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Zazen Poems by Richard Collins || Author's Links |
Bodhidharma's Eyelids II August Those kisses, sweet as they were, just a dip in the shallow end of the pool, where no one dives headlong with impunity. 17 Aug 01 So many things left undone all those onanistic poems left to sprout on a bald boulder in the sun. 18 Aug 01 Not all of these eyelids are fully open, some wink, some blink, and some are still attached. Some have already fallen, taken root and brewed tea for sages, ages ago, opening the eyes of both fish and fool. 20-22 Aug 01 There is no doubt at zero. There is no faith anywhere. No fish, no fool, no rice, no bowl, There is no doubt at zero. 23 Aug 01 Gather clouds in your empty sleeves Fill your fists with wisps of smoke tufts of air, evaporating sweat, not nothingness - less! This cushion is the cloud where you must sit, solid as stone, lighter than your thoughts, you dilettante! 25 Aug 01 September Am I becoming forgetful or mindful? I can hardly remember the person I was before I sat down. Sept 01 Sesshin is over! The world is bright bright bright! Aka aka aka ya! A brand new bodhisattva looks out of these eyes A brand new baby is naked in my parking space A brand new baby is bouncing on the earth his dharma name swinging like a club between his ears da dum da dum da dum da dum and coming to rest, erect as an antenna, sturdy as a buddha pine. Does anybody see this secret sap? 30 Sept 01 October Here and now here and now At what price would I lose all my memories and ambitions to exist here and now? My memories at almost fifty are more here and now than my teeth hair a cough a sneeze a scowl My memories are more now, now, than they were then, when they were neither there nor particularly then, then My memories remind me that it's me who's brand new now and not the teenager I remember as being creative and energetic, it's he who's stale, an old dog -matic know-it-all smart-aleck didactic ass. If I met him now I'd kick his ass. He knew nothing, not a thing, even less than I, I, whose total knowledge has less substance beauty sublimity or subtlety than a fart on the wind So much for memory - as for ambition, ah, that's been gone a long time, so long the air has had time to clear so that all around me it's pure and endless uncorrupted by any expectation of good news or a check in the mail. 15 Oct 01 On Bowing After a poem by Dogen comparing bowing to a crane folding up into itself, or hiding within its own form. 1. The map of my life my body folds up into itself. Creases never the same way twice disintegrates at the edges takes me still where I want to go. 2. I look forward to throwing this old map away though which used will never be suitable for framing. The well-thumbed landscape of the mind alone is worth keeping. 3. I've traveled too far with this map in my hip pocket absorbing the sweat of my ass. I look forward to throwing it away when I know where I've been by heart and no longer care where I'm going. 16 Oct 01 Doubt, the great wall, faces me down. What am I doing here, getting up in the middle of the night to come here and sit down? Oct 01 Riding along the levee before dawn between the Mississippi and the city I cause rats to dash across my path. They've been night-foraging in the garbage. Swift pointed stealthy, they torpedo to water's edge on sharp feet. Each morning I'm suckered into thinking the old man and the boy on the bench have shared my moment of joy! How lucky to see a rat before dawn! What a privilege to spot the wildlife of my city in its element! Then I realize: the old man and the boy and the bench are one. Rat river city levee stealthy sucker me. 19 Oct 01 What do I live for? The glimpse of geisha breast and a barroom cello. 21 Oct 01 November It's that old jazz sangha early-morning quartet: Jason on the gong Mario on the fishhead drum Christine on inkin and Robert on the nothing-to-fear. It all sounds even more beautiful knowing there is no ear. 2 Nov 01 December Only at dawn when the sky over Algiers Point is pink does the Mississippi seem to be a deep channel of indigo ink. The sun's calligraphy is silver over this, and quick. My pen is clogged and, like my tongue, thick. 19 Dec 01 January The best sleep is the best romance when body and mind sleep together. 20 Jan 02 A year. A year of sitting. A year of sitting. A year. From Marigny to old Algiers. Zazen is not the practice. Zazen is the center of the practice, the still point in the midst. Zazen is not the point. Zazen is the circumference of the practice, all encompassing. Zazen is the compass. Don't be deluded into thinking that zazen is itself. Zazen is everything but itself, just as you are everything but yourself. When you practice zazen you are zazen so that you can be yourself. Yourself is not the point. 31 Jan 02 |
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