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THE LIBRARY POEMS:
Notes From the Stacks
Raindrops fall by the handful
upon the metal roof.
In the gray morning light through
the window in the monastery
library, a monk wrapped in robes
the color of cooked squash
reads a book on mindfulness.
A thousand books on awakening surround
us here. On liberation, the Path, contemplation,
wisdom, emptiness, calmness, thisness
thatness, nothingness. I could spend my
life in this room, as handfuls of
water fell.
The poetry of the path is here, too,
yet another beautiful distraction---
'Old Path, White Clouds,' 'Golden Zephyr,'
'Spiritual Muscles,' 'Emptiness Yoga,'
'The Wisdom of No Escape,' 'Calm and Clear'. ...
I gather up these fragments, looking to fashion
a shelter, unsure if I am just
dabbling along
The Way.
The Buddha Was Not a Buddhist
The Buddha was not a Buddhist.
What does this mean? It is an easy,
a clever thing to say. Certainly,
it has meaning--- Christ was not a Christian!
A dig at all 'isms' and 'ists.'
A fine and useful sentiment---
the Buddha was NOT a Buddhist.
But what does it mean, why does it linger
beyond the cleverness, in the mind?
For certainly, the Buddha was no Buddhist.
'Let's go hear that fellow talk, that Buddhist guy....'
No, he was the Buddha, nothing more or less
or beyond. Yet we who follow his teachings
(who try to follow them, lose our way, gain it,
fall asleep for 10,000 more years, awaken for a moment)
are we Buddhists?
A useful thing to be, perhaps. It helps to know
the course of study. What to focus your
telescope upon among the vast choices in the
starry night. It helps to know what you are ordering
from the menu, dishes chosen for their healthfulness,
salutory scents, tastes and effects.
'Welcome to the Buddhist Cafe!' 'Buddhism Spoken
Here!' 'Buddhists Welcome!' 'All Buddhism,
All the Time!'
Yet to be an 'ism' or an 'ist'
is to be what the Buddha was not.
It's a small point. Cast off the raft of
the teachings when you reach the other shore,
he said. We run around on this one,
those of us still seeking the boat and art of paddling.
We flash our Buddhist badges at passersby
---'Buddhists At Work!'---a strange flavor in
our mouths, a gun-metal taste, have we
soured the teachings by claiming them for our
own? The Buddha stands, sits, reclines,
never once a Buddhist. A reminder
of what we do not need to become
a Buddha.
Sangha
There is safety in numbers, the numberless
raindrops falling faster now,
an Irish step dance of pats, taps and stomps.
I mean to say, safety in the number of robed men, women
and be-cushioned lay people here.
'Sangha,' that is. Out there, on the rolling
waves of the world, the turbulent,
violent waves, we are alone with ourselves
and our choices.
But all this talk is rubbish. We are neither
never alone nor ever quite together, completely.
Until the extinguishment of Nibbana---whatever
that is---we are separate lamps, separate
flames, pulsating with the same identical
source of illumination.
(Bhavana Society library, Hampshire County, W.Va., Summer 1998)
5 Poems by Dinty W. Moore, Issue 1
"Sky Burial" by Michael Titus, Issue 1
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