curious yellow

 I want

to present

to you

(what)

I am

not

yes

we have 

no

(bananas)

we have 

only no 

(bananas)

today

can you

see what

I am

not

no sé

I don’t 

crossing metaphors

When she came into port authority bus station in Manhattan from the Midwest in the late 60s, she waited just outside for her sister to pick her up. Leaning against building, tired, one raised leg, sole of shoe against wall, she waited.

She told me later how surprised she was, the friendliness of so many people as she stood there leaning, especially men. New Yorkers, she thought, they’re not so bad. Her sister arrived and carted her away.

When I told her they thought she was a hooker she looked at me with tilted head. She’d just left the convent. She thought the men somehow knew she didn’t have much money. That they were just being generous. Like some mission fundraiser. She thanked them and turned down their offerings.

When she wrote her book and it was made into a movie she left that story out.

Just as well.

It was too good to be true.

emptied of being my nature is bare

He sits in his chair looking out window. 

Cold temperature. Stiff wind.  Bright sun

Stripped of reason my mind is blank 

 

Emptied of being my nature is bare 

 

At night my windows often breathe white 

 

The moon and stream come right to the door.

Shih-wu (1272-1352)

Something is creeping over the land.

A friend went mad before he died. Shades drawn.

Everyone a suspected enemy. Couldn't help himself.

Would have immolated himself, but had no gasoline 

no zippo lighter. Might have hung himself but could

not reach the rafter or ridgepole. So he sat. Looking out.

Until his heart gave out. He closed his eyes. Gave over 

breath. Left the room

His buddy, not me, advised him a little while back to 

consider changing his mind, see the up side, have hope.

He wasn't having it. He knew that dark times were coming.

He was right. Dark times came. He left. That's what happened.

No suicide, no rampage with gun nor explosives, no rant no rave.

Just a quiet broken heart.

In a room with shades drawn.

On a street with quiet houses.

In a town that didn't see him.

In a country that didn't care he'd served in Southeast Asia.

What was it Lowell wrote about no dog knowing his smell?

Homecoming 

 

by Robert Lowell, 1917 – 1977 

 

What was is . . . since 1930;

the boys in my old gang

are senior partners.  They start up

bald like baby birds

to embrace retirement.

At the altar of surrender,

I met you

in the hour of credulity.

How your misfortune came out clearly

to us at twenty.

At the gingerbread casino,

how innocent the nights we made it

on our Vesuvio martinis

with no vermouth but vodka

to sweeten the dry gin—

the lash across my face

that night we adored . . .

soon every night and all,

when your sweet, amorous 

repetition changed.

Fertility is not to the forward,

or beauty to the precipitous—

things gone wrong

clothe summer

with gold leaf.

Sometimes

I catch my mind

circling for you with glazed eye—

my lost love hunting

your lost face.

Summer to summer,

the poplars sere

in the glare—

it's a town for the young,

they break themselves against the surf.

No dog knows my smell.

 

(From Day by Day by Robert Lowell, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Copyright © 1975, 1976, 1977 )

Yeah, that's it. 

waiting for goodness to emerge

 Elder, Doris, sends this today. I admire her efforts to keep me focused and sane.

A MESSAGE FROM NORMAN

A Few Words on the Historical Moment

Zoketsu Norman Fischer
January 22, 2025
Remarks offered at the beginning of our weekly Dharma Seminar

Before I begin my talk tonight I want to say a few words about the historical moment. Monday’s inauguration was a dramatic and important event. Immediately afterward there was a flurry of activity. From my point of view, none of it was good.

The assault on immigrants was terrible, inhumane. I don’t want to make a list, you all know the list, but I was very dismayed by the pardons. It means that the militias will feel on call, empowered, and immune. This implicit threat, along with the many other threats, will cause people to be afraid, numb, submissive.

We can’t do that. We can’t be afraid. We have to pay attention and voice opposition where we are opposed. No, this is not alright. I stand in opposition. We have to say that, even if it seems as if it doesn’t matter.

The new era has begun, and we must observe what happens. I said after the election in November, and I feel the same now, that it is time to pay attention to our lives, not to let our lives be overcome with the confusion of the moment. We need to take care of ourselves, have some happiness, keep our feet on the ground.

And we have to pay attention, speak up and act where we can. We can’t go numb. We can’t hide in the transcendent. When something happens, it happens. To regret, blame, be confused or afraid is a luxury we can never afford. What is is. Any goodness, has to be built on the ground of what is the case, not on what might have or should have been the case.

No one can know how things turn out, the course of human events is a very twisting path. When conditions are bad, and there’s nothing to be done, you endure. When there is something to be done, you do it. Sometimes you do something just because you can’t stand not to.

The classical Chinese theorist of war, Hsun Tzu, said that the most effective way to defeat a strong enemy is not to engage in direct confrontation, but, rather, to strengthen yourself, pay attention, and wait for the moment when your enemy becomes weak, due to his own conduct and the passage of time.
In the long run, this is a good path.

So far we have done a good job of encouraging one another in these difficult times. And I am sure we will continue to do this. Practice helps. So thanks, as always, for being here. https://everydayzen.org/message-on-the-historical-moment/

Worth waiting for.

May this enemy’s weakness arrive soon at its most overturn-able point! 

call it a day, call it a week

 Sometimes bleak looks good

Tonight it wears rags and tinfoil

As it snows outside

All feels like disaster within

the woman she'd been just an instant before

 At prison this morning these poems by Ted Kooser (b.1939). 

Whenever he wrote these over the years, he wrote them this week for this week.

1

Flying at Night

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.

Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies

like a snowflake falling on water. Below us, 

some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death, 

snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn

back into the little system of his care.

All night, the cities, like shimmering novas, 

tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.

(--Ted Kooser, Published in "Flying at Night")

2.

Carrie

"There's never an end to dust

and dusting," my aunt would say

as her rag, like a thunderhead,

scudded across the yellow oak

of her little house. There she lived

seventy years with a ball

of compulsion closed in her fist,

and an elbow that creaked and popped

like a branch in a storm. Now dust

is her hands and dust her heart.

There's never an end to it.

(--from Sure Signs, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1980)

3.

Skater

She was all in black but for a yellow pony tail

that trailed from her cap, and bright blue gloves

that she held out wide, the feathery fingers spread, 

as surely she stepped, click-clack, onto the frozen 

top of the world. And there, with a clatter of blades, 

she began to braid a loose path that broadened 

into a meadow of curls. Across the ice she swooped 

and then turned back and, halfway, bent her legs 

and leapt into the air the way a crane leaps, blue gloves

lifting her lightly, and turned a snappy half-turn

there in the wind before coming down, arms wide, 

skating backward right out of that moment, smiling back

at the woman she'd been just an instant before. 

(--from Delights & Shadows, Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend, WA 2004)

far far away

 Some say good

will prevail over evil

good for them

Others say dawn

Will follow night

Good for them

The rest of us

suspect time will come

when choice’ll look

At us, we at choice

mind will go blank

stars shining bright

is wanting to know

Been reading novel about a second civil war. Per google: "American War is the first novel by the Canadian-Egyptian journalist Omar El Akkad. It is set in the United States in the near future, ravaged by climate change and disease, in which the Second Civil War has broken out over the use of fossil fuels." 

 "Why'd you do it?" she asked me

"I just wanted to know." 

"Don't ever apologize for that," she said.

"That's all there is to life, is wanting to know."

(--Sarat to Benjamin, in American War, A Novel by Omar El Akkad, c.2017)

Sarat is broken. Benjamin is her nephew. The war is over. Defeat and revenge have had their turn. Anger and despair have had their conversation and fallen silent. What we call healing seeps word for word into uncomprehending eyes looking out into faces once known now older come back to learn how to again pronounce words of recognition and acceptance.

"Maybe that's what war is, shredding the rules." An old friend says to the broken healing woman.

Closer to home, an elder/friend calls out my anger. She's right. I am. Angry.

War, I suspect, evokes anger.

And we are at war. Not a dystopian novel war, but a real time psychological political battlefield warfare.

The question is, again, how to turn churned soil of warfare into a healing ground of indestructible homogeneous peace.

My new army boots fit just right.

I wore them today to buy birdseed, soap, juices, chocolate milk, maple yogurt, cookies, donuts, frozen pizza, cold cuts, and dark chocolate for the worker's comp auditor at the new iMac upstairs.

a cheer erupts

future civil war

bayonets of words, choking

untruth intubates 

shoving every diversion

down throats of the fey faithful

impeachible failure, mάλιστα κύριε *

I thought

practicing zen

would free me

to love everybody --

not so -- there's 

one man I've failed

to embrace, such

a shame -- I sit on

my torn zafu

mu, (yes sir)* mu

conveying cosmos well into open mind

walking to mountain brook

covered with ice and snow

gurgling invisibly

by footbridge

friend says she is unwell

which means we are all unwell

the black and white of wooded

path stones and trees, brown and 

white dog in new fallen snow --

the morning is muted with each step;

I am each step and underfoot each step

the packed snow holding up each step --

unwell is what visits at unexpected times

one day you sleep, next insomnia, 

the inexplicable awakeness of awareness

when you'd rather be resting somnulant 

in embrace of wellness, mere breath

looking out window open to cold day

the waves of infinite space, being, heard,

a breeze passing pillow, blanket, 

& grateful heart, intimate recollection

a loved one, a collapsed worry, a sweet

time right there bedside, (was it a dream?)

no, not a dream, just once-called, life, yes

affirming the time

    Yes

What four?

   Three of them.

Three fours?

   Yup.

I’ll be.

   You are.

But, if i drop u . . .

   What for?

middle of night, plow lights

 I accept my failure. 

It’s taken a long time. Failure is an uneasy companion. 

Poor conversationalist. Oblique references to uncertain recall about fuzzy facts.

Nevertheless, i am, for the most part, a failure.

I sit with that.

I accept it.

Just now, a plow goes by. 

Pushing new snowfall off to the side. 

So to make going forward easier.

As i do, go forward.

if i had a hammer

 Wearing tweed sports jacket over pajamas

Half cup yesterday’s coffee

Ciabatta bread with peanut butter

I stare into morning’s disturbing news

Ignoring what is happening is not an option

My feet hit ground, mind hits discordant clank

And, yes, there is suffering afoot

It’s not true we don’t know what to do with suffering —

We suffer suffering

In the same way, those who cause suffering

Most likely are rewarded with boons and bling --

The rest of us must remember what songs to sing

dooryard ravage

 Some animal is attacking other animals in our dooryard

Red blood splotches on white snow along walkway to back gate

Gobs of fur in blood over by woodpile

Something is killing something being killed

It’s nature

Not unlike the White House

Clawing at American vulnerable individuals

Bloodletting children and elderly, giving up

Cancer research, inspectors of corruption,

You name it, he is all cloy and catastrophe

And we are oh my god-ing and what the hell-ing —

There is no happy ending to this rapacious romp

Lay back and enjoy it, he says, it won’t be over soon,

I am above it all

And you, you are soon to be footprints in snow 

splotched with red 

Rimmed by torn fur

Without knowing who has done the destruction

or what can save you

festeggiamo

 Now a recluse, he

Prefers solitude, sound of

Wind sluicing sunshine

this odd time of self elimination

Chaos in politics 

and governance

the new normal 

abnormal -- 

I worry 

the chief executive

is aiming a gun

at himself and us

inviting innumerable

fingers

to squeeze

a little tighter --

we will mourn

unnecessary blood

we will pray

for all lost souls

to turn about, turn about with

Conversation

conversation (n.)

mid-14c., "place where one lives or dwells," also "general course of actions or habits, manner of conducting oneself in the world," both senses now obsolete; from Old French conversacion "behavior, life, way of life, monastic life," and directly from Latin conversationem (nominative conversatio) "frequent use, frequent abode in a place, intercourse, conversation," noun of action from past-participle stem of conversari "to live, dwell, live with, keep company with," passive voice of conversare "to turn about, turn about with," from assimilated form of com "with, together" (see con-) + versare, frequentative of vertere "to turn" (from PIE root *wer- (2) "to turn, bend").

Sense of "informal interchange of thoughts and sentiments by spoken words" is from 1570s. Used as a synonym for "sexual intercourse" from at least late 14c., hence criminal conversation, a legal term for adultery from late 18c. Conversation-piece is from 1712 as "painting representing a group of figures arranged as if in conversation;" 1784 as "subject for conversation, something to talk about."  (Online Etymological Dictionary)

 And this:

 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where I ought to be;

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,

To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed;

to turn, turn, will be my delight.

Till by turning, turning we come round right.

Source: RitualSong (2nd ed.) #856, https://hymnary.org/text/tis_the_gift_to_be_simple#google_vignette

si orantes essent generativae -- (if prayer were generative)

Sometimes there is just the need to pray.

Without self-consciousness. Without any intent of anything other than a sense of appropriate deference to a need greater than our own ability.

Sana ánimam meam, Quia peccávi tibi.

Heal my soul. For I have sinned against you.

Sana. ánimam meam, Quia peccávi tibi.

Heal my soul. For I have sinned against you.

Ego dixi: Dómine miserére mei. 

I said: O Lord, be thou merciful to me.

Quia peccávi tibi.

For I have sinned against you.

Glória Patri, et Filio, et Spirítui Sancto.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.

Sana ánimam meam, Quia peccávi tibi.

No gun in hand, no smirk on face, no pretending to hold the whole world in the palm of my signature.

In prison today, man said that our grief is that there's no decorum in politics. We are left staring at indecorous men and women posturing, posing, and pissing in public -- pretending to embody some entitled superiority that eschews truth and obviates any genuine moral character.

He said such is why so few want anything to do with American democracy.

Something is dying.

Unenlightened men and women are drinking and dancing with abandoned responsibility around the deathbed without even recognizing that which is breathing its last in the middle of their feckless obliviousness.

The you of the prayer is you and me and we.

The Lord is what we do not yet comprehend -- our true and compassionate nature waiting to be born.

If prayer were generative we would speak into Being that which longs to dwell herein with wholesome integrity and kindly attention.

The sin is the absence of thus and so.

Heal my soul. For I have sinned against you.

(--Responsorium Breve, Laudes, 27jan25)