butterfly

Look into Your Hand

Gill Washington Buddhist Writings, Life, Meditation, Thich Nhat Hanh, Thich Nhat Hanh Quotes , , , , 0 Comment

From Peace is Every Step

By Thich Nhat Hanh

I have a friend who is an artist. Before he left Vietnam
forty years ago, his mother held his hand and told him,
“Whenever you miss me, look into your hand, and you will
see me immediately.” How penetrating these simple, sincere
words! Over the years, my friend looked into his hand many times.

The presence of his mother is not just genetic. Her spirit, her
hopes, and her life are also in him. When he looks into his hand,
he can see thousands of generations before him and thousands
of generations after him. He can see that he exists not only in
the evolutionary tree branching along the axis of time, but also
in the network of interdependent relations. He told me that he
never feels lonely.

When my niece came to visit me last summer, I offered her “Look
into Your Hand” as a subject for her meditation. I told her that
every pebble, every leaf, and every butterfly are present in her
hand.

Read selected poems from Thich Nhat Hanh

Read quotations and excerpts from Thich Nhat Hanh

More Buddhist writings on Allspirit

 

Zen Poetry

Gill Washington Poems, Spirituality, Zen , , , , , , 0 Comment

Zen Master Ryokan

From Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf translated by John Stevens

Thoughts

When all thoughts
Are exhausted
I slip into the woods
And gather
A pile of shepherd’s purse.

Like the little stream
Making its way
Through the mossy crevices
I, too, quietly
Turn clear and transparent.
no-mind

 

The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind;
The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind.
The flower opens, the butterfly comes;
The butterfly comes, the flower opens.
I don’t know others,
Others don’t know me.
By not-knowing we follow nature’s course.

Lazy

Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days’ worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

 

 

 

The following are all from: Beyond Self: 108 Korean Zen Poems

by Ko Un

THE HERMIT

Jang Ku-Song the hermit was busy shitting
when he heard frogs croaking. It made him
recite

The croaking of frogs on moonlit nights in early spring
pierces the world from end to end, makes us all
one family.

Look, if you’ve had your shit,
wipe yourself and get out of here.

THE LOTUS SUTRA

The Lotus Sutra. Ultimate reality.
So far
you’ve been bashing me badly.
Now
I’ll cudgel you, bastard.
Oh! Ouch!
Take that too.
Oh! Ouch!
Oh! Ouch!

The Lotus Sutra dashed away.
Fields open wide, once the farmers
have gone.
A SMILE

Shakyamuni held up a lotus
so Kashyapa smiled.
Not at all.
The lotus smiled
so Kashyapa smiled.

Nowhere was Shakyamuni!

WHY KILL?

Let be. Please, let be.
Kill Buddha
if you meet him?
Kill mother and father
if you meet them? Why kill?
Things made of clay all fall to bits
once soaked by monsoon rains.

ANANDA

Even Shakyamuni could never tame Ananda
but Kashyapa kicked him out and tamed him.
Throw away all you know.
Throw away all you don’t know.
Then and only then one star shines bright.

A SHOOTING STAR

Wow! You recognized me.

 

More Zen writings on Allspirit

Fireflies

Gill Washington God, Love, Poems, Rabindranath Tagore, Spirituality , , , , 0 Comment

By Rabindranath Tagore

I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.

Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.

Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.

Emancipation from the bondage of the soil
is no freedom for the tree.

In love I pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art.

Read more poems from Rabindranath Tagore

Index of poets on Allspirit

 

If Not A Poem

Gill Washington Hydeh Aubon, Poems , , 0 Comment

If poetry is painting your moments
on the canvas of your heart,
if poetry is your soul taking you
to where your body is incapable
of traveling but your soul gallops to
with no limits, then,
this is my lot.
My lot of touching life through
expressing feelings that can be
dreams, or can this limit be a dream?
A nightmare? A mirage?
If my seeing my right foot
entering the pond of fresh water
while a swan is passing by peacefully,
if the first touch of water
bursts life in me,
if I can inhale the wild herbs
the fresh greenery
the wet forest,
then, this has to be a poem.
Maybe not professional
with the choice of words, grammar
or structure. But the swan
that was passing, the water lilies,
the colorful butterfly on the violet,
the playful robin, the poetry
in this raving silence, and God,
no, none of them care.
So this is my lot.
I bless it and thank it and
leave the “naming” to you.

Hydeh Aubon (1/19/08)