Some Warm-up Zen[ish] Poems

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.

She sits at the foot of the bed.
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.

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.

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.

Dear Humpback Whale
by Sherman Alexie   

   

You are a barnacled planet afloat
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.

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.”

Garage Sale

by Dorothy Doyle Mienko

I wouldn't buy the
gaudy green dishes
or anyone else's
melancholy clothes

I bought, instead, the
antique ivory handkerchief
with two rows of
gathered lace

it was the way
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.

The Red Wheelbarrow

by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
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.