Explore Poems: Buddhism

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For Chögyam Trungpa, the Eleventh Trungpa Tulku, who Fled Tibet for India when the Chinese Invaded
By John Balaban
Chased by Chinese troops, the monks
blinked like owls in the sun sheen

abandoning their burning temple
where the obdurate slumped over altars

with bullet-hole Third Eyes oozing
gunpowder and pineal, black blood.

With blizzards choking the high passes
they huddled in the cliff caves

while trusting you...
Inward
By Britney Franco
My eyes are on yours
Looking for my body in the dark pools of your pupils
And my mind is in a dark suburban town
Where the milkman delivers clanking bottles
To the homes of disenchanted Gen Xers.

You label me an old soul but...
The Wine
By Michael Metivier
When the townspeople
gave the teenaged Buddha
a glass of wine
so delicious he grew
to an unthinkable size
and froze into a blue statue
that shielded the town
from a wave that broke
upon his back
and would have swept away
the town if he’d not tasted
the wine and...
Running Brush
By David Roderick
Basho said to refuse a prayer until its warmth hunches inside like
a bird in its hutch. First the fledgling is born, then the worm, then they
meet somewhere in the grass. I choose my paper for its cereal color, fuss
over shaving...
Mahayana in Vermont
By Sydney Lea
My objectives this morning were vague.
As always I'd hike these hills—
a way to keep going
against the odds age deals,
a way to keep body and soul
together, and not so much thinking
as letting things steal into mind—
but I started counting

from the very...
Saying Farewell at the Monastery after Hearing the Old Master Lecture on “Return to the Source”
By Gary Snyder
At the last turn in the path
          “goodbye—”
          —bending, bowing,
       (moss and a bit of
          wild
             bird-)
down.Daitoku-ji Monastery
[all the time I pray to Buddha]
By Kobayashi Issa
Translated By Robert Hass
All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes.
Burning Island
By Gary Snyder
O Wave God      who broke through me today
    Sea Bream
    massive pink and silver
    cool swimming down with me watching
                      staying away from the spear

Volcano belly Keeper who lifted this island
    for our own beaded bodies adornment
    and sprinkles us all...
Action and Non-Action
By Chuang Tzu
Translated By Thomas Merton
The non-action of the wise man is not inaction.
It is not studied. It is not shaken by anything.
The sage is quiet because he is not moved,
Not because he wills to be quiet.
Still water is like glass.
You can look in it...
“Altar (#3)” from “Broken Chord Sequence”
By Marilyn Chin
Why cry over dried flowers?
They’re meant to be straw.
Why cry over miniature roses?
They’re meant to be small.

Why cry over Buddha’s hand citron?
Why cry over the hidden flower?
Why cry over Mother’s burnt forehead?
Her votive deathglow, her finest hour.
Of What is Real
By Richard Tagett
I like to lie with you wordless
on black cloud rooft beach
in late june 5 o’clock tempest
on clump weed bed with sand
fitting your contours like tailor made

and I like to wash my summer brown face
in north cold hudson rapids
with octagon soap
...
Calligraphy Accompanied by the Mood of a Calm but Definitive Sauce
By Dick Allen
Make your strokes thus: the horizontal:
as a cloud that slowly drifts across the horizon;
the vertical: as an ancient but strong vine stem;
the dot: a falling rock;
and learn to master the sheep leg, the tiger’s claw,
an apricot kernel, a dewdrop, the...
G-9
By Tim Dlugos
I'm at a double wake
in Springfield, for a childhood
friend and his father
who died years ago. I join
my aunt in the queue of mourners
and walk into a brown study,
a sepia room with books
and magazines. The father's
in a coffin; he looks exhumed,
the...
[He is pruning the privet]
By Joanne Kyger

He is pruning the privet

of sickly sorrow desolation
in loose pieces of air he goes clip clip clip
the green blooming branches fall—‘they’re getting...
Buddhist New Year Song
By Diane di Prima
I saw you in green velvet, wide full sleeves
seated in front of a fireplace, our house
made somehow more gracious, and you said
“There are stars in your hair”— it was truth I
brought down with me

to this sullen and dingy place that...
“Although the wind ...”
By Izumi Shikibu
Translated By Jane Hirshfield
Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.
What For
By Garrett Hongo
At six I lived for spells:
how a few Hawaiian words could call
up the rain, could hymn like the sea
in the long swirl of chambers
curling in the nautilus of a shell,
how Amida’s ballads of the Buddhaland
in the drone of the priest’s...
Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain
By Li Bai
Translated By Sam Hamill
The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.
The Garden Buddha
By Peter Pereira
Gift of a friend, the stone Buddha sits zazen,
prayer beads clutched in his chubby fingers.
Through snow, icy rain, the riot of spring flowers,
he gazes forward to the city in the distance—always

the same bountiful smile upon his portly face.
Why don’t I...
- Nature
- Trees & Flowers
- Religion
- Buddhism
- Living
- Time & Brevity
- Arts & Sciences
- Meters
- Free Verse
- + 2 more
Monastery Nights
By Chase Twichell
I like to think about the monastery
as I’m falling asleep, so that it comes
and goes in my mind like a screen saver.
I conjure the lake of the zendo,
rows of dark boats still unless
someone coughs or otherwise
ripples the calm.
I can hear...

p1Inward

p1The Wine

p1Calligraphy Accompanied by the Mood of a Calm but Definitive Sauce

Inward

The Wine

Calligraphy Accompanied by the Mood of a Calm but Definitive Sauce