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

Congratulations to Greg Smith, Jim Infantino and Simon Spiller from Boston for successfully completing the recent Shambhala Guide Training at Karme Choling!!! The program was intense and powerful, directed by Acharya Arawana Hayashi and Assistant Directed by a wonderful group: Charlie Trageser, Gail Flynn, Joe Inskeep and Ree Katrak. There were 28 participants from all over the mandala, Sarah Lipton coordinated, and while the program began in the snow, it ended with brilliant sunshine and stunningly green meadows.

The Boston community is excited to welcome these new Shambhala Guides! Ki Ki So So!

Jim Infantino spontaneously composed the poem below upon reflecting about the experience.

The cliffside temple

The world is inside out.
Listening is all
The effort and effortlessness
The wisdom and the reward.

The better you get,
the lonelier you become.
This is a moment to celebrate
To self liberate, to be celibate,
Author a cry to which no one responds.

We are thoroughly fucked.
Don’t dress it it up
Don’t insult yourself.
Start accepting it.

Unimaginable one,
Dwelling in the form of the beloved
Perched day after day in despair
Drinking and vomiting
Receiving gifts, giving thanks
Finding inspiration neither in the sky
Nor the rotting den of ascetics,
I feel my heart open at the thought of you.

How stupid it is to be cool.
Our faces smeared with dog shit
Criticizing each other’s footwear.

Space itself shines with the light
Of innumerable points of view
Beauty and wisdom
Pain and desire
Shame and regret
Heaps and fear and brilliance
Motes in emptiness
Listen!

~ Jim Infantino, on the occasion of Shambhala Guide Training at KCL, April 28-May 2, 2010

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

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.”

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

Congratulations to Boston Shambhala community member Bert Stern for the release of his book of poetry called “Steerage.”

Bert will be publishing his poetry collection “Steerage” with the Ibbetson Street Press. Bert is a Somerville poet, a Bagel Bard, a Shambhala practitioner, among other things. A poem from this collection was published in a recent issue of the American Poetry Review. Bert has been published widely over the years and is a Wallace Stevens scholar.

Steerage, in which class Stern’s parents came across to the United States, is where this remarkable book of poems starts, with such memory as Stern can piece together, or imagine, of what brought his ancestors, driven out of Russia by pogrom, to a life in Buffalo. “All suffered to bring me here to this room where I write, bigger than the house my mother was born in.”

“I am somebody’s dream. Let them/ tell me if they can . . . if I am recompense for what they endured.”

Born in Buffalo, New York in 1930. Bert Stern was was educated at the University of Buffalo, Columbia, and at Indiana University, where he earned his Ph.D. in English.

Stern taught for forty years at Wabash College, where he is now Milligan Professor of English, Emeritus. He also taught from 1965-67 at the University of Thessalonica and from 1984-85 at Peking University. He presently teaches in the Changing Lives Through Literature program.

His poems have been published in New Letters, The American Poetry Review, Indiana Review, Poetry, Spoon River Poetry Review, among others, and in a number of anthologies. His chapbook, Silk/The Ragpicker’s Grandson, was published by Red Dust in 1998. His essays and reviews have appeared in Sewanee Review, Southern Review, Modern Language Review, The New Republic, Southern Review, Columbia Teachers’ College Record, Adirondack Life, and in a number of anthologies. His critical study, Wallace Stevens: Art of Uncertainty, was published by the University of Michigan Press in 1965.

“This is the voice of a wondrously common man. By common, I mean generous, inclusive, and able to dance, at times alone if necessary, with God and with life. Heart, and the words thereof, require expansive courage that can regard both death and immeasurable sorrow without dread. The poems in Steerage, whether they are sensuously peasant like and ethnic, or contemplative and spare, are crafted like indestructible carpentry. ” Frannie Lindsay

PROLOGUE: A LITTLE POEM

Oy, Gott, send me a little poem,
you’ll never miss it.
Sweet gottenyu!
You know how I could use it.
Not Paradise Lost or the book of Job I’m asking,
only something normal,
a little poem proper to me.

I want voices of things chattering in it
like it has rolled around with the earth a while.
Let it smell of something,
smoked fish, a woman’s skin,
a gedile mid grivn,
red wine under the nose
just before you drink.

Did I ask to hear the earth thumping in it,
like on the third day?
Or for peace, happiness, justice,
the wicked withering away?

No, a little poem only,
to watch water flowing through rocks,
fishes still in the current,
geese flying over,
noisy, like children.

A poem by Frank Ryan, written on the occasion of the 22nd Parinirvana of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche


Fistfight is Over

Beyond coming or going
our deepest longing and tender love.

The fistfight is over.

Now waltzing with phenomena
which never strays
from the expanse of your vast smile.
For all of us who fret
that we’ve missed so much,
we discover you in nowness
spotless on the top shelf of the spice rack

Two poems by Boston community member Kim Garcia.

Shifting Light 2004,
Columbia River Gorge 1982

I woke to the same dream. The room hadn’t changed:
the Buddha was still small and stiff, one brass hand raised
over the bed sheets; the old mirror returning the far wall

with its usual disregard for exactitude. There was no gold
in the morning light. A lighter dark seeped through the blinds.
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a few poems by Boston Shambhala’s Center Coordinator Sarah Lipton; photos by Calvin Hennig

wailing mermaids

it’s one of those nights, of dread and circumstance
the poetic sadness of too many layers
and only the ocean’s breeze for company
i try to listen to what the trees tell me
their song like the wailing of mermaids
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