BUDDHIST POEMS is a collection of 35 short poems published in 1975 by the Hoddypoll Press. In the early 70's I was living in a small alley called Rose Street, close to San Francisco Zen Center, where I was trying to prosecute my Buddhist practice as best I could while working briefly as a cab driver and then three years for the Food Stamp Office at 1360 Mission Street.
In those days I was concerned about writing as simply and meditatively as possible about the events of my life, using the ancient poets of China as my mentors, trying to avoid modernist, expressionist, surrealist, projective, and whimsical New York school pinball composition techniques. Postmodernism and language poetry hadn't even been invented yet.
I am the Bodhisattva of Noe Valley
During the rainy season I drench the hills
with fine mist. In the spring I cram your
gardens and windows with flowers. I ward
off fires and provide enough money for rent.
I deliver fat babies to proud mothers and
keep the city from voting Republican.
I confer Buddhist blessings upon everyone.
For those requiring dope, I see that the jar
stays full. And to those who are ready,
I'll eventually bring—well, if you haven't
experienced it, there's no use explaining.
Climbing the Mountain
A cold fog veiled the lower slopes of Mt. Shasta.
Wet drops fell occasionally from the tall fir trees.
The sound of wind was everywhere around.
You could not see more than twenty feet
in any direction. We followed the trail through
the deep mist to the stone cabin at timberline.We climbed a few hundred feet higher to
a field of giant rocks covered with an inch
of snow. We stopped at a place to meditate.
Almost immediately the fog parted. For a short
time we could see a hundred miles across the
Trinity Mountains range. Above us the peak of
Shasta shone like Olympus in golden light.The next morning we climbed to a snowy ledge
at about 10,000 feet. There were articles
of camping equipment strewn around, left
by fugitives from an August snowstorm.
To the west we saw myriad mountains,
purplish ridges receding to the Pacific,
covered in smoky blue haze.
Maui
Vagrant heaps of clouds stood piled
at the rim of the volcano. Like a tribe
of natives we lived naked on the island.
I hunted cowrie shells in pulsing tidal
pools and watched whales playing
in the channel. I got sick with dysentery
and lay two days half-dead in a kiawe grove.
Once a large black bomb washed up
onto our beach. A Navy helicopter landed
net morning, scooped away the bomb,
and flew off with it into the sky.
One afternoon I watched a mongoose
steal a load of bread from my camp.
On the road to Ulupalakua I dropped acid
and tasted my own seed. Evenings we sat
at the ocean's edge, chanting OM
to the setting sun. We slept under
myriad shining stars of the universe.
Once I awoke before dawn and saw
a comet, a pale blaze in the eastern
sky, vast as a galaxy.
Evening Flight to Los Angeles
I sit huddled at the window of
a jet plane heading down the coast.
When the ancient Chinese patrons
of Buddhism invited missionaries
from India, they requested first
to be taught to fly. The plane
cruises south at 30,000 feet
on a spectacularly clear evening.
Across hundreds of miles of ocean
the sun blazes at the horizon.
Below me extends the Big Sur range—
in shadows of dark green, peaks
and valleys without number.
His Holiness the Gyalwa Karmapa
He sits cross-legged on a high platform,
white satin across his knees, gold brocade
over his shoulders, a bright red, cone-shaped
hat on his head. Lamas pass the ritual objects
back and forth. Shawms trill; the chanting
is low and guttural. When the ceremony ends,
Karmapa smiles broadly and blesses everyone.
Mountain Landscape
I visit the museum on a hot summer day.
The galleries are empty. I stand before
a large landscape painting of Lu Huan-Ch'eng.
Gradually the painting disappears, and I find
myself at the edge of a deep pine forest,
at the same spot where the artist stood
three centuries ago. It is evening, and
the darkening valleys are flooded with mist.
Cool winds blow against my face, carrying
with them the fragrance of pine. A thatched
house stands on a distant mountain terrace.
Two woodcutters cross a stone bridge
in the last light of the setting sun.
Hitchhiking across New York in January
I promised myself this would never happen again—
age 31, ten dollars in my pocket, standing
over an hour at an obscure entrance
to the New York Thruway which God Himself
has forgotten and where nothing passes except
an occasional carload of drunk, laughing skiers.
The sky turns leaden grey. At four
in the afternoon it is dark as night. I'm numb
to the bone. I hop up and down to keep from
freezing. Suddenly the wind shifts and
a blizzard begins. In ten minutes I look like
a snowman. Eventually a Volkswagen stops
and offers a ride to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
This represents a deviation of 200 miles
from my planned itinerary, but how can I refuse?
Reacting incompetently to the din of an AM
radio station, I sit for hours with my teeth
clenched, knees to my chin. I promise
myself this will never happen again.
Hitchhiking Back to California
I drew an OM sign on the highway outside
Salt Lake City with rocks and pebbles
gathered at the side of the road.
A pair of Jesus freaks stopped at once
in an ancient Chevrolet. We rode
across the hot Utah wasteland. Suddenly
the land was transformed in time to some
pre-historic age—I saw the desert
change to green forests, with giant ferns
and tall grass-like plants. At the edge
of vast clear lakes, ponderous dinosaurs
and mammoths moved among titanic reptiles,
gigantean black-winged birds hovered
almost motionless in the sky. It seemed
almost that I was alive on the planet
before humankind existed. Singing hymns
and stopping frequently to pray to Jesus,
we drove through Nevada to Donner Pass,
crossing the Bay Bridge into San Francisco
at four in the morning.
I Welcome a New Houseplant into My Apartment
Good morning! My name is Mitchell.
I am the Obersturmbandführer
of this household. It is my duty
to provide you with water, light,
nourishment, and appropriate pottage.
It is your duty to grow to a moderate
height and develop an appealing foliage
You will not deposit dead leaves
or leak water onto the carpet.
You will avoid contact with mealy-worms
or other parasites. Above all, you will
be happy here, and conduct yourself
at all times so as to reflect credit
upon your species. Failure to comply
will result in your immediate dismissal
to the compost heap in the backyard.
To a Drunken Poet Living in North Beach
Here you are in this hotel room whose
only furnishings include a mattress and
a naked lightbulb. Books, empty bottles,
and cigarette butts litter the floor.
Your eyes are glazed. Your breath smells
awful. You look like you slept in the park
last night. I'll bet you can't even stand up.
I'm afraid the guardian deities of Buddhism
may mistake you for a hungry ghost
and throw you into hell. You really
ought to listen to your psychiatrist.
If you don't straighten up soon, it is
impossible to predict what will happen.
To Freddy the Elf in Mendocino
And you were famous among street artists
that winter, and I was a Station G mailman,
plodding through Noe Valley in rain and fog,
delivering fathomless loads of junk mail
and an occasional letter to someone.
By eleven I was at your house for breakfast—
I deposited the mail on the kitchen table,
viewed the latest jewels, and listened in
awe to your tales of battle with policemen,
politicians, shopkeepers and tourists.
Then I and your aging horny dog would
deliver the rest of 19th Street, followed
by two blocks of Hartford. Nobody at
the Post Office was able to understand
why I liked 1401 that well, the longest
and steepest route in the station. And
we never did sleep together much, since
I had to leave at five each morning
for work.
To the Mayor of Ward, Colorado
So now, age 27, you're mayor of this
abandoned gold-mining town, 10,000 feet
in the mountains, population 94,
snowbound nine months out of twelve.
Your civic responsibilities include
road repair, building a furnace in the
school house, and keeping county policemen
away. Your eyes shine, remembering old
fiends and past craziness together.
Yours is the first public library in the
United States to contain a book of my
poems. Together we will clean up local
government. Nothing at all is the basis
of public administration. Leave the
gold in the ground! Together we'll
build a Dharma platform in every
valley and mountain.
Sean
The night we met, we fucked
until we were exhausted, and
a cool breeze blew over our
naked bodies.
Goodbye to Sean
This weekend you flew off
to San Diego, smelling of patchouli,
and with the clap, which you
didn't get from me.
I Putter around the Apartment Watering My Plants
"For my fronds, for my fronds," murmurs the fern.
"More, give me more," cries the fast-growing coleus.
"Is it pure, is it pure?" whisper the violets.
"For the glory of God," says the rosary vine.
"I think of the Nile," says the Egyptian palm.
"One for the road," says the Wandering Jew.
At Land's End in May
The hills are covered with wild
flowers; their fragrance fills
the air. The sea pounds upon
the rocks. Cargo ships pass
in and out of the Golden Gate.
Nude boys lie everywhere on the
beach, brown bodies glistening
with oil, penis and testicles
and ass addressed to the sun and
each other's generous appraisal.
Buddha's Birthday at Green Gulch
Some birds gabble in the eaves
of the zendo. The sutra chanting
begins. We file in serpentine
lines around the hall, each pausing
to pour tea over a tiny statue
of the Buddha.
Hakuin's Portrait of Bodhidharma,
U.C. Museum, Berkeley
The skull of rock is like
the Half-Dome at Yosemite;
his eyes are hung like clouds
gathering on the peaks
before the impending storm.
You must re-create your mind.
Meeting Allen Ginsberg in the Boys' Room
at Everett Junior High School
"Hello," he said, peering intently into
my face. "What happened to your leg,
Allen?" "I slipped on the ice in New York
and broke it." "Oh dear," I said,
as he hobbled on his crutch into
a stall, undid his farmer's overalls,
revealing a perfectly round tummy
half-enveloped by lemon-colored
Jockey briefs, like a soccer ball
resting in a vanilla pudding.
"It will be all right soon," he said,
lowering himself onto the crapper.
"Good," I said, and returned
to the crowded auditorium.
On Strike, 1974
Picketing the entrance
to Civic Center Bart station,
Muni shut down, thousands
of commuters walking down
Market Street to work
in the morning rain
California
When the weather turns hot,
I'll phone in sick at the office
and hitchhike down the Coast.
New Year's Eve
At midnight the temple bell
sounds slowly 108 times.
Sitting zazen one more year,
the Dharma falls like rain.
Alcatraz Island
We saw the tiers of cell-blocks
inside the abandoned prison.
Dust filled the corridors, and
beige-colored paint peeled from
the bars of the cells. The wind
howled in the ventilation shafts.
Gulls and foghorns cried in the
distance, beyond the barbed wire
and towers. For a few moments
the guide locked us in a solitary
confinement cell—total darkness,
no furnishings, only a hole in the
floor for the felon's bladder
and bowels.
Sounds Heard Before Falling Asleep Each Night
at 226 Rose Street, San FranciscoNearly always the bamboo wind-chimes
outside the window, the barking of dogs
in the neighborhood, and distant sirens.
Sometimes foghorns across the Bay,
and terms of abuse exchanged by two
quarrelling lesbians who live upstairs.
Waking through the Night
A stick of incense burns beside
a single candle. I sit crosslegged
at the foot of my bed. I'm insane
with grief. Three times you've
thrown me out of your life.
Cars hiss along the freeway
a quarter-mile away. A dog
locked up in a neighbor's yard
howls for hours. The wind shakes
against the bedroom window
helplessly, endlessly.
I Am a Member of the Rank-and-File Negotiating Committee
On the ninth day of the citywide strike,
local politicians, lawyers, and union
representatives meet at a downtown hotel
to conclude a settlement. At midnight
the Mayor of San Francisco enters
the room. He is pissed purple because
the Supervisors do not have a quorum
to negotiate. Two are absent, three
are downstairs in the hotel bar, and
one is at a tv station making a tape.
In March, 1974, on the ninth day
of the city strike, the schools
and welfare offices are closed;
hospitals operate with emergency
staff; tons of untreated sewage
pour hourly into the Bay.
I Worked Four Weeks as a Taxi Driver
for the Yellow Cab CompanyWalk through early morning rain to cab lot,
get waybill from dispatcher, locate cab in yard,
drive it through carwash, drive to SP Depot,
take businessmen downtown to work.Wait at taxi-stand in front of the Saint Francis,
repeat secret mantram to obtain $10 airport fare,
practice yogic breathing exercises on freeway
to airport, joke with cabbies at airport about
various weird passengersOnce I brought a chief engineer to his cargo ship
at Pier 64; he showed me the boiler-room, a deep
vast hole filled with pipes, boilers and steel ladders.Half the time I worked for Yellow Cab was spent
parked in line at some stand, drumming my fingers
on the dashboard, waiting for something to happenA Buddhist's duty is to absorb things
Remembering Kenneth Rexroth's House
on Scott Street and PageIt was an immense Victorian building
towering like a fortress in the middle
of the Negro district. You opened
the door and climbed a narrow staircase
three stories high. The flat was a
labyrinth of small rooms divided by a
long corridor and two marbled bathrooms.
Everywhere there were books, stacked to
the ceiling in wooden boxes appropriated
from fruit stores and the sidewalks of
Chinatown; lace curtains, plants crawling
around the windows; old wooden furniture;
shelves holding hundreds of 78 rpm vinyl
phonograph records; the rooms studded
with aesthetic paraphenalia of the 1940's,
Georgia O'Keefe cow-skulls , sea-shells and
hunks of minerals, a menorah, some abstract-
expressionist attempts of the poet and
principal resident. There was also an
enormous archetypal cat, short-haired,
paranoiac, and possessed of phosphorous,
jade-colored eyes.
Ad Homines
It is true that my friends
take pills, stay drunk, avoid work,
fight imaginary political revolutions,
visit psychiatrists, live on welfare,
develop occult faculties, and
fuck one another interminably.
I, on the other hand, rise early,
meditate, read books, and compose
poems which are perfectly
comprehensible. It is evident
I am the last sane man in this city.
Sapientia aedificavit sibi domum
Evenings after work I often come
to the University Library to write poems.
Tonight a young student sits opposite,
memorizing long lists of Greek verbs.
Grimacing, he pronounces each to himself
with fierce intensity. Frequently he gazes
distractedly into space and rakes his fingers
through his shoulder-length blond hair.
I remember the hundreds of hours
I spent in libraries in Boston and Berlin,
Munich and Edinburgh, learning vocables
of languages modern, extinct and half-dead.
What did it signify? Probably I am one
of a very few in the area who can recite
a paternoster in Gothic. Chiefly I recall
the agonized expenditure of youthful
energy misplaced. For no reason at all
the student looks up at me across the
broad oak table. We break into broad grins.
Telepathy survives amongst grammarians.
Nie treff' ich, wie ich wünsche, das Maß
I never achieve, as I wish, the right measure.
There, just at the focal point, the scales
are tipped, simplicity swells to excess, the game
is lost again. It's an old disease among us.
Thus poets turn and adhere to the visible.
Rx: Natura naturans te restorabit.
The scent of orange peel upon the table.
Out the window, look, rustling leaves
in the eucalyptus tree.
Il faut cultiver notre jardin
In these festive and confusing times,
when the national economy performs
incompetently, and the search
for moral imperatives falters,
and subcultural alternatives are absent,
it's sufficient to rise each day
at the established hour, pull on
one's pants, and report to work
at the office.
November Full Moon in Iowa
Farmhouses stand impaled at the horizon
like tombstones in the pale moonlight.
The cold wind whines. Withered
cornstalks litter the fields.
The roads are empty. Everything
is in decay. But overhead the moon
is blazing and the stars are at riot.
Orion the hunter stalks his prey,
a sword of stars at his loins.
Getting Ready for the American Bicentennial
During the period of the Senate investigations
into the Watergate scandals, it was reported
in the newspaper that a pig had been discovered
swimming in the Atlantic Ocean two-hundred miles
off the coast of Florida. When the pig was
brought ashore by fishermen, its entry into
the country was declared illegal by US officials,
since no evidence of prior vaccination existed.
The pig was accordingly offed.
About the Poet
His entry to this world received,
as it deserved, minimal notice.
He soon proved an insufferable
nuisance to his parents and teachers.
He studied several years at foreign
universities, comprehending nothing.
In the Sixties he lived in the Haight-
Ashbury, engrossed in numerous
delusions. At 33 he became a Zen
student and a newspaper boy, and
attained distinction as neither.
Lately he has been employed by
the San Francisco welfare department,
where his incompetence generates
endless confusion. He has written
much poetry, all of it one continuous
mistake. Such a bungler! If Buddha
lived in his refrigerator, this fool
would die with his head in the oven.
Zazen Each Morning before Dawn
The alarm goes off at 4:30. I dress myself,
eat a grapefruit, and drink a cup
of strong black coffeeI walk up Rose Street in the darkness,
zoris paddling against the pavement—
I'm seated by the third hanOutside the zendo there is the twittering
of various birds, and the occasional
sound of a car startingToday I will wear the Tathagata's teaching
and save all sentient beings
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