No Anger

In response to last week’s post Cancer Again (Naturally), a reader wrote in a comment, “Usually the prognosis is pretty grim once it [cancer] has metastasized.” I saw my oncologist the next day and it turns out that’s true.

I am going to start radiation treatments the first week in May, but while we might be able to get rid of the current tumor, sooner or later, it will spread somewhere else and if goes someplace where there are vital organs, well, let’s just say, it won’t be pretty.

A relative asked me if I was at least a little angry that the cancer “came back” (though it actually hadn’t left). He mentioned how novelist and Christian theologian C.S. Lewis vented at God when his wife died a painful death after her cancer, thought to be cured, returned. Lewis wrote a journal of his thoughts and feelings about his wife’s ordeal that he published as A Grief Observed in 1961. I have not read the book (not much of a Lewis fan), but previewed it at Google Books: “Meanwhile, where is God? . . . Go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence.” (p6)

In the past, I have had some issues with anger management. When the liver cancer first appeared, I was angry. I was irritated. It was a major interruption in my life. I had other things I wanted to do than go on doctor’s appointments, sit around in waiting rooms, have people poke and prod me, etc. But I did my best to work through the anger, and its cousin, fear. And I wrote about that process here on The Endless Further.

After the transplant, I thought the cancer was gone. But it was merely in hiding, keeping a low profile, and now it’s active again, threatening to take my life. But I am not angry this time. No thought of anger has risen in my mind. No angry emotion has surfaced. I don’t believe in God, so getting angry with him would be like venting to a closed door. No sense in getting angry at the cancer, it could care less whether I like it or not.

In A Guide to the Bodhisattva Way of Life, Shantideva wrote that anger is our greatest enemy, capable of destroying all the good in our lives, and since it has no purpose, rather than getting angry at something or someone, it’s better to see whatever it is as assisting you in your spiritual development.

Viewing cancer as a spiritual friend is a tall order. I’m not quite there, but no anger is a good accomplishment.

Another reader in a comment to last week’s post, encouraged me to continue to share this part of my journey, and I think I will for the time being. However, for today, that’s all I have.

With all this going on, I have neglected National Poetry Month, which I like to celebrate each year. Anger can be a positive, motivating force when it is in response to the suffering of others or directed at injustice. Set against the backdrop of the Spanish Civil War in 1936, Cesar Vallejo’s poem is a meditation on that aspect of anger.

The Anger That Breaks The Man Into Children

Translated from Spanish by Clayton Eshleman and José Rubia Barcia

Three unidentified girls during the Spanish Civil War (photographer unknown)
Three unidentified girls during the Spanish Civil War (photographer unknown)

The anger that breaks the man into children,
that breaks the child into equal birds,
and the bird, afterward, into little eggs;
the anger of the poor
has one oil against two vinegars.

The anger that breaks the tree into leaves,
the leaf into unequal buds
and the bud, into telescopic grooves;
the anger of the poor
has two rivers against many seas.

The anger that breaks the good into doubts,
the doubt, into three similar arcs
and the arc, later on, into unforeseeable tombs;
the anger of the poor
has one steel against two daggers.

The anger that breaks the soul into bodies;
the body into dissimilar organs
and the organ, into octave thoughts;
the anger of the poor
has one central fire against two craters.

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Poetry: Word Atoms Emitting Light

Since it is now April, that means it is National Poetry Month, sponsored by Academy of American Poets who began this yearly celebration of poetry in 1996. It is the largest literary celebration in the world, with schools, publishers, libraries, booksellers, poets and poetry lovers joining together to laud and bring attention to this sublime form of literature.

NPM15_ForSite_FINAL_FINALEach year, the Academy of American Poets, along with award-winning designer Chip Kidd, commission a poster in celebration of National Poetry Month. This year’s poster (on the left) was designed by Roz Chast , a New Yorker cartoonist and 2014 National Book Award finalist. It’s based on a line of poetry from Mark Strand’s “Eating Poetry.”

T. S. Eliot said, “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” That is not only a good description of poetry, but to my mind, it also describes Buddha-dharma. Poetry has been an integral part of Buddhist literature, many of the sutras have large sections of text composed in verse, and Buddhist poetry is nearly a genre of its own. So it seems fitting for a Buddhist blog to join the National Poetry Month celebration.  And, as in previous years, I will feature poetry in many of this month’s posts.

Today, something from Jack Kerouac, whom many people consider a Buddhist writer, although his interest in Buddhism lasted only a few years, from 1953-57. During that time, he was, in his own uniquely Beat fashion, a rather dedicated Buddhist, and a number of his novels, particularly The Dharma Bums and Desolation Angels, are infused with Buddhist philosophy.

I don’t recall who it was, but one of his fellow Beats once suggested to Kerouac that he should write his own sutra. And so, he did. The Scripture of the Golden Eternity contains 66 prose poems and was first published in 1960. Here is perhaps the most famous of those poems:

kerouac-1b3c22

Stare deep into the world before you as if it were the void: innumerable holy ghosts, buddhies, and savior gods there hide, smiling. All the atoms emitting light inside wavehood, there is no personal separation of any of it. A hummingbird can come into a house and a hawk will not: so rest and be assured. While looking for the light, you may suddenly be devoured by the darkness and find the true light.

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Baldwin’s Blues

An article about James Baldwin inspired this post. I was familiar with James Baldwin the novelist (Go Tell It on the Mountain) and essayist (Notes of a Native Son), but not James Baldwin the poet. LA Times book critic David L. Ulin tells us about Baldwin’s poetry in this in-depth piece titled “James Baldwin, poet? But of course.”

James-BaldwinBaldwin is unquestionably one of the major American writers of the last century. An African American, a bisexual, an expatriate, a civil rights activist, his writing represented the voices of those who American society then and now marginalizes, neglects, and often persecutes.

The occasion for Ulin’s article is the recent reprint by Beacon Press of Baldwin’s poetry collection Jimmy’s Blues and Other Poems, originally published one year before his death in 1987.

For more about Baldwin’s life and writing, I recommend you read Ulin’s article linked above, or Baldwin’s Wikipedia entry.

For today, continuing the celebration of National Poetry Month, here are two excerpts from Jimmy’s Blues and Other Poems.

Amen

No, I don’t feel death coming.
I feel death going:
having thrown up his hands,
for the moment.

I feel like I know him
better than I did.
Those arms held me,
for a while,
and, when we meet again,
there will be that secret knowledge
between us.

Conundrum (on my birthday) (for Rico)

Between holding on,
and letting go,
I wonder
how you know
the difference.

It must be
something like
the difference
between heaven and hell
but how, in advance,
can you tell?

If letting go
is saying no,
then what is holding on
saying?
Come.
Can anyone be held?
Can I—?
The impossible conundrum,
the c lo s ed c irc le,
why
does lightning strike this house
and not another?
Or, is it true
that love is blind
until challenged by the drawbridge
of the mind?

But, saying that,
one’s forced to see one’s definitions
as unreal.
We do not know enough about the mind,
or how the conundrum of the imagination
dictates, discovers,
or can dismember what we feel,
or what we find.

Perhaps
one must learn to trust
one’s terror:
the holding on
the letting go
is error:
the lightning has no choice,
the whirlwind has one voice.

Excerpted from Jimmy’s Blues & Other Poems by James Baldwin.  Copyright 2014.  Published  by Beacon Press.

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Dusk Latitudes and Film Noir

It’s been quite a while since I have posted any of my own poetry.  Since it is National Poetry Month, I thought this was as good a time as any.  I don’t have much to say about my poems. They are what they are.

dusk latitudes

tempestuous waves
against the shore
the moon lying close
to the horizon

you must carry the afterglow
uphold the solitary wings
for vision has become
piles of coffee cups
awkward shadows
languid eyes

too many dismal whispers
that freeze action
in the business of life

and we are busy
like the waves that bellow
the eternal songs of the sea
and the moon that serenades
the milky way with sad laments

to empyrean’s ether end
hurtles light
past that place where midnight
comes from
the place where we part our lips
and act as though there are never tears

waves crash over rocks
and the moon slips from us
anonymously

© 2011 dmriley

This second poem was inspired by the 1946 Ida Lupino film, “The Man I Love.”

film noir

I hate fog, it’s sort of lonely
ida lupino says
as my hand runs down
the smooth skin exposed by her backless dress
your fingers are cold, she sighs
let’s go in here

we go to the bar
I buy her a short beer
she draws on a long cigarette
& blows the smoke out with impertinence
she’s looking at me straight on
remember what you said darling
when we were looking at the stars
life, you said, is too short
to waste time with memories
well, I think you’re right

Ida_Lupinoshe goes over
& asks the piano player
if she can sing
some desolate song she knows
she has the kind of voice
you’d expect to find in a place like this
perched on top of the piano
skirt pulled high
swinging that crossed leg
deliberately
perfectly

as I place a bet
on another shot of rye

I was hoping
to find something in her
that I’d been missing all my life
but she didn’t have it
no one does

later on she says
she’s been cheating on me
with robert mitchum
& when I ask her why
she just shrugs her shoulders
pouts with her lower lip
& says that it’s because
he always holds his glass
with such an air of

detachment

I walk home alone
cloaked in the gray night
I understand what she means now
about the fog

© 1997 dmriley

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The Price

Today, I present another post for National Poetry Month. This celebration is intended to focus on American poetry or how poetry has contributed to American culture, but we live in a global community and poetry is a universal language, so I choose to ignore that guideline from time to time.

tagore-2014-1One of the world’s great poets, and philosophers, Rabindranath Tagore, inspired the title of this blog, The Endless Further. I have written about Tagore in some detail previously (see below), so I won’t add much to that today. As I’ve noted, he had a great respect for Buddhism and once called Buddha “the greatest man ever born on this earth.”

Here is one of the few poem in which he mentions Buddha. It comes from Fruit-Gathering, a collection published by Macmillan in 1916, and was translated from Bengali to English by Tagore himself.

The Price

Only one lotus braved the blast of winter and bloomed in the garden of Sudas the gardener. He took it to sell to the King.

A traveler said to him on the way, “I will buy this untimely flower, and take it to my master Buddha. Ask your price.”

The gardener asked one golden masha*, and the traveler readily agreed.  Just then the King came there.

“I must take that lotus to Lord Buddha,” he said to the gardener.  “What is your price?”

The gardener claimed two golden mashas.  The King was ready to buy it.  The traveler doubled the price and the King’s offer ran still higher.

The gardener thought in his greed he could get much more from the man for whom they were eagerly bidding.

He hastened with his flower to the grove where Buddha sat silent. Love shone in his eyes, on his lips was wisdom beyond words.

Sudas gazed at him, and stood still.  Suddenly he fell on his knees, placing the lotus at Buddha’s feet.

Buddha smiled and asked, “What is your prayer, my son?”

“Nothing, my lord,” Sudas answered, “only a speck of the dust off your feet.”

* A measurement of rice or wheat berry

– – – – – – – – – –

Previous posts on Rabindranath Tagore:

Rabindranath Tagore

Sadhana and the Big Fish

Love’s Gift is Shy

One Day in Spring

A Myriad Minded Man

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