Birthed from the central river of holy kings
The court city guarded by stone rings
A marriage of light and might
Its stupa shone bright
With divine
Light
As life's sign
A heart of daylight
Its head, the gold tent, in sight
Guarded by the dragon with its wings
Birthed from the central river of holy kings
You bring me
The elegance
Your exquisite
Calm me down
You nurture the
Fields of mine
You make my
People full of bliss
You stand for
My security at night
Alongside the moon
You take care of
Elephants roaming
Overnight
You give my stupa
A majestic look at night
Really, a majestic look
You hide no water
Though there's drought
In dry September
You, the Guardian
Of mine, stand for me
Forever
The trust I kept on you
Is absolute
Walking on the sandy yard…
Protected from the burning sun by the shelter of the Bo leaves…rustling:
Dancing in the wind.
Stray dogs walk about; in this place like heaven.
Ponies graze under the thick trees.
Breathtaking; each sight to fill your heart with love,
Fragrant…flowers and incense sticks fill lungs with happiness…
The little oil lamps… giving light to guide through life.
And the sound of prayers, chanted by endless pilgrims…
Heard across the temple grounds.
Statues of heroes, warriors, kings…, and a princess –
Walls… speaking out the history through endless pictures from the tiles to roof.
Each piece of wood, elegantly carved, tells the elegant craftings once built.
The yard, all rocks and sand, burns hot in mid-day.
Little children run, but the Thero in their calm, steady pace –
Teaching, yet again a lesson of patience.
And the Stupa itself, tells yet another lesson as it stands high:
To stand high as one nation.
12/26/2018
*inspired during a visit to the Kelaniya Rajamaha Temple, situated in Kelaniya, Sri Lanka.
Pilgrims and vagrants throng its Ghats
Beggars, seers and mendicants all,
Shrill peal of bells, the chant of hymns
And waters holy do enthrall.
Shiva’s trident nudges the soul
The Dhamak Stupa stands forlorn,
Their speak of legends distant past
Of antiquity long bygone.
Come chant and sing a Vedic verse
Do prostrate at the altars high,
Know Moksha will then beckon you
From pyres lit where corpses lie.
Pray walk across its ancient lanes
Inhale the scent of wood and smoke,
Its din and dust will soon embrace
Your senses with its blessed cloak.
This mystic land its hallowed air
Bathes all men with its pious smear,
Here mortals come to breathe their last
For doors of heaven opens here.
***********
The hillock, the bell
The swept terraces
The swept minds.
The white wood hall
The reflecting pools
The reflecting minds.
The weedless gardens
both in brain and curtilage.
The temple grounds.
The temple gives
flight.
The temple sounds
bird/wind, hush/shuffle
The temple sounds
right.
Some say all (I say many)
paths
lead to these courtyards.
Follow flower flows.
Wending ways, find one's way.
The middle path, the Wu Wei Way...
Many, many ways to find One Way;
to find one's way, to finally find,
to unwend one's way to home mind, to
No Mind.
Silences...
Echoing off Oms.
Poverties...
Bowls cradling alms.
Quietudes in multitudes,
of balding bones.
The chatterless babble of an unseen brook.
Torii, lotus, gravemarking gorinto, stupa, murti;
each here, each
forsook.
Cherry, Plum, and Chrysanthemum;
each a Zafu seed, each a mustard seed.
Verdant lives, wants fallen
as Autumn leaves. Needs.
And for the nun? And for the monk?
Each path of pilgrim's footfall
an invitation, a lure for the mind
at least, if not the heart,
to
depart.
wishes for a soft landing
I bought a Pashmina in a
a tight little shop in Lhasa;
the scarf was soft as feathers.
It was woven in Kashmir
by skilled artisans
with peaceful faces.
I walked to a stupa
near the path into the hills
tied it among the prayer flags.
Thinking here in this place
so close to god perhaps my
words would be more easily heard.
Hands brush
Against
Spinning prayer
Wheels
Gentle wishes
Drift among
snap-happy
Tourists
Who Forget
This moment
Joyful children
dodging
Wandering priests
Met by
Disapproval
Swaying flags
Teased
by the breeze
And
The Stupa
Towering above
Us all
Early morning
A kit of poet pigeons fly
In pursuit of metaphors
They turn around Swoyambhunath
Releasing deep breathe out of anxiety,
Facing noble eyes of that stupa
They discuss something,
Expel feces and glide towards
An old monastery where
A poet was writing poem, under its silhouette
Abruptly the poet gets stormed by the kit of pigeons
They furiously plucked
Poet's eyes
His nose
His ears
His tongue and
His brain
Accumulating all those organs
They composed a beautiful poem
And soared into the sky
To recite in front of Gautam Buddha
Those pigeons,
Who assaulted and killed the poet,
were the metaphors inside his own poem, suffocated for ages!
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.