Poetry

  • Incense Thrown on the Buddha Paid Member

    The influence of Zen Master Ikkyu (1394–1481) permeates the full field of medieval Japanese aesthetics. Though best known as a poet, he was central to the shaping and reshaping of practices in calligraphy, Noh theater, tea ceremony, and rock gardening, all of which now define Japan's sense of its cultural tradition.  More »
  • Yuthok Lane Paid Member

    This is how it will be:we will take a walk on concrete, not blue tiles, and you will pretend to be disappointed.This will have the quality of a ritual. In the morning, the sun will fall from the sky;we will protect ourselves against its fire.It is not so unbearable, but we have learnt to be wary of arrivals from the east. We are unbeautiful here;our stay in the plains has rendered us so.But whispers now carry endearments,and we will not have it any other way. More »
  • Arriving Without a Sound Paid Member

    Myokyo Dream "Stop fidgeting" she saysI'm picking candle wax off my robesWe're all sitting in the ZendoPeople of all ages introducing themselves. "I'm here because I read too much" I say. August 4, 2007 There Are Those Buddhists                   like myselfwho do not scorn the ideaof mere “things” possessinga sanctityof their own More »
  • The Robert Frost Kickball Club Paid Member

    In my soul grows a small soul. In my small soul, one smaller. Infinite repetition, nonstop loop. Each beanstalk is an endophyte. Inside my teeth lie small baby teeth. Inside those, infinitesimal baby teeth. I reject each grim oath whispered by gypsies in Western Mass. I fumigate rotting futons. If he were still akickin' I'd kick Robert Frost's ass in kickball. I'd pop the ball, restitch it with shards of marble. I'd talk shit + run up the motherfuckin' score. The game within the game. I hereby donate my bargain-bin Kama Sutra handbook to a humanoid giraffe named Koan. Koan rocks black  glasses and a Kangol. More »
  • Turning Madness into Flowers Paid Member

    If my sorrow were deeperI'd be, along with you, underthe ocean's floor;but today I learn that the oilthat pools beneath the ocean flooris essenceresidueremainsof all ourrelationsallour ancestors who have died and turned to oilwithout our witnesseons ago.We've always belonged to them.Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water's edgeas well as for myself.It is our griefheavy, relentless,trudgingus, however resistant,to the decaying and rottenbottom of things:our grief bringingus home. Alice Walker is a poet, activist, essayist, and Pulitzer Prize–winning novelist. More »