Vipassana Revelations

Due to the interest in Buddhism that has arisen coinciding with our study of Dharma Bums, I thought I'd share another poem I wrote on one of my last days of the silent-meditation in Java.  No forms of communication were allowed inside the temple, which means yes, I snuck in a notebook and a pen so that I was able to write during my breaks between meditations.  I only wrote the one afternoon, and it's not as bad as one of my roommates, who smashed a cockroach in our room and gave me a silent thumbs-up after being implored not to harm any living creatures during our stay in the temple.  Close your eyes, take a deep breath, then read and enjoy.

Vipassana Revelations

Sacrifice some senses

to sharpen the others.

Forego speech,

focus the mind,

close the eyes,

turn vision inwards.

Follow the breathe.

There are no hidden doors,

sacred secrets to reveal;

only what is

the truth -

a long, hard path.

See the sunrise

behind closed lids.

Not in the fading gray

of retreating mists,

but in the quieting chirps of crickets

and the rising song of birds,

the gentle rustle of leaves

stirred by convections of heat and light.

Such subtle sensations

in the shattering of dark.

Take great pleasure

in the mundane:

wonder at the fine mist

released when peeling an orange,

so fine it falls

more up than down.

Marvel at the spider

who has mastered its craving,

unmoved for days

by neither wind nor rain.

A perfect Buddha

above this world,

secure in a web of its

mind's own making.

The sudden violence

in a gust of wind

toppling the top of a tree.

Bark breaking

with the sound of slow lightning

and sending it to the ground,

a quivering tambourine of leaves.

The praying mantis

perched on the light post;

surprise at his swiveling head,

the fixed gaze.

A pink gecko

on a blue tarp.

Lazy ants

wandering the dining tables,

grown large and fearless,

safe in sila,

waiting for a stray grain of rice,

a spot of spilled tea.

The thunder of pounding

horse hoofs in rain drops

when a squall comes over

the ridge line and

moves down the mountain

like an avalanche.

The melodic stirring

of a bamboo flute in the wind.

Bruno, meek-smiling Frenchman,

I would’ve never known it was you,

the self-less giver of cookies.

-Trey Highton