Wisdom

In my poems in the past
I have danced all around the subject of Wisdom.
Not because I don’t know what it is,
Although there may be some kernel of truth to that,
But because my understanding of it
is growing with each new Sunrise.

Now I will tempt the fates on a blank sheet of paper
To write what wants to come spontaneously-
To go where no man or woman has gone
An adventurer of the intellectual world of our culture
Blah, blah, blah. -rather than simply forcing the issue
As it is to construct a poem from rhyme or reason.

But this once, I want to fill a void
To repair a gap in my explanations,
One which is likely best displayed
by what is not said, however.

And this very point is the essence of Wisdom.
It is what becomes clear for a reader
after all is said and done.
It is the learning gain, that flash of realization
too often for me transitory,
That waltzes off the page in tune,
but not necessarily in unison
with the inspiring words
Composed so carefully by cognoscenti.

So the risk of writing about Wisdom
Is that by taking off his costume
The wearer is exposed as less than beautiful.
Telling the message of the punch line
usually turns a joke into a story.

And that is the risk I encounter here
In talking about Wisdom,
I may inadvertently begin and end
just showing my own ignorance,
exposing my marvelous limitations;
Which is something I am loath to do.

One might say about Wisdom: It is
“…knowledge gained and used forthrightly
in positive and constructive ways
to help humanity…” so I did.

But does that spark a light of recognition?
Or, simply state in so many words
what can be taken from a decent dictionary.
Wisdom ought to be left mysteriously intact
rather than dissected or over-analyzed

As one of so many abstract nouns
About which Wisdom itself is so well informed
Like Love, Happiness, Contentment, Luxury…
There is no end to the resources these words suggest.

So why should Wisdom, which contains all these
be thought less of, or trivialized by
practical or even complex explanations?
So from here I choose to give it a rest
And simply bring an end to this peroration,
A very wise thing to do!

End

I.J. Hall February 5, 2004

The Tao of Love

I.J. Hall November 3, 2003

It is, inevitably, hard to say goodbye
Even when for such a brief interlude
We shared only a casual good will.
The fading brightness of one so fair
Hurts my hope of knowing such beauty,
Yet I cannot accept a lesser prize,
Choosing instead to remain in solitude.

My Vision dims ever so slightly
As my age accumulates, leaving its traces
Taking its toll, graying my wishful vigor.
Those years that blessed me are now my bane
Disguising my passionate and loveable nature
Behind a mask of uncomfortable smiles
That shames those who know better youth.

These lines carved into a rugged visage
Have hardened over an unbelieving mind
Hiding a Soul that remains open and daring
Mocking my erstwhile romantic inclination;
Thus being alive in futility is no great blessing.

Those few happy moments we shared
Were a bouquet that graced my hand
Now wilted as your sacred nature whispers
The truth of our unmatched blooming.
That transient beauty has its own tao
And I was the beneficiary of that Peace,

But knowing the glory of what might have been
Makes its passing all the more solemn.
We are blessed each by different gods. So
I say goodbye to my presumptive love
Before you make any greater sacrifice
And Hello to a new friend, casual and safe.

I must now expand spirituality on my own
And adjust my unwanted intentions,
But for doing this I am well equipped,
Having initiated this wise choice in similar goodbyes
I now witness the kindness of your demur.
Ciao.

Upon Being a Father

To KenBaba and Ben Jacob March 30, 1995

This poem gives me permission
To write emotions suppressed or forgotten.
Recently I began to write poems
Expressing ideas otherwise too difficult to say.
So this is my first attempt to explain
The meaning of having children – even sons.

These memories are distinct.
Time does not erase the compelling need to parent.
Your mother was equally willing
And seemed to share the same instinct for parenthood.
Getting engaged was in part a consequence of
This drive to have children.
The rest of that engagement and eventual marriage
Was exciting and a period which generated fond memories.

New challenges always excite me,
And parenthood was no less exciting than any other.
But what about that instinct – to have children?
Is there really such a thing?
Do we run our lives to satisfy our need
To perpetuate humanity – gene based?
Or do we see an art in participating
In a creative process that is - a given?

If there is art in life, and if life can be lived as art,
Then what role does creating life have?
Is this the ultimate connection to artistic life?
Or just a mundane, physical copulation?

I have seen people worried about the purpose of life
Who wandered aimlessly?
I have seen some of these people
Once immersed in parenthood, acknowledge a change of perspective.
Parenthood in their case, as with my own,
Gave an enriched meaning to life.

When you first see this tiny red,
Ugly offspring it is for a moment off-putting.
But only for a moment because
The natural bonding process continues quickly.
Bonding continues, I say, because this has already begun
With the kicks and movement in the womb.

There is a sense of pride, a fascination
With being part of a very natural, joyous process.
There is the deep satisfaction of sharing
This unfolding life-giving experience with someone you love.
Then comes the thrill of together holding,
Touching and the prospect of nurturing this infant.

There is no charm so great
As the pleasure passed between parents at the birthing.
There can be an intricate connection
Between each parent and the child, and between parents.
The bonding process between parent and child
Continues with each new diaper.

In this flush of glory the taste of life,
Like mother’s milk, is subtle and delicately sweet.
Too soon the child walks, gains independence
But the parent never forgets those early connections.

So on this day of memorial let me present to you
Those intimate sentiments as a gift.
Unashamed, unembarrassed, proud,
I remain, your father in spite of some treacherous years.
It is my hope now, as it was earlier,
That this bonding and love be shared by both your parents.
That you would be happy, fruitful,
And a continuing blessing to both your parents, as well.

end
By: Irvin H. Jacob

Dharma: the poem

I.J. Hall
January 14, 2004

Here I am at the top of these pages
Resting, willing to record whatever comes--
To listen serenely for the voice of my poetic muse
With whom I have consorted during this past year
In productive ways. She wants some prompting,
An idea, perhaps, to spark her imagination.
She may be still, tranquilly asleep beside me
While I lie, sleepless, yet it’s too early to rise.

The sound I hear is the sound of quiet.
There are no challenging dreams floating
In my half-sleep state. I must recognize
This as a victory of contentment, calmness.
A flaccid pulse brings tidings of internal peace;
There is no longing. This solitary vigil
Feels like a comfortable and happy place
Where anyone else might likewise be content,

So I am content as well, here, alone.
Here is where the center of my Soul is.
Here is where the center of my Universe is
Radiating from this vertex in all directions
With infinite, symmetrical dimensions of equally
Incomprehensible distance. In every direction,
Even through the Core of Earth, as through
My Core of Vision and creative spirit, it reaches.
I see this as a source of limitless possibilities.

Neither is there a limit to my happiness
For it needs no external cause celebre.
It can grow healthy and bloom quite nicely
On its own, thank you, and that is peace.
So in this very passive waiting for inspiration
I have received and transcribed a sublime truth
With the least possible effort. That must be
The way it comes, the erstwhile Messiah,

When you least expect the Second, the third
Or fourth Coming arrives to guide you.
This sense of ease, is a friendliness-
The same sense now in this prone posture
That I felt when touching Buddha’s feet
And hands of so many different, perfect images.

Before I left for tropical Bangkok I questioned:
What would be the one most important event
Or experience to perform on that tourist visit
To make it into a virtuous pilgrimage of sorts?
I thought darshan, letting Buddha’s eyes see me
And me seeing into the eyes of Buddha
As do the Hindu. I learned that is wrong twice:
First it is mixing clumsily religious metaphors,
Second, the Buddha’s eyes in meditation focus inwardly.
I determined to touch as many images as possible,
Whether icon or idol, it mattered little to me
Coming from the outside, there is no difference.
Touching became my neophyte spiritual practice.

I did this in several mundane and sublime ways.
Walking respectfully barefoot on temple floors
Was the most prosaic form of respectful ‘touching.’
Then touching feet and hands of handsome
And beautiful images, mock worship, but in privacy
I placed the gold foil, lit the pleasant incense,
Also candles, placed the lotus bud just so, and Sabbai,
Heard incomprehensible and redundant prayers,
Joined two water celebrations, twice splashed
With water by the Monk’s broom, and rubbed
The oil in my hair. I knelt until my feet hurt,
My knees and legs cramped, holding hands together
Just below my nose, Namaste’ in every greeting.

And all this time being receptive to my feelings
As I had experienced in Constellation settings,
Feeling from the depth of my Soul in sympathy.
It was in those moments of touching when I felt calm,
Friendliness, and acceptance as I share even here
Just lying. Resting, I can recall that contentment,
A pleasant feeling, not exciting but subtle.

I look around my room and am reminded
Of other touching -- bargaining and buying images
Inviting eight more Buddha to join my home.
I see these from every angle, two from here
One Theravada and one Mahayana, images,
Teachers of the same Dharma, one meditating,
One laughing in the rain under his umbrella.

So this special touching was a lesson for me;
Thus have I heard the ‘still, small voice.’
In the same way for others, meditation releases
As adherents progress into intense devotion,
A subjectivity removed from external reality.
I am for now content to be a Naga, “snake”
The Beginner, connected to life. I am before Novice
Still struggling to spell the new words correctly,
Let alone pronounce these or use Sanskrit;
I barely manage common English usages.

I am just stepping barefoot over the threshold
Of awareness, but already feeling the blessings,
Feeling befriended. This is the best description
Of how I felt as I touched so many Buddha feet.
I felt equal, peer, welcomed, honored, humbled,
Accepted – finally appreciating, sensitive to the simple smile
On those peaceful faces. In each Wat I visited,
The face of Buddha was different, meditating,
Showing absence of suffering, contentment.
So when I smile I am reminded of this inspiring goal
To feel and show my own peace, accepting happiness.
This may be the most sacred lesson of Dharma. I feel

It doesn’t need to be more complex than this.
Meditation sutras assist Samadhi overcome
The obstacles, to rise beyond worldly suffering
That interferes with peaceful contentment
And spiritual purity. It seems intuitively obvious
To take down the mental barriers and accept
The Friendship of Buddha. That feels right, and
A worthwhile state of mind with which to end.

Pace