Hanging Ten Off Buddha
Been looking through some of my vast unpublished Hafiz poems. It is amazing to me I have about 4,000 of those, maybe more. And came across this one, I felt like sharing; and have reworked it below.
Those 4,000; then another couple hundred unpublished Rumi, several hundred left over from the selection of those created for my anthology— Love Poems from God; and must be some 7,000 original free style haiku… What is all that— tremendous effort?
It is my attempt to hang ten off Buddha the best I can. And very much has to do with a divine Mandate I feel I received. And that mandate I have spoken about in one of my blog entries on this website, the one titled: “A Beautiful Picture of Meher Baba.”
Surfing existence! Who isn't surfing every minute, every hour and day, and all their relationships the best they can? And look at all the relationships that might be in your mind in any day, even with people nowhere near. When are we not in a relationship with something? With a lovely cloud or a mountain; with a truck passing in the street or a song; with our eyes and a stranger's meeting for a few moments; holding a cup of tea or coffee; trying to write something. It happens even in our dreams— interactions— one might start shaking from fear or laughing in delight.
It is like we have an invisible tail that needs to wag in happiness, in thanks, in dance. We are so desperate for affection, for kindness, for recognition. Blessedly desperate to hang ten off the tiniest suns— specks of light, of fun, of hope— off our ever need to connect with beauty.
The experience of beauty is vital to our heart and well being— some flowers on a table; a walk in the woods; some special moments in meditation or prayer; a smile; a wink from a squirrel, rabbit or leaf; caring movements and sounds.
Needing to be there, needing to be there so present— all can stop for awhile in some kind of an applause. And you can then reach into your own pocket and find all you want. All you want in just being.
All you want in just being.
I bet a tree knows about that and a candle; and great yogis in caves; and the great yogis sitting down to dinner with their families, or working at their workplace and maybe never mentioning the word God. I am all for incognito saints who can appear and act perfectly normal. My own teacher was that way, but he gave me a golden pen.
Though I am also all for breaking out of the norm at times, and when no one is looking and I get lucky:
Sitting with a bird and Buddha on a limb.
And then even flying off with them in my heart.
“Bending The Branch Less Than A Sparrow” and “How Did That Duck Fly Off With The Whole Pond?” I have blog entries with those titles. You can find them here on my website if you want, by scrolling around a bit; they are side by side about 14 down.
I consider most all of my unpublished Hafiz poems-renderings just outlines that are maybe 90% complete of a hopefully good poem someday. But that last 10% can be so vital, enriching, and needed to my mind. So here is one about 95% finished now. I can feel a poem is complete, or the best I might do, when there is a tear on my cheek, maybe from an angel's pinch, or feeling the touch of a maybe silent sacred Voice that can say: “You did good cowboy! But keep moving old packhorse, there is more road for you to travel. And the gods put emeralds in your saddlebags to get to the market to help free, and feed.”
Here is this Hafiz verse-rendering I have been going over the last couple of days. Warning— it rambles. I might have to edit it down. There are some very solid lines though. And if you see a line you like, read it out loud, it could then become more alive, warm-blooded and giving.
A line of real poetry can be like a mantra, a meditation, even like an alchemy stone; but to activate it... I think one needs to say it slowly and out loud, even said like a spoken prayer. Toss that into the mix once in a while. It will cost you nothing but maybe a tiny wanted shift in perception that can grow. And an extra few seconds of drinking at an oasis, while saying it.
Look at her beautiful enlightenment.
Look how tenderly the moon's light
touches everything,
and is so beyond the impairing cages
of right and wrong.
The moon so evolved— it does not care
if you say 'thanks', or, "I love you too."
You, just allowing God to touch your
body, with His body existence ... is all
She ever cares about. Is all the thanks
She ever wants or needs.
My hands have become like the moon's
hands— light.
And all is the naked body of the Holy, to
one who sees.
All sounds are from Krishna's flute.
All forms and actions are on the canvas
of the Immaculate, God painted.
If you listen to me dears, if you move in
a direction a breeze from me is heading
you will unfurl your spirit's wings more.
Is that not something that you want?
My Beloved has begun eternally undressing
before me. Because it is our wedding night;
and She is not shy— you can gaze upon Her
too like that. There are sights that can cure
so much.
I am in absolute awe. My soul is on its knees
kissing God all over. And dancing too.
So profoundly sweet, after so long— the
moon entering the Sun's soul again, from
where we came.
And now when any bird flies off, I am at its
side, we are holding hands. We are eloping,
me and all things.
Everything is in my harem, and I so gladly
in yours. Do anything with me that you want.
Anything!
Midair now is easy. I weigh less than a speck
of dust, and am as humble.
Humility and compassion has made me
illumined. I am a limb the infinite perches
upon. All is in a nest we built.
Darling, as much as I care about your well-
being, as truly royal as I know you are,
as consumed in the wonder of your hand;
as much as I can bow to you just as you
are,
still, I may stretch out my foot and trip
you, and catch you in my arms when you
fall;
and carry you back to heaven. Where you
will know Hafiz— and all existence came
from your womb.
—Hafiz
Well, can see why that I did not publish this poem yet in any book. But there above you have what it looks like so far. And a lot of my earlier Hafiz pieces were longer like this. They, yeah, rambled a bit drunk you might say—as this blog entry is starting to!
People contact me about certain blogs sometimes, and someone recently pointed out that the one titled: “A Cornerstone Of Hafiz The Great 14th Century Persian Poet”…how important they felt it was in view of some of the controversy that can appear to hang ten off my work.
Surfing, trying to hang ten off Buddha, I think is the impetus of the movement of every creature no matter what. And I guess the enlightened ones have figured that out, perfected desire. They know all is miraculous and all is the Shrine, and treat all such. And we are still fiddling with the math on God, thinking the One... can be two; and there can be blame other than the Omnipresent. And we can harm in not knowing. It could be said: every gun is aimed in ignorance.
Hanging Ten Off Buddha
On The Way To The Enlightenment Of Knowing
All Is The Shrine
Think will have to put that on my list of some probably 40 other good book titles I will never get out into the world myself. But maybe all I need is just that title on every page with good annotations here and there, and some haiku mutants like:
every foot, hoof, fin, wing
a shrine buddha built
and i bow to
and/or
lifting my head from the Shrine
my eyes become for all
like a sky filled with stars
I think that blog is a special one, and important to my some 30 years of work with Hafiz, which is the very soul of all my literary efforts of thousands of different poems, which now includes a lot of haiku as mentioned. So please read that one if you haven’t, or again. I bet one could pickpocket a relic from it—if they wanted more of a ticket to get a kiss from the Moon.
Getting a smooch from heaven,
who ain't trying to do that?
Yeah, when are we ever not wanting love? Remember that movie, Romancing the Stone? I can't really remember the film's substance, but that title could be something Carl Jung gave elite seminars on, to help us anoint our inner eye.
That quote is from a Rumi poem I like, those four words. Some lines in that poem go:
I saw the Perfect Rose* upon the cross.
A drop of holy oil it bled,
so you can anoint your inner eye, and
bring an end to your suffering.
— Rumi, from the book, The Purity of Desire: 100 Poems of Rumi, page 102.
*Perfect Rose: That is a wonderful symbol-image of Jesus used in the Persian language. And that Rumi poem is titled: “When Names Were Not.” And among the thousand poems I have published in seven books with Penguin, I feel this poem is one that reaches a rare and beautiful theological height of a divine Truth that exists— that all of us, all of us will someday know!