a poem by Boston Shambhala Center Coordinator, Sarah Lipton
May 19, 2010

watching water turn to water

where is the poetry
‘neathe sodden clouds
in the middle of a city?
like ducks or geese
the many dogs
we dodge around
looking for or hiding from
some attainment
of the meaning of meaning

raindrops fall
from the clouds of our delusion
where is the wind
to blow our minds
where is the storm and thunder?
it rumbles beyond mind
beneath our feet
like 10,000s of Gesar’s soldiers
rushing into stillness
suddenly a wakeful mind

stopping by this tree i know
watching water turn to water
droplets into ripples
a painting, a creation
unfolding before my eyes
there is contentment
like the Tiger
because i know, yes i do
how to accept and to reject
and ultimately
how to smile

so where, you say,
is the poetry
in the middle of spring’s rainy city?
it is here:
in the green waxing of leaves
some already nibbled by bugs
in the chitter and chatter of
women and men
in the grunching grind of buses
and taxis, trucks and trains
the whirr and whine of sirens
and planes
in the breeze that blows in
from the sea
so that even here
there is the smell of salt
especially in the longing cry of gull
ducks and pigeons do a spring dance together
and squirrels are much too tame
but the wind in the willow
thrills this warrior’s raw heart
and the mist soothes her mind

it is here, i say
where the poetry resides
powerful
and thunderous in itself
like watching water
turn
to water

magnolias burst
like blossoms of snow
remembrance of winter past
but indicative of spring to come

what pain must each bud feel
before ripping off the gauze of green
and exposing the tenderest petals
to the merciless tempests of wind and rain?

this birthing each year
the slow process of life renewing life
does the branch regret
it’s burgeoning leaves?

or is there a rejoicing cry
each time a leaf unfurls
the branches free at last
of their pent up, roiling sap?

the dance of it is obvious
the perfection absolute
it is creation and completion
simple and precise

~ by Sarah Lipton, March 23rd, 2010

Karen Iglehart will be having a show of her original oil paintings at Trident Cafe (338 Newbury Street, Boston) on April 4th, and would like to extend an invitation to the sangha to drop by after the Parinirvana program. The image below is a sample of one of the paintings that will be showcased.

On Sunday, March 14th at the Boston Shambhala Center amidst a rain of blessings, 15 new refugees took their vows in the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha under the powerful preceptor - Kalapa Acharya Adam Lobel. It was a beautiful and moving ceremony and culminated in a boisterous celebration. One refugee shared this poem with us:

Refugee

I am homeless, loveless,
listless, breathless.
nothing works to calm me
nothing satisfies me

I am motherless, fatherless,
son and daughterless
no one left to comfort me
no one left to feed me

my land is gone, my ground is gone,
my roof is gone, my companion gone,
my mind is gone, my songs are gone,
my people gone, my stories gone,
my name is gone, my god is gone.

I am locked in the dungeon
of groundless boundlessness
I am chained like a prisoner
to radiant emptiness
I am bound like a dog
to brilliant freedom

I am the stray
the leaf
the sun
no one
no one
no one

~ Jim Infantino
JIMINFANTINO.COM

Days of Sunshine and Storm by guest writer Frank Ryan

Have been told that
Mamo
is a term of affection
for dakinis
of open awake
sunshine and storm
tuning in or turning stone.

Neither casually cruising
nor ponderously proclaiming,
we invite, praise and command
these various women
who fill a thousand realms
to banish into space
these viper mirages of outer, inner and secret.

Only mind itself
nothing but your smiling face
can pacify these raging squalls,
avert sickness, döns and obstacles,
master the glory of profound, brilliant,
just and powerful,
and usher in self-existing kingdom of delight.

To one and all
Among the snowflakes
settling on each other
like accumulations of karma or of understanding
or of neither,
To everyone who will enter this year -
every foot fall, every glance, every opening
that lets the wind come in -
May you be at home in the warm and vast
freedom to which the dharma points
with everlasting kisses for everyone.

~ poem by Arthur Dion

“The poem is intended as a salute to our sangha on the first morning of 2010. It was composed spontaneously as written; this is the original. It emulates the tradition of spontaneous poetry within our lineage, which I understand to have been given to us by the Vidyadhara.”

Guest Post by Jim Infantino:

I started writing and playing songs on my guitar when I was 13 as a way to express my teenage frustration and sadness, and as a way to become popular. To that end, I wrote mostly humorous songs, or breakup songs. And to a large extent, this has not changed.

Songs have a direct access to the mind that is unparalleled. They simultaneously engage us intellectually, physically and emotionally. TV shows and movies cannot engage us in the same the way. In fact these media require music to give their stories the proper dramatic impact. Unlike TV shows, or motion pictures, songs can turn our everyday humdrum world into something dramatic. A walk to the gym, and an hour on the treadmill can become something heroic, or tragic, or funky, or sexy, or funny with the right playlist on our iPod. A bus ride becomes a scene from a movie in which we are the stars, and everyone around us is an extra.

Songs are like candy for the ego.
Read the rest of this entry »

Sangha member Jim Infantino’s band is playing at the Burren in Davis Square, Sommerville every week the month of August.
For more information, click here.

These images were created by Katherine during the Miksang workshop held at the center in June, taught by Lance Brunner. Miksang is a Tibetan word that translates as “Good Eye.” The Miksang program of contemplative photography brings together the art of photography, the discipline of meditation and the Dharma Art teachings of the meditation master and scholar Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

For more information about Miksang, click here.

the courage of grass

in the Rocky Mountains
on the edge of the prairie
you can see a thunderstorm approach
miles away it seems
though the heat of lightning
is as sharp and close
as the red ants beneath my feet

the thunder thrills
and our hearts race
like deer through the meadow

wild flowers shine bravely
before the storm
not knowing whether
this way it will come or pass by

the courage of grass
to dance and sway
singing its whispering song
melts this already broken heart

the strength of stone and mountain
to withstand the onslaught of storm after storm
reflects the true heart of the land

when sun hides behind those
dragon clouds
small blue flowers
drop their petals

~ by Sarah Lipton, from my recent experience at Shambhala Mountain Center where I just completed Warrior Assembly