Just as
the concept of forgiveness obviously isn’t unique to Christianity, many of the concepts
and basic philosophies embodied by Zen aren’t necessarily found only in
Zen. That means that we can deepen our
understanding of the core philosophy even when examining works composed by
those who might not necessarily officially affiliate themselves with Zen as a
religion/philosophy. With that in mind,
I’ve put together a batch of poems that (to me, at least) embody the inexplicable
“ah ha!” moment often seen in Zen koans—that strange blend of simplicity and
profundity that seems both to solicit and to evade our stereotypically “western”
attempts at rational analysis. Let’s use
these as a springboard for class discussion.
Early in the Morning
by
Li-Young Lee
While the
long grain is softening
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.
She sits
at the foot of the bed.
My father watches, listens for
the music of comb
against hair.
My father watches, listens for
the music of comb
against hair.
My mother
combs,
pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.
pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.
But I
know
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening.
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening.
The
Meaning of Life
by
Nancy Fitzgerald
There
is a moment just before
a
dog vomits when its stomach
heaves
dry, pumping what's deep
inside
the belly to the mouth.
If
you are fast you can grab
her
by the collar and shove her
out
the door, avoid the slimy bile,
hunks
of half chewed food
from
landing on the floor.
You
must be quick, decisive,
controlled,
and if you miss
the
cue and the dog erupts
en
route, you must forgive
her
quickly and give yourself
to
scrubbing up the mess.
Most
of what I have learned
in
life leads back to this.
Fixation
by Ron Padgett
It's
not that hard to climb up
on a cross and have nails driven
into your hands and feet.
Of course it would hurt, but
if your mind were strong enough
you wouldn't notice. You
would notice how much farther
you can see up here, how
there's even a breeze
that cools your leaking blood.
The hills with olive groves fold in
to other hills with roads and huts,
flocks of sheep on a distant rise.
on a cross and have nails driven
into your hands and feet.
Of course it would hurt, but
if your mind were strong enough
you wouldn't notice. You
would notice how much farther
you can see up here, how
there's even a breeze
that cools your leaking blood.
The hills with olive groves fold in
to other hills with roads and huts,
flocks of sheep on a distant rise.
Dear Humpback Whale
by Sherman Alexie
by Sherman Alexie
You are a barnacled planet afloat
In the sea, but your ancestors had legs
And walked upon the earth,
In the sea, but your ancestors had legs
And walked upon the earth,
Which gives me—a smaller mammal—the
hope
That my descendants will someday grow wings
And become strange birds.
That my descendants will someday grow wings
And become strange birds.
To Rosie, Not
Yet Three
by
David Nielsen
Funny
thing
asking—
Are
you poopy?
—and
meaning it
so
sincerely, no sarcasm
or
mockery,
just
earnest desire
to
know
if
there’s a load
in
your shorts.
And
you, crouched
beneath
the baby grand,
telling
me, no,
when
the stink
is
as thick as this August air,
lying
to my face,
as
sweet
as
an elevator love song.
After Work
by Gary Snyder
The shack and a few trees
float in the blowing fog
I pull out your blouse,
warm my cold hands
on your breasts.
you laugh and shudder
peeling garlic by the
hot iron stove.
bring in the axe, the rake,
the wood
we'll lean on the wall
against each other
stew simmering on the fire
as it grows dark
drinking wine.
Hiking in the Totsugawa Gorge
by Gary Snyder
pissing
watching
a waterfall
Her Soul
by Ryan
Croken
Gave
To God
Her soul,
God
said: “Ok
I don't need
This
But Ok.”
To God
Her soul,
God
said: “Ok
I don't need
This
But Ok.”
Garage
Sale
by
Dorothy Doyle Mienko
I
wouldn't buy the
gaudy green dishes
or anyone else's
melancholy clothes
gaudy green dishes
or anyone else's
melancholy clothes
I
bought, instead, the
antique ivory handkerchief
with two rows of
gathered lace
antique ivory handkerchief
with two rows of
gathered lace
it
was the way
the lady said
once, it was
her mother's.
the lady said
once, it was
her mother's.
Hiking the Medicine Bow
by
Robert King
Sitting
in the mountain meadow,
under
clouds, I decide it's time
for an
orange, a Valencia Sunkist
#4014s,
to be exact.
As I
cut it open and eat,
the sun
erupts brightly
over
the whole world.
When I
finish, the sky grays over.
If I
had another orange
I could
make the sun come out again.
I do
not have another orange.
The sun
comes out again.
Sky Divers
by Robert Cording
Now,
near day's end, they enter our view, at ease
in their wishbones of rope, their red nets of silk
ballooning above, tracing the summer's liquid breeze
while they fall earthward, unconcerned, their skywalk
like something we had forgotten for a long time
but now, remembering, turn naturally toward,
and we pause, cars idling at the edge of Route 169,
each of us, for one reason or another, looking upward,
alert, hushed, taken up completely by the slow descent
of our opposites who float above us like an idea
that mocks us and fills us with happiness, such content-
ment impossible and yet finding form in us here
as we watch them, who are so familiar and so foreign to us,
until, in the dry fields, they send up footfalls of dust.
in their wishbones of rope, their red nets of silk
ballooning above, tracing the summer's liquid breeze
while they fall earthward, unconcerned, their skywalk
like something we had forgotten for a long time
but now, remembering, turn naturally toward,
and we pause, cars idling at the edge of Route 169,
each of us, for one reason or another, looking upward,
alert, hushed, taken up completely by the slow descent
of our opposites who float above us like an idea
that mocks us and fills us with happiness, such content-
ment impossible and yet finding form in us here
as we watch them, who are so familiar and so foreign to us,
until, in the dry fields, they send up footfalls of dust.
The
Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
upon
a red wheel
barrow
barrow
glazed with rain
water
water
beside the white
chickens.
chickens.
To a Poor Old Woman
by William Carlos Williams
munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand
They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her
You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand
Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her
Shoveling
Snow with Buddha
by
Billy Collins
In
the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you
would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing
the dry snow over a mountain
of
his bare, round shoulder,
his
hair tied in a knot,
a
model of concentration.
Sitting
is more his speed, if that is the word
for
what he does, or does not do.
Even
the season is wrong for him.
In
all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is
this not implied by his serene expression,
that
smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But
here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one
shovelful at a time.
We
toss the light powder into the clear air.
We
feel the cold mist on our faces.
And
with every heave we disappear
and
become lost to each other
in
these sudden clouds of our own making,
these
fountain-bursts of snow.
This
is so much better than a sermon in church,
I
say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This
is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and
sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I
say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He
has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as
if it were the purpose of existence,
as
if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you
could back the car down easily
and
drive off into the vanities of the world
with
a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.
All
morning long we work side by side,
me
with my commentary
and
he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until
the hour is nearly noon
and
the snow is piled high all around us;
then,
I hear him speak.
After
this, he asks,
can
we go inside and play cards?
Certainly,
I reply, and I will heat some milk
and
bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while
you shuffle the deck.
and
our boots stand dripping by the door.
Aaah,
says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and
leaning for a moment on his shovel
before
he drives the thin blade again
deep
into the glittering white snow.
