Poems that I love

Song Three, Psalm 37 Do not fret because of those who are evil      or be envious of those who do wrong; for like the grass they will soon wither,      like green plants they will soon die away. I went looking for a psalm extolling highway robbery. There must be one. This is the way of conquerors, and King David led armies. Lady Elgin sought to honor her husband’s death in a far land behind a modest stone plaque, leaving plaudits in Westminster to his partners in crime.  James Bruce, 8 th Earl of Elgin and 12 th Earl of Kincardine, Governor of Jamaica, Governor General of the Province of Canada, special commissioner to China, and Viceroy of India, died of a heart attack while crossing a rope bridge over the river Chadly in Kullu, 100 kilometers east of where I live. It was on the 20 th of November 1863, so post monsoon, but still the river can be wild. I have crossed it myself, though in a car on a concrete bridge. Photographs show a substantial man who should have had enough sense

The Second Song, Psalm 23 You don’t know jack shit about sheep, herds or shepherds but this song remains a perennial favorite. The Gaddi were nomadic until they learned to drive taxis, clean and cook for the Tibetans who landed in their hill station little more than 60 years ago, and the Westerners who followed the lamas into the Dhauladhars, high foothills of the Himalayas. Here where I live Gaddi men used to graze huge flocks during the winter. Many still do. Before monsoon and after the snow has melted, shepherds set off in search of sweet grass high up where they will stay until the snows force them once again, along with the lemurs and bears, to retreat to the lower plains where they can interfere in the lives of other wanderers. They and their sheep cross the main road near Palampur, and head across the difficult mountains until they arrive nearly 100 kilometers north in the Chamba Valley--three weeks trekking. Their favored grasslands are near Bharmour where the oldest wooden te

The First Song, Psalm 24 7/30/22 Today I sing of construction and death Of making and taking away.   I once heard some angels sing  In plain chant “O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors.” I sat behind the screen, not allowed To see cloistered nuns’ bodies, not even wimples. I could not gaze into their eyes, And had to content myself with  A soft song of return to the City of God. This as close as I was allowed to venture. My carpenter called to say  My doors would have to wait a day. The father of one of the workers died last night And he, a pandit, had to attend to the rituals of death. . I love Sushil.  He works well. His eye is true. His lines are straight and plumb. His doors close and latch. Jerusalem is no more holy than my Indian Jogiwara. The nuns who sang so sweetly believe theirs was the City of God.  Though I never trusted Augustine, I almost did When I heard their soft cry to the Lord. May they sing for Sushil today as he lights the pyre to consume this father

I once knew a girl whose father was filthy rich. He built row upon row of tacky boxes  that mar the views on the outskirts of San Francisco, a wilderness that chokes out coffee houses and bars and brothels, all the places where freedom and language get down. He passed his declining years trying to rhyme 2 x 4, pencil and Uncle Sam, verse that would make Ogden Nash blush. Once she asked me and some friends to her hot tub. We all had big dicks that she tried to rhyme with fun. We were naked and she wore a bathing suit. I was thankful her father had trained her well in the art of really bad poetry. Ken Ireland

by Ken Ireland She might have even been as Spartan as Father Ignatius if her taste had not run to plastered walls, a few modest chintz prints and poignant photos of helpless children. You could have fed a child in Haiti for that price, Sister. Alok asked me about priest-craft— appeasing hungry ghosts with big bellies, tight mouths, and one might presume assholes, not to mention pussies. Forgive me, Sister. The antidote contains no eyes, no ears, no tongue, no body, no mind, no assholes no thought, no perception, no old age, no ending of old age and death —and no sex. You know that practice, Sister. I knew, or at least said, more than I ought. Phil told me that the rite was no more than sleight of hand: chocolate, cardamom tea, ripe kiwis, none of it really satisfying or nourishing. Hungry ghosts think it’s dinner. Anything looks like dinner when you’re starving. Big bellies and big ears arise simultaneously – evidence, your pictures of starving children in the Sudan. Trick them. S

by Lucille Clifton For my dear friend Bonnie Johnson. Please join me in praying for her safe passage between this and that. may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that bendición de los barcos (En el puerto de Santa María) por Lucille Clifton puede la marea que está entrando ahora mismo el borde de nuestra comprensión llevar a cabo lo más allá de la cara del miedo puedes besar al viento y después aparte de él seguro, confidiado de que te vas a querer igual. que puedes abrir tus ojos al agua ondeando el agua para siempre y que en tu inocencia vas a navegar a esto a aquello. Spanish translation by Ken Ireland For more of my poems, click here! Blessing of the Tuna Fleet at Groix 1923 , a painting by P

Zen comments on the 12 Steps The koan, "Hsiang-yen: Up a Tree," case 5 of the Mumonkan. Today I find myself totally swept up in the hanging man's dilemma as I begin to re-work Step 1 of the 12 Steps. The Big Book puts the first step in simple, straightforward language: "I admit that I am powerless over … [alcohol, drugs, food, sex]—that my life has become unmanageable." It's just the first step on a journey, and in my case, there is a story connected with my personal surrender. Here is case 5 as my teacher, John Tarrant Roshi, presented it during a retreat . "Hsiang-yen: Up Tree" The priest Hsiang-yen said, "It is as though you were up in a tree, hanging from a branch with your teeth. Your hands and feet can't touch any branch. Someone appears beneath the tree and asks, `What is the meaning of Bodhidharma's coming from the West?' If you do not answer, you evade your responsibility. If you do answer, you lose your life.

by Ken Ireland for Grant Dillon “One theory says you won’t remember dying any more than being born.” – Franz Wright At noon they sat the lama down in front of TV. Some real experience of life outside a meditation crib seemed like a simple request. Remote control in hand, he flipped to All My Children. Stop. “Stop! “Oh watch out!” he cried inside. “Amanda, you can’t hide your lies, silly bitch. “Jake knows David is the daddy. “You’ll never get away with it. “How can you be that stupid?” Where did that thought come from? These families, really? Westerners, really. Love your momma. Flip more. One Life to Live. Now we’re getting somewhere. Better title— Too Many Lives to Live . "No—Oh no, David, don’t kiss Oliver! “Please don’t! “That Path leads in only one direction— “All the Teachings agree, male or female, “male and male, female and female, no difference, "but... “Good luck. Looks like trouble ahead.” R

by Ken Ireland dedicated to Chris Wilson, head of practice at Spring sesshin, a generous, guiding spirit and friend The constant light rain clears momentarily.  Cold. A bird's three bare notes— infinite variations flood over me. Red Camilla blossoms fall upside down. to read more of my poems

by Ken Ireland All boys of eight Should don white gloves Clean as traffic cops, And bow before giggling girls, 'May I have the next dance?' How else stem the rush of hormones, and Pray for ease As tiny couples shyly move In the line of direction, Marching to the measured pace Of Miss Comer's spinster sister's piano waltz? With luck, the beat of The Dragon's dance Will stay in China where it belongs. to read more of my poems

by Ken Ireland Will my heart ever warm to these foreign gods? No matter that we shaved our heads for awhile. No matter that we wore socks that felt more like gloves than the fingerless mittens that mother stuffed our hands into when the pond froze over. There is still some mystery the heart cannot speak. Sometimes I feel as if I've been snowed into that one room school my grandpa talked of, huddled around the stove, a gang of kids jostling for attention like best grades, playing with tongue tangled words in a Sanskrit yeshiva, parsing phrases as cold as Tibetan snow. I aim for the precision of the shovel I used to dig out the family car after the blizzard, cutting square white blocks to toss before the plow. I train my body to own the rhythm of swinging forward, bending down from the hips, throwing my arms towards the ground. It feels like falling. When the conversation overheats, almost as loud as at auntie's Sunday table b