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Thread: ARTS: Big and Little Poetry--free verse, any verse.

  1. #151

    ARTS: Big and Little Poetry--free verse, any verse.

    Shawnzen, I appreciate your poetry and understanding what I was doing with you tonight as I get ready to go to bed. I understand your little gifts. Your big gifts. You made me care and look again for your name.
    sat/ lah
    Tai Shi

    Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk Pro
    Last edited by Tai Shi; 06-04-2021 at 03:05 AM.
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  2. #152
    I love this verse because it reminds me of “the silent Zen verb” Jundo is always raving about. It’s a verse from ‘Elegía del silencio’ (July 1920) by Federico García Lorca

    en Espeñol:

    Huyendo del sonido
    eres sonido mismo,
    espectro de armonía,
    humo de grito y canto.
    Vienes para decirnos
    en las noches oscuras
    la palabra infinita
    sin aliento y sin labios.

    In English:

    Fleeing from sound
    you are sound itself:
    ghost of harmony,
    smoke of the cry and of song.
    On dark nights you come to us
    to whisper the infinite
    word without breath,
    without lips.

    And one from me:

    When just sitting
    The bottom falls out
    Nothing left
    But everything
    Whole and complete


    Last edited by StoBird; 06-06-2021 at 05:15 AM.

  3. #153
    Gift of my Buddha Nature

    He held in right hand, pen of left hand escaped then gone,
    Years before. fingers of tight, left hand useless. Pressure typed,
    He vowed to Compose no lines in bones. Instead in fine relief
    With this precious gems, his poetry washed of dead ash,

    From splashing wounds which crippled his great mind,
    When Darkness left, she created her own brilliant ideas, great
    Blackberry Winter, then his daughter born of travail, another work
    Husband's blessing spoken infinity of love for one to need life

    Silently much Greater mother for child, she carried quietly
    Little girl in quiet stillness brought motherhood to wonder
    Where baby would grow, how stillness she would be in his arms
    Lives given to books, gift for child who escaped with difficulty,

    Family final relief, both ways with words figured into details,
    Man with sobering thoughts, clean Rocky Mountains climbed,
    Woman with work monuments of motherhood, flowering motherhood
    In solitude as her child grew while she became thoughtful mother

    Gracious for her sober husband who decades together expected
    In more quiet manly, piety loud acts into air, days growing
    He slowly found his sight. Motherhood was beautiful. Careful
    He showed more than comfortable clothing with meaning

    They finally aged together after time wore on, singleness
    Together one family incarnation, realized with intention desired
    Her uncut flowers grew everywhere. laughter, perennials yearly
    Mothers Day Stylized in Joy, freedom to care for girl's life,

    Child's mind grew, he lost anger in him lost slowly to one,
    Habitual requirement of lost his in adulthood petty emotion
    from deftly drawing his mind lost in sixty-eight years
    With his own Mother, he worked day by day, was finally

    Father, never loneliness again, partner restored to lead song
    Not false wisdom, anguished in tranquility regained step by
    Step, money saved at his age ceasing death while she labored.
    Words Resumed full momentum in poems, serious laughter,

    Delight of Fourth Quartet days without his ratcheting stigma
    Power in sanity, ever mindful of his ways always, returned instead
    Of Wonder in St. Louis capturing lands where delicious gardens,
    Vineyard grew while French didn't weep when Tathagata's
    Kind word was quiet below his Bodhi Tree bringing stillness,

    Like morning stars, earthly touch. Then beams of The Sutras,
    Resurrection so Truthfully not endured, but combined, completed,
    These men and women naturally, Four Nobel Truths a gift
    Which husband embraced in arms distant like truth free, one's

    Simple eight fold path never stated, river crossed daily, implied
    Peacefully in precepts providing path undertaken instead
    Of delicate forced thinking. Companionship working today,
    With gratitude of joy, loyalty rising before simple work creations

    In glorified Haiku thinking scribbled words tumbling without books
    Forgotten like eight spokes of wheels rolling forth where Asoka
    Relived his battles in these publications forgotten earned degrees
    Charged every flame, every deftly wrong word edited out of suffering.

    Never where he sought found purity in writing, where are forms
    From his mind given to younger friends in gaining no fame. left
    To one dying of fatal fatigue syndrome or rheumatoid spine, rituals
    Of light for work, Freedom in spoken verses never silently made, lead

    Into ignorant of blue Skies, Pearls where Appassionato played
    Centuries before visions without distortion, they always wrote fine
    Poems of Loveliness, friendship secured his lines of surety, younger
    Played Brandenburg Violins, Gifts pf Alpines he passed on meadows,

    Mountain Trails traversed language where lupins fell, petals on shoulders.
    Wrought purple, blue lupins in memorized Deer Park, in Plumb Village
    In fall gold, red trees, another wise trees in Vermont, where spring days
    She played with owners friend, daughter finding self, different trails

    Her words greater Populated from free of daylight, each Discovery
    In great Criticism of Women in Literature wrong, long poems helped
    Hidden Deep social media meaning fear of lost meaning soon disappearing
    Gone after purge, nothing reached she found their when lines

    Divided The Heart Sutra lost enlightenment inspiration flooding
    Rivers, computers wrong, purged of intensive books gone, panic
    For posterity, each year, final gifts destroyed greatest lines, stories
    Prose, all Literature brilliant Daughters writing books, she saved this art.

    Parents gave life to their daughters greatest wish to write, their wish
    Finest rubies, daughter freedom Forty years after marriage vows,
    Parents aged, Laurel wreath, her own words of magnitude ageing now,
    To uncover young Japanese poems, prose more stories, completion.

    Then they could comprehend, daughter's gifts of equanimity realized
    More than desire above childish thinking, her own Shikantaza, Tai Shi's
    Poetry gifts of white flowers, great seeds, food of poems with hooded
    Certainty in honesty, transparency, words with blue translucency.

    lah/ sat

    Last edited by Tai Shi; 06-14-2021 at 10:48 PM. Reason: revision
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  4. #154
    Member Seikan's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2020
    Massachusetts, United States
    Beautiful verse Tai Shi! I love this.



    Sent from my Pixel 4a (5G) using Tapatalk
    聖簡 Seikan (Sacred Simplicity)

  5. #155
    Prairie before Dawn

    Poetry respects
    Lilies of the rain
    Naturally scattered
    Blue nature, as more
    Of Buddha's linage
    Delicate music night,
    Mindfully Diurnal
    Life of conifer touch
    Self, green mornings
    In stories monogamous
    Found birds in domes
    Near waterfalls
    Renbourn as wrens
    Most secretive of Fire
    To never destroy,
    Insectivores destructive
    Not upon Earth
    Or other creatures.
    They hide or show
    Varieties play
    In touch together
    Flowers of birth
    Twenty pairs
    Soft petals
    Only baby
    Felt good four
    Months difficult birth
    To end all time,
    Eyes, children
    Choices for none
    Gentle trees could fall
    Like Mother bird
    She could provide
    Never Four,
    Three their gift
    To girl, Laurel
    Baby presented

    They could build
    Poetry fruition,
    Why his lights,
    Look at reflections
    Look at forest pines
    Of his heart turned
    Carefully prairies
    Grow crops, gain
    Food to help both,
    Sadness their way
    Mountains gone,
    Dispelled War, peaceful
    Guns never caried
    Away, more tears
    He could be taken
    From evergreen
    Sliced into pieces
    Insane, not insanity
    Regained selfhood
    In fatherhood,
    His tears
    His solitude.

    He ran away to Asia
    His mind, his vocations
    Of Bill Everson found
    In his poetry, encouraged
    In letters, Advisory
    of Writing good verse
    This woman bore child
    Shown brilliance
    In great sadness
    Slow mind thinking
    Sixty-nine years
    Word fortifications
    Gone, what takes
    Place as she closed
    Her perfection
    His Lotus Sutra
    Both remain
    Human for child.
    Child accidental
    They Knew
    Their poverty
    Give today
    Never to child
    Childhood seen
    Not found this work
    Away his Drink,
    Quietly taken.
    More than three
    Decades Now each day
    In sober thoughts
    Great balance
    This wheel sown
    Earth inspired Reality

    Understood wars
    Closed nothingness
    Shown wide awake
    Not romancing,
    Enhancing parenthood
    Faces never wayward
    Notes, invisible
    Painfully Risen
    Held bodies
    Found what cared,
    Their safety
    In child's life.

    sat/ lah
    Tai Shi
    Last edited by Tai Shi; 06-24-2021 at 08:42 PM. Reason: Full revision
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  6. #156
    Poet and teacher
    Everson was an influential member of the San Francisco Renaissance in poetry and worked closely with Kenneth Rexroth during this period of his life. Throughout his life, Everson was a great admirer of the work and life of poet Robinson Jeffers. Much of his work as a critic was done on Jeffers's poetry.

    Everson registered as an anarchist and a pacifist with his draft board, in compliance with the 1940 draft bill. In 1943, he was sent to a Civilian Public Service (CPS) work camp for conscientious objectors in Oregon.[1] In Camp Angel at Waldport, Oregon, with other poets, artists and actors such as Kemper Nomland, William Eshelman, Kermit Sheets, Glen Coffield, George Woodcock and Kenneth Patchen, he founded a fine-arts program in which the CPS men staged plays and poetry-readings and learned the craft of fine printing. During his time as a conscientious objector, Everson completed The Residual Years, a volume of poems that launched him to national fame.

    Everson married poet Mary Fabilli on June 12, 1948,[2] and influenced by her religious devotion, converted to Catholicism.[3] Everson joined the Catholic Church in 1951 and soon became involved with the Catholic Worker Movement in Oakland, California. He took the name Brother Antoninus when he joined the Dominican Order in 1951 in Oakland. As an initiate in the Order, he printed the unfinished Novum Psalterium PII XII, an acknowledged masterpiece in American fine press printing. A colorful literary and counterculture figure, he was nicknamed the Beat Friar. The central motif throughout all of Antoninus' Catholic poetry is Incarnation, the central symbol of the Christian mystery. In 1956, he met an English Dominican, Father Victor White, at St. Albert's Dominican priory. White, of the English Dominican province and a longtime friend of Carl Jung, with whom he maintained a voluminous correspondence, was resident lecturer and theologian there. It was through this relationship to Victor White that Antoninus learned to look at his dreams from an in-depth religious angle for meaning. He devoured the Collected Works of Jung and began his psychological analysis of the unconscious as well as the analysis of many individuals who came to him for counseling. Antoninus wrote the first draft of his long erotic poem River-Root / A Syzygy, which he considered to be his most prophetic work. As Everson said in an interview for Creation magazine, with its founder and editor, the theologian and Episcopal priest Matthew Fox, he saw it as a complete re-writing of the Song of Songs, bringing frank Eros back into the Psalms and undoing Christianity's longstanding separation of the sexual from the spiritual for purposes of modernity. Jung's writings influenced the contributions Everson made to post-religious poetical thought in America. After leaving St Albert's, where he had practiced as a lay monk, poet and spiritual counselor for 18 years, Antoninus left his religious habit after a reading at the University of California at Davis campus on December 7, 1969. He left the Dominicans in 1969 and married a woman many years his junior, Susanna Rickson. At this time, he became a step-father to his son, Jude Everson. When Antoninus wrote The Rose of Solitude, he saw it published in many magazines. However, when he wrote The Veritable Years under William Everson, having left Antoninus behind, he couldn't even get his work reviewed. He then assumed the mantle of a poet-shaman to replace his religious habit. The 1974 poem Man-Fate explores this transformation from Brother Antoninus into William Everson, the West-Coast poet-shaman. Everson was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 1972.

    Everson spent most of his years living near the central California coast a few miles north of Santa Cruz in a cabin he dubbed Kingfisher Flat. He was poet-in-residence at the University of California, Santa Cruz during the 1970s and 1980s. There he founded the Lime Kiln Press, a small press through which he printed highly sought-after fine-art editions of his own poetry as well as of the works of other poets, including Robinson Jeffers and Walt Whitman. For the most part, Everson's reputation was based on his poetry, printing, and public readings.

    In 2009 Everson's former student Steven Herrmann brought renewed attention to Everson as a shamanic teacher. Herrmann later compiled a series of interviews with the poet-shaman from 1991 to 1993 that were published as William Everson: The Shaman's Call. Everson maintained an adhesion to his Catholic faith until his final days. In 1982, by a meaningful coincidence, Everson was asked to write an introduction to Victor White's book God and the Unconscious. In the final two years of his life, Everson worked on an unfinished autobiographical work titled Dust Shall Be the Serpent's Food. Everson died at his home on June 2, 1994, and his body was buried at the Dominican Cemetery in Benicia, California.

    Everson's papers are archived at the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library at UCLA[4] and The Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley.[5]

    Black Sparrow Press released a three-volume series of the collected poems of Everson, the last volume was published in 2000. In 2003, the California Legacy Project published Dark God of Eros: A William Everson Reader.

    Found in Wikipedia
    In 1988 I corresponded with William Everson.
    My Mentor at the time was Bill Hotchkiss friends with the poets of San Francisco.
    Dr Hotchkiss was English Instructor and tenured faculty at Sierra College and helped publish The Sierra Journal where over two decades I published many poems. Everson examined a portfolio of five of my poems while I was graduate student at Colorado State University commenting to me in 1988 that I held great promise as a poet. At one Time my friend Bill Hotchkiss maintained a strong friendship. Hotchkiss self published much of his own work. When Bill Hotchkiss passed away in 2008, I took it hard and lost my vicarious relationship with these poets. I had lived with my father in 1972, the time of the Kent State Massacre. My Farther lived in Colfax, and Sierra College is located in Rocklin, California, I was a poetry student of Bill Hotchkiss in 1971, 1872, In the Draft Lottery I held the number 288, and I remember my father rushing in to tell me "Chuck, you missed the draft!" However. it was true that I still could have been taken to fight in the Vietnam, War. That fall, I flew to Amsterdam where I bought a bicycle and bicycled across the Netherlands and into Germany. I held a Student Visa because the end of October I entered the Goethe Institute as a Germany Language student. At the end of December I gained employment at Kaufhof in Munich where I worked until mid spring and took off with two people my age and we toured Europe that Spring and early summer. I flew to Des Moines where I met my mother and reentered Grinnell College io earn my BA in English literature in 1974. I entered therapy the fall of 74 diagnosed with mental illness and for four years I "Got my head on straight." It was not until 2018 I began mental health "with bipolar one, having somehow kept my marriage, and parented with my wife a young woman ABD PhD at this point. She is in Japan doing research on obscure writers found in social media. I do not understand her linguistic research. When she finishes in three years she will be BA, MFA, PHD. In the schools she has attended, she owes $10,000. She has earned every accolade a scholar can earn, and will begin to teach as visiting American Teacher, at I think Wasa University in or near Tokyo. She is now in Tokyo under quarantine for Covid 19 as a precaution for this virus. When she finishes quarantine in two weeks, she begins her research as Fulbright scholar in Tokyo. It was in 1975, after I took General Psychology I first read Zen Mind, Beginner Mind and launched in into my search for this practice called Zen, and I tried every imaginable chemical to try and find satori, and to this day I have not found it. The same comment can be found by Suzuki Roshi' wife. I gave up alcohol, with the help of my wife Marjorie, meaning pearl, July 22, 1987 on the verge of losing all. In December of 1990 I earned my MFA in creative writing. Thank you Bill Everson, and Bill Hotchkiss, and my advisor at CSU who has maintained a lifelong friendship Professor Emeritus Bill Tremblay who has practiced Tai Chi through the Nyropa Institute. I have had a life of lost and found poetry. Workshops where I was awarded As And with MFA in creative writing/poetry I have had a "wonderful life" with my best Friend Marjorie, we were married June 12, 1982. Someday I want to write my novel The Orange Bicycle. Referenced material here from Wikipedia, and my personal experiences.
    Tai Shi
    Last edited by Tai Shi; 07-12-2021 at 02:35 PM. Reason: Credits
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  7. #157
    My brevity is lost in three books, the third underway. Oh Jundo, or Kokuu the poet or the Grandfather of American poetry in the 20th Century, Jewish again, Marvin Bell, the eternal ache.
    sat/ lah
    Tai Shi
    Last edited by Tai Shi; 07-16-2021 at 09:28 PM. Reason: concision, spelling.
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  8. #158
    Still is air

    Some poetry
    From silent Douglas Fir
    Brother, father, mother
    Aunts, cousins, family gone
    Cannot see, wife, daughter,
    Remain Everlastingly
    In stanzas stronger
    Than ash or any tree.

    sat/ lah
    Tai Shi
    Last edited by Tai Shi; 07-24-2021 at 04:55 PM. Reason: word order (syntax)
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  9. #159
    His Lotus Sutra

    Life is poetry
    Baroque in music
    Bach his land,
    Decade on Decade,
    Joy in Poems discover
    Daughter's Japan
    Her red sun.

    Purple bright,
    Delight is new
    For all to see
    Belgian pearl,
    Yet, love is sad,
    Mother's Grace
    Bestows his pain,

    They part again
    Their swollen
    Sadness grows.
    Marjorie JoAn,
    Wipe your tears,
    Your Laurel Ann
    As mother Mary
    Knew recovery
    His Soto Zen,
    Was Universal,
    As Unity.

    "Your final calm,
    Dad Gift of Gatha
    On Fathers Day."
    Peace in Lotus
    Circling dew.
    His Sutra azure
    Buddha soft
    Equality great
    Soprano peace.

    Taught his spine
    Relaxed his pace
    His sad Hiroshima
    Bones collide
    Bright as ocean
    Small his spine
    His counterpoint,

    So real her voice
    Crimson Japanese.
    No anger wrought,
    Daughter shows
    Hope he sought
    Planed in poetry
    Her living trust.

    deep bows
    sat. lah
    Tai Shi
    Last edited by Tai Shi; 07-24-2021 at 06:11 PM. Reason: complete ideas
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  10. #160
    I invite everyone; to new people I invite all. Post any poetry, or any art writing; letters, or journal/ diary entries, scratches in old text books, doodles, jotted dreams or dreamscapes, love notes, waste paper notes. Especially your own poems, made here, or there. Your empty space. Little or big. All.
    sat/ lah
    Tai Shi
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

  11. #161
    Member brucef's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2016
    Encounter Bay, South Australia, Australia
    Billy Collins is an American poet who was born in 1941. This is his poem Picnic, Lightning.

    It is possible to be struck by a
    meteor or a single-engine plane while
    reading in a chair at home. Pedestrians
    are flattened by safes falling from
    rooftops mostly within the panels of
    the comics, but still, we know it is
    possible, as well as the flash of
    summer lightning, the thermos toppling
    over, spilling out on the grass.
    And we know the message can be
    delivered from within. The heart, no
    valentine, decides to quit after
    lunch, the power shut off like a
    switch, or a tiny dark ship is
    unmoored into the flow of the body's
    rivers, the brain a monastery,
    defenseless on the shore. This is
    what I think about when I shovel
    compost into a wheelbarrow, and when
    I fill the long flower boxes, then
    press into rows the limp roots of red
    impatiens -- the instant hand of Death
    always ready to burst forth from the
    sleeve of his voluminous cloak. Then
    the soil is full of marvels, bits of
    leaf like flakes off a fresco,
    red-brown pine needles, a beetle quick
    to burrow back under the loam. Then
    the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue, the
    clouds a brighter white, and all I
    hear is the rasp of the steel edge
    against a round stone, the small
    plants singing with lifted faces, and
    the click of the sundial as one hour
    sweeps into the next.

  12. #162
    Brucef, thank you so much for your poem by Billy Collins, Poet Laureate in America; according to Bruce Weber in the New York Times, as America's "Most Popular Poet," "most famous for conversational poems." By the way, I made a one time donation of $2.75 to keep Wikipedia afloat, and you can too. That's where I get my information and this is good stuff given there by the Poetry Foundation. Please, please, all of you like brucef, give us a poem and especially one of your own.
    sat/ lah
    Tai Shi
    Last edited by Tai Shi; 08-18-2021 at 04:38 PM. Reason: more info, encouragement.
    ...Thought and action/ your life would never experience, (even before you were born), But he also being the Devine Cannot, He etched every moment of your existence, With His own hand... Haifiz

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