Where did he go?
I don’t know
You want me to
Tell you what I know
I don’t know
Do the dead
Carry on unburdened
I don’t know
Or a life within god
Or without god, alone
Here’s what I know
I don’t! —
G’wan, take a hike,
Leave me be, intimately
happy bodhi-day to you
happy...
(birthday?)
no, bodhi-day
(wass-at?)
sigh,
let me enlighten you
he left socks behind
and a hammer
he was buried today
near his ma and da
a candle burns
Bí i do shuaimhneas, a chara
Girl begins as no barrier
As open as open could be
Then filled with
No boundary itself
Wechsel zum Austausch mit der Leere
(Change to exchange with the void)
Mary
Mary
Mary
Conceived as the
Within
Without
I’m not going to Wash.DC, not me
Nope, not on your life, no way —
I’d rather stay home and wait
For news
Of demise
Or some other terminal celebration
I’ll just stay home
Immaculately concieved
Tathagata’s Bodhi-day
Departure of duplicity
Everyday mysticism
I'll read what is at hand
for instance, The Paris Review
"Camouflage", by Adania Shibli
translated from the Arabic
by Max Weiss. We wear disguises
It is during the pauses
between reading numbers
for the auditor at her desk
I open the tidy issue, Winter 2025
because it sits on cardboard box
next to chair, non-assiduously like
a lethargic cat you stroke because there
it gets dark early as days still shorten
the cold grips walls of old house
deer look to bed down on old leaves
dog on bed makes snoring sounds
the kufiyya on dashboard, then hiding
it from checkpoint soldiers, then waving
it at young boys throwing stones at car
his uncamouflaged head in a dangerous land
the buddhists in Augusta cancel
zoom practice this morning
I logged on three times
figured they’d thrown me out
the way buddhists do when mad,
gave me wrong link, frowned on me
turns out there was illness, said email
after I watched myself and cat
in front room chair by large window
I like buddhists
they stay well within themselves
even when in public, no soliciting
in fact, they’re hard to pick out
in a crowd, unless one is playing
shakuhachi on sidewalk behind coin cup