RETREAT POEMS
May 2001
by Peter Clothier
with special thanks to Marv Treiger

INSTRUCTIONS AT THE WOODPILE

First let the eye select
the flat cross-section
of a single log.

Note the core, the saw marks;
note the age rings,
the way the hue
grows more intense toward
the orange center of the O.

Note, too,
the way it absorbs the sunlight.

Now hold that image;
simultaneously allow
the edges of your vision
to expand, including
the several immediately
surrounding ends, their shape,
their heft, the way the bark
adheres or falls away;

how they accept, with ease,
their awkwardly adjacent lay.

And holding that image now,
expand your vision further still,
to take in the whole log pile,
all at once, as one,
the height and depth of it,
the width, perhaps five paces.

Feel the muscular expansion
of the vision, as infinitude
overwhelms you. Maintain
throughout a steady gaze.

Be most aware of what seeks
to escape you: detail,
the resinous drips,
the amber gleam of sunlight on them;
the way the shadows
reach long, broken fingers
in between the shafts.

Hold the gaze steadfastly,
maintaining as wide a focus
as the eyes can manage. Now,
do you get the picture?



THREE BOWLS

Here's how it is: unfold
the first soft wrap, lay it flat,
and remove your chopsticks
from their cotton envelope.

Set aside the small white towel
and napkin.

Fill each of the three bowls
and eat; lay aside
the chopsticks as you chew.

(Notice, for once,
that you are eating; allow
the tastes to blossom
as they do).

When done, fill
one bowl with water,
rinse, pass the water
into the next bowl, rinse,
and so on to the third.

Wash chopsticks.
Dry chopsticks and bowls
with the small white towel,

replace at the center of the warp
and fold each corner in,
until the stack of bowls is covered,
ready for the next use.

Set aside with love
and gratitude.



WALKING CIRCLE

We think we move.
One foot
in front of the other,
heel to toe,
heel to toe.

The room moves past us in a circle,
sedately so.

My mind sees Van Gogh's prison yard,
one prisoner behind the next,
one person following the next,
each dying with each footfall
to be free.

We do not think,
we move.

Heel to toe, to heel,
to toe.



NIGHT PISS

That's it, gotta go,
again!

The aging bladder
won't brook denial.

But I resist
the effort of climbing from the bunk,
the shock of cold, the long walk
up the hill, until
the question is no longer moot.

Then it's up and out,
head down against the cold,
to the facility.

It's only on returning
I look up: miraculous.

Stars
everywhere, a whole sky full,
and moonlight blinding
on the mountainside across
the valley, turning
the rocks a brilliant white, white
as the remaining luminous snow.

I breathe,
the universe expands.

So thanks, old bladder.
Thanks, old friend.
You served me well.



THE HUMAN PRETZEL
or YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE

This one-excuse me-
pisses me off
like you wouldn't believe.

Somehow
she gets herself in front of me
everywhere; in the zendo,
in the dharma talk,

twisting herself into postures
no human body should.

Never still, always
stretching, stretching…

Whist I, in agony
just to keep the legs crossed
and sit still for an hour, look on,
amazed at one

so long, so blonde, so lithe,
so young!



INTRUDERS

They stroll past the window,
unfamiliar faces.
Their chatter
mocks our noble silence.

Hikers
in the mountains?
Guests, perhaps,
on some parallel retreat
that no one thought to mention?

The indignation surges:
these people have no right.

Still, unconcerned,
they wander on, and out of sight.

Checking inside,
I meet my resident traffic cop, aching
to write the ticket:
unauthorized loitering
on private property.
Trespass. One hundred
dollar fine.

Then smile, breathe him away,
and wish these strangers well instead,
keeping a weather eye open
for the next invitation
to distract the mind.



NO KILLING

Something bites.
I think it bites.
I bring my attention
to the itch, observing it
first with a noble show
of equanimity.

Just a bite. Some tiny
living being. He's welcome
to my flesh.

But damn, it itches
where he bit.
Surreptitiously,
I scratch.
The itch persists.
I scratch again.

The itch comes back.
No better. Driven
to compare, my mind
concludes it's maybe
just a little worse.

I'm pondering
whether to risk another scratch
when the bug himself returns.
I feel his little feet,
scrabbling,
apparently unaware
how I could crush him
with a single swipe.

Another bite. My vengeful hand
is poised. But then,
no killing, I remember.

I breathe, relax,
and almost as I watch,
the pesky creature vanishes,
the itch is gone.



BLACK BUFFALO

So there you are
in your woolly shirt
imprinted with rows
of black buffalo.

We've known each other
more than thirty years,
and yet today we're strangers.

Your glance
glances away as you pretend
not to see me, pretending
not to see you watching,
as I sneak an extra cookie
on my plate.

I nearly smile
despite myself,
nearly invade that private space
you have built around you.

But then I catch it,
holding back the smile,
from love.



YOUR EGO, AND MINE

I admire
how you let go your ego
here on the mountain,

knowing how often the two of ours
bump against each other
down there in the valley.

Here, you are
so quiet, so distant,
so closed off
into your non-ego self.

I watch from a distance,
wondering
how it is going for you,
there, inside,
and long to ask.

But I refrain,
from love.



TO EVERYONE IN MY CABIN

whose sleep was disturbed
by my loud snoring,
I apologize.

I wish I did not do it,
but I do.

This, friends, is how
I continuously
bring suffering into the world
without intention.

It's in the very nature
of the flesh
that carries me around.



SIX A.M.

The monks are chanting
in the second zendo.

I hear the sound
from outside the door,
and want to go inside
and listen.

But I'm afraid,
if I do,
I'll miss my morning tea.



IN THE ZENDO

I'm seized by the desire
to tiptoe round
and see how we all look.

Are we for real?
Are we faking it?

Come on, tell me:
what's happening inside there?

As I see it happen
in my mind's eye,
they all just smile,
eyes closed, and say

nothing.



THE YOUNG GIRL

across from me is weeping
all the way through evening meditation,
sobbing aloud.

We are asked, tonight,
the meditate on compassion,
to feel it in the heart,
and let it radiate.

I wonder
if you can feel it
radiate from mine to you?

Thank you, anyway,
for making this immeasurable
almost measurable.

Tonight, very naturally,
my heart goes out to you.



LOVING STRANGERS

I confess
I've found it difficult to love.

There was always
some part of myself
I could not let go of,
could not spare, for others,

perhaps because
I needed it so much
myself.

Today, though,
in this place, amazingly,
I feel my heart sing with love

for strangers.



GREEDY ME

I lie in wait
for the next batch
of fried eggs.

The first one, Sunday morning,
was too delicious,
the line too long,
the platter too soon empty.

So I lie in wait
for the next one, anxious
to be the first to see its arrival
through the kitchen doors.

Ready to pounce,
anxious
not to miss out
for a moment's lapse
in attention, I wait.

Greedy me.



NOT SO NOBLE

Certain people
who shall be nameless-
who are nameless
because I do not know their names-
think that the rules
apply to other people
than themselves.

I watch them
catch the eye, smile,
make small talk with their hands,
make contact.

And then I catch myself
being one of them.
Always eager to be noticed,
always eager to please.



THE LAST MORNING

I walk past you
where you sit
in the sunlight,
making notes
in your book.

Soon
we will talk
again.



COOKIES

Everyone loves a cookie.
So very Zen, I think,
though I couldn't say why.

The first, delectable,
leads the grasping fingers
irresistibly to the second.

Still good. But watch
how the edge of delirium
vanishes even as you chew.

Such a sense of loss.
But a third, you think,
might just bring back
that first, delectable ecstasy.

And who would know?
Just one more, one
to take back to your room.

So goes the argument
in dharma talk: how easily
the mind can justify
the body's insatiable greed.

And, well, says some wag
at the end of it: after all,
they were only very small.



STEALING

Damn. Forgot
the toothpaste.
Could have sworn
it went in with the rest.

I empty out my wash bag.
Despair.
Panic.

Then, on the shelf in the men's bathroom,
above the sink, miraculously,
a small tube of Crest.

The first night, furtively, I squeeze
just a quarter inch on my brush.
Stealing?

The following-the first-morning,
it's still there. Maybe, I tell myself,
it actually belongs to no one.
Maybe this is what they mean
when they talk about good karma.
I squeeze another quarter inch.

That evening, the tube
has still not been removed.
Delusion readily sets in:
I think now that perhaps
it was my toothpaste all along,
removed distractedly from my bag
before I concluded in my panic
-erroneously, then-
that it was missing. I allow myself
to squeeze another quarter inch,
and replace it on the shelf.

Well, the next day no one
has yet claimed it. No one
is using it other than myself.

Aha, see, then, it must be mine.
Who else would be so foolish?

Sunday. The last morning: still there.
I take a final squeeze, filled
with almost tearful gratitude.
Replacing the tube for the last time
on the shelf, I leave it there,
for those forgetful ones who follow me.



THESE POEMS

Ah, you see. The perfect
distraction

from dukkha.
I feel good, writing them.

Already my eye is on the future:
who will read them,
who will appreciate
their subtleties?

Important me.
I sit and scribble,
even on the john.