Senshin.dk

Posts Tagged ‘Digt’

Jeg har været stilheds fanatiker og jeg møder andre der er. Især møder jeg buddhister som mener at sandheden ligger i stilheden. At det er stilheden vi skal finde ind til på puden. Da jeg læste Tolle fik jeg ideen at stilhed var der jeg kom fra og den som ville gøre mig i stand til at se virkeligheden. Det gjorde mig nærmest besat af at jagte den. Det gjorde mig selvfølgelig ulykkelig og forvirret. Intet kan fanges og fastholdes. Det kan stilhed heller ikke. Og hvorfor skulle man ønske det? Man finder intet i stilhed, som ikke kan findes i larm, eller alt andet lige så vel. Er der noget at finde overhovedet? At tro man kan finde fred, sandhed, stilhed i stilhed er illusioner. Grib ud efter dem og du byder dukkha indenfor. Det minder dette digt mig bl.a. om og jeg er ret vild med det.

For at læse andre af Johns digte så smut over på hans lækre blog greatplainsbuddha.com
(John har givet mig lov at oversætte digtet)

Stilhed af John Pappas

At sidde i stilhed er ikke lig med frihed,
stilhed betyder ikke fravær af smerte.
Skønhed vil stjæle dit hjerte.
Vilde dyr vil springer over dit hegn.
Blade vil blive brune, dø og falde.
Ild vil sprede sig vildt over dine marker.
Sultne spøgelser vil æde din mad.
Dæmoner vil stjæle din stemme.
Devaer vil håne dig.
Alt i stilhed.
Og du
vil
ikke
engang
høre
dem
komme.

Fårekyllinger og gråd definerer
Samsaras verden
og fremhæver
Nirvana.

The whole universe
shatters into a hundred pieces.
In the great death
there is no heaven, no earth.
Once body and mind have turned over
there is only this to say:
Past mind cannot be grasped,
present mind cannot be grasped,
future mind cannot be grasped.

( Zen Master Dogen Zenji,
Enlightenment Unfolds)

The Journey

Af Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried
But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.

It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
though the sheets of clouds
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

I dag, efter at havde siddet otte dage og nætter, for at finde friheden fra lidelse, vågnede Buddhaen og tog jorden til vidne. I dag vil taknemmelighed være min praksis.

He sat under the tree. He sat for you and me.

He sat  naked and undisguised. He looked Mara Straight in the eyes.

He sat to be free and in that he freed both you and me.

Bow you head to the ground and recognize that you were never bound.

(-Senshin)

Foråret kalder og visker mig i øret at det vil vare evigt

Buddhaen smiler mildt

Jeg trækker luften ind, tæller min udånding

ved at alt er som det skal være, alt er perfekt

Jeg er for en kort stund i virkeligheden helt uden slør

Når Buddhaen kalder og det gør han igen og igen

så ved jeg at jeg er hjemme

uanset hvor.

Det er længe siden jeg har postet et digt af Mary Oliver.
Det er lige gået op for mig at hun i de fleste digte beskriver dyr, så man virkelig ved hun har set dem, rigtig set dem, måske det er derfor jeg holder så meget af digtene!
Jeg faldt over dette og fik gåsehud. Jeg håber du vil nyde det også.
Hvornår har du sidst rigtig set en svane, sådan virkelig set den? Eller en du elsker eller en ukendt?

Med ønske om et dejligt forår til alle.

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

–

Kozo på usikker grund.
Livet farer afsted og ændre farve hele tiden.
Amida følger med og stryger min kind.
Da solen gik ned i aften så jeg tomhed
og jublede i hjertet.

Gående i den knitrende sne,
med den kolde luft bidende i kinderne,
så jeg de små sorte bolde,
siddende på hver sin gren.
Kønne og puffede med orange næb.
Lige til at kysse.
Og hver og en genkendte jeg som Buddha.
Da jeg kaldte dem ved navn
rørte de sig ikke, puttede sig blot videre,
men jeg ved at Buddha lyttede.

..med det første digt jeg postede af Mary Oliver. Der skulle komme flere siden og flere citater fra hendes også. Og jeg er sikker på at der vil komme endnu flere på bloggen næste år.

Den 24 januar postede jeg dette:

Snow Geese

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won’t.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

(-Mary Oliver)

The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean –
The one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down –
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

(-Mary Oliver)