Good evening and welcome. I want to read some poetry tonight. I want to read some poetry from Mary Oliver, who passed away a couple of weeks ago. Wonderful poet. I gave a talk about about some of her poems more than a decade ago back at the Cynical, a version of which is now a chapter in my book, Zen Questions. This isn't so systematic. I've just sort of randomly picked some. I'll just read one that I spoke about in that last talk. So Mary Oliver was kind of a nature poet. often wrote about the natural world around us. In some ways, sort of a Taoist feeling, although some Buddhist references, too.

[01:05]

And this one particularly, I'll read through a couple times. The Buddha's last instruction. Make of yourself a light, said the Buddha before he died. I think of this every morning as the east begins to tear off its many clouds of darkness to send up the first signal, a white fan streaked with pink and violet, even green. An old man, he laid down between two solitaries, and he might have said anything. Knowing it was his final hour, the light burns upward. It thickens and settles over the fields. Around him, the villagers gathered and stretched forward to listen. Even before the sun itself hangs, disattached in the blue air, I am touched everywhere by its ocean of yellow waves.

[02:07]

No doubt he thought of everything that had happened in his difficult life. And then I feel the sun itself as it blazes over the hills like a million flowers on fire. Clearly, I'm not needed. Yet I feel myself turning into something of inexplicable value. Slowly, beneath the branches, he raised his head. He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd. So I'll read it again, but just to say this is a turn on the story of the Buddha's final words. Usually they're translated as, be a light unto yourself. So now that the Buddha's passing, please find your own way. find your own way to see the light of the Buddha's teaching, now that I'm gone.

[03:16]

But Mary Oliver says it differently. She says, make of yourself a light. So Buddha continues through our spiritual journey. giving the light. So I'll read it again. And it's interesting the way she intersperses part of the story of the Buddha just before he passed away and then her own feelings as the sun rises. Make of yourself a light, said the Buddha before he died. I think of this every morning as the east begins to tear off its many clouds of darkness to send up the first signal, a white fan streaked with pink and violet, even green, An old man, he lay down between two solid trees, and he might have said anything, knowing it was his final hour. The light burns upward. It thickens and settles over the fields around him. The villagers gathered and stretched forward to listen.

[04:18]

Even before the sun itself hangs disattached in the blue air, I am touched everywhere by its ocean of yellow waves. No doubt. He thought of everything that had happened in his difficult life. And then, I feel the sun itself as it blazes over the hills like a million flowers on fire. Clearly, I'm not needed. And I feel myself turning into something of inexplicable value. Slowly, beneath the branches, he raised his head. He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd. So she ends there, but then he goes back to the beginning. when he said, make yourself a light, said the Buddha before he died. So that's the Buddha's last instruction. And the way she tells it also is her own experience of the light coming forth. So I like that poem a lot.

[05:19]

Again, I could say more, but I want to just read and share some of Mary Oliver. That was from New and Selected Poems. This is from a volume called Why I Wake Early. Yeah, this one is called... Oh, yeah. Ah. Some things, say the wise ones. That's the title. Some things, say the wise ones who know everything, are not living.

[06:23]

I say, you live your life your way and leave me alone. I have talked with the faint clouds in the sky, way they are afraid of being left behind. I have said, hurry, hurry. And they have said, thank you. We are hurrying. About cows and starfish and roses, there is no argument. They die, after all. But water is a question. So many living things in it. But what is it itself, living or not? Oh, gleaming generosity, how can they write you out? As I think that I am sitting on the sand beside the harbor, I am holding in my hand small pieces of granite, pyrite, schist, each one just now, so thoroughly asleep." So the teaching of Buddha nature, like many

[07:24]

indigenous teachings are about how everything is alive. We talk about this sometimes. Anyway, I'll read it again. Some things, say the wise ones. Some things, say the wise ones who know everything, are not living. I say, you live your life your way and leave me alone. I have talked with the faint clouds in the sky where they are afraid of being left behind. I have said, hurry, hurry. And they have said, thank you, we are hurrying. about cows and starfish and roses. There's no argument. They die after all. But water is a question. So many living things in it. But what is it? It's self, living or not. gleaming generosity. How can they write you out? As I think this, I am sitting on the sand beside the harbor. I am holding in my hand small pieces of granite, pyrite, schist, each one just now, so thoroughly asleep. So the water and the rocks, are they

[08:29]

Not living? How is it that they're living? She's talking to them. She's feeling them. She says of the rocks, each one just now so thoroughly asleep. And so what is life after all? What is awareness? Again, I just want to read poetry tonight and we can talk about it in discussion, but this one is called, and the way Mary Oliver asks good questions and brings to life the world that she sees around her is just, to me, very marvelous. Okay, this one is, Oh, it has a very long title. The title is, What Was Once the Largest Shopping Center in Northern Ohio Was Built Where There Had Been a Pond I Used to Visit Every Summer Afternoon.

[09:39]

So I'll read the title again. What Was Once the Largest Shopping Center in Northern Ohio Was Built Where There Had Been a Pond I Used to Visit Every Summer Afternoon. So the poem goes, Loving the earth, seeing what has been done to it, I grow sharp, I grow cold. Where will the trilliums go and the colt's foot? Where will the pond lilies go to continue living their simple, penniless lives, lifting their faces of gold? Impossible to believe we need so much as the world wants us to buy. I have more clothes, lamps, dishes, paperclips than I could possibly use before I die. Oh, I would like to live in an empty house with vines for walls and a carpet of grass. No planks, no plastic, no fiberglass. And I suppose sometime I will.

[10:42]

Old and cold, I will lie apart from all this buying and selling with only the beautiful earth in my heart." So again, about how the world is alive. I'll read it again. Do you want to hear the title again? The title is, what was once the larger shopping center in northern Ohio was built where there had been a pond I used to visit every summer afternoon. in the poem, loving the earth, seeing what has been done to it. I grow sharp. I grow cold. Where will the trilliums go and the coltsfoot? Where will the pond lilies go to continue living their simple, penniless lives, lifting their faces of gold? Impossible to leave. to believe we need so much as the world wants us to buy. I have more clothes, lamps, dishes, paperclips than I could possibly use before I die. Oh, I would like to live in an empty house with vines for walls and a carpet of grass, no planks, no plastic, no fiberglass.

[11:52]

And I suppose sometime I will. Old and cold, I will lie apart from all this buying and selling with only the beautiful earth in my heart." So it kind of reminds me of the Song of the Grass Hut. That's kind of simplicity. Not quite a hermit, but she's not a hermit at all, because she's loving and living with the pond lilies and the simple penniless lives with their faces of gold. So more. Here's one. And this one I'm going to read in honor of Suzuki Roshi, my teacher's teacher, who very much liked frogs, as I do. This one is called, excuse me, Look Again. Look again. What you have never noticed about the toad, probably, is that his tongue is attached not to the back of his mouth, but the front.

[12:59]

How far it extends when the fly hesitates on a near enough leaf, or that his front feet, which are sometimes padded, hold three nimble digits. Had anyone a piano small enough, I think the toad could learn to play something, a little Mozart maybe, inside the cool cellar of the sandy hill. And if the eyes bulge, they have gold rims. And if the smile is wide, it never fails. And the warts, the delicate uplifts of dust-colored skin, are neither random nor suggestive of dolor, but rather are little streams of jewelry in patterns of espousal and pleasure, running up and down their crooked backs sweet and alive in the sun. So look again, again. What you have never noticed about the toad, probably, is that his tongue is attached not to the back of his mouth, but the front, how far it extends when the fly hesitates on a near enough leaf, or that his front feet, which are sometimes padded

[14:07]

hold three nimble digits. Had anyone a piano small enough, I think the toad could learn to play something, a little Mozart maybe, inside the cool cellar of the sandy hill. And if the eyes bulge, they have gold rims. And if the smile is wide, it never fails. And the warts, the delicate uplifts of dust-colored skin, are neither random nor suggestive of duller, but rather are little streams of jewelry in patterns of espousal and pleasure, running up and down their crooked backs, sweet and alive in the sun." So many of her poems are made from observations of nature, observations of things that are very simple and obvious and apparent, you know, when you're living out in nature. And of course, for us in the city, nature is here too. We maybe have to look a little harder, a little further. So maybe just a couple more.

[15:12]

In the early curtains of the dusk it flew, a slow galloping. This way and that way, through the trees and under the trees I live, in the open-mindedness of not knowing enough about anything. It was beautiful. It was silent. It didn't even have a mouth. But it wanted something. It had a purpose and a few precious hours to find it. And I suppose it did. The next evening, it lay on the ground like a broken leaf and didn't move, which hurt my heart, which is another small thing that doesn't know much. When this happened, it was about the middle of summer. which also has its purposes, and only so many precious hours, how quietly and not with any assignment from us, or even a small hint of understanding, everything that needs to be done is done. In the early curtains of the dusk it flew, a slow galloping this way and that way through the trees and under the trees.

[16:56]

I live in the open-mindedness of not knowing enough about anything. It was beautiful. It was silent. It didn't even have a mouth, but it wanted something. It had a purpose and a few precious hours to find it. And I suppose it did the next evening. It lay on the ground like a broken leaf and didn't move, which hurt my heart, which is another small thing that doesn't know much. When this happened, it was about the middle of summer, which also has its purposes and only so many precious hours How quietly, and not with any assignment from us, or even a small hint of understanding, everything that needs to be done is done. So this is an interesting poem. Everything that needs to be done is done. It's true that sometimes we can see it that way. In the open-mindedness of not knowing enough about anything, it was beautiful.

[17:57]

So the rhythms of nature, the world of nature, which we are, which is us, even living in the city, a few precious hours to find it. And I suppose it did. It wanted something. It had a purpose. and then The Middle of Summer, which also has its purposes. But again, everything that needs to be done is done. Interesting poem. Many of her poems, one might sit with a line or a few lines and just reflect on how, what that might mean for us, for me, for each of us. And the last one I was going to read is rather short.

[19:03]

The Old Poets of China. So we just chanted a chant from one of the old poets of China. That's the poem of the grasshopper. The Old Poets of China. Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist." So very Taoist image of those old masters of longevity who eventually crept into the pale mist. Wherever I am, the world comes after me, like the buying and selling she talks about in the other poem. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

[20:17]

So I just wanted to read a selection of her poems. Mary Oliver was a great poet, often quoted by Buddhist teachers, actually. And looking at the world in a way as to see what is alive, what is valuable, what has its own purposes. like the Buddha's last instruction, make yourself into a light. So I can repeat some of those, or we can talk about them. It occurs to me that some of you may not know Mary Oliver. And I wasn't going to read The Wild Geese. That's the one that often Buddhist teachers talk about. Does anyone not know that poem? OK. Okay, I'll read it again, even for those of you who've heard it many times.

[21:19]

Now I have to find it. I'm sure it was in this one. Wait, it must be here.

[22:29]

I'm tempted to just open the book at random and read, because she's so good, but... Okay. Jason, could you go into the Doakson room and bring me the book, Zen Questions, that's on the shelf there? Thanks. I might find it before then, but... In the meantime, I'll just... I will open at random and read something. Oh, this one's called Something. Something fashioned this yellow-white lace mass that the sea has brought to the shore and left, like popcorn stuck to itself, or a string of lace rolled up tight, or a handful of fingerling shells pasted together, each with a tear where something escaped into the sea.

[24:08]

I brought it home, one of the uncombed morning morning and consulted among my books, I do not know what to call this sharpest desire to discover a name. But there it is, suddenly, clearly, illustrated on the page, offering my heart another singular moment of happiness to know that it is the egg case of an ocean shell. The whelk, which, in its proper season, spews forth its progeny in such glutinous and faintly glimmering fashion, each one chewing and tearing itself free, While what is left rides to shore, one more sweet as honey answer for the wanderer whose tongue is agile, whose mind is the world's riotous plenty, wants syntax, connections, lists, and most of all names to set beside the multitudinous stars, flowers, sea creatures, rocks, trees. The egg case of the welk sits on my shelf in front of, as it happens, Blake.

[25:14]

Sometimes I dream that everything in the world is here in my room, in a great closet, named and orderly. And I am here, too, in front of it, hardly able to see for the flash and the brightness. And sometimes I am that madcap person, clapping my hands and singing. And sometimes I am that quiet person down on my knees." So that was something. Okay, last one, and then any comments, questions? Thank you very much, Jason. So this was in that previous talk I gave on Mary Oliver. And I wasn't going to read it tonight because, again, it's the one that most people know if they know Mary Oliver. But I'll read it. Wild Geese. You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting.

[26:20]

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on. Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and rivers. Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh, and exciting, over and over announcing your place in the family of things. So you do not have to walk on your knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting, she says. You only have to let the animal of your body love what it loves. Should I read the whole thing again?

[27:22]

OK, Jan wants it. Wild geese. You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on. Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Wherever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting, over and over announcing your place in the family of things." I wanted to celebrate Mary Oliver after her passing.

[28:28]

These images of nature are not about something else. They're her accounts of what she sees, but they're also... In us, we are nature, enough nature. So, comments, questions, responses? There's a lot of different poems I've read, but anyone have anything you want to add or ask about? Yes, hi Jamie. Hey

[29:30]

We can just cut it off like this. And she said that she was really interested in the radicality of incredible presence and deep attention. Deep attention, yes.

[31:22]

Yeah, she was a very private person. She didn't want to be a celebrity or famous or anything. But yeah. That the radicality of deep attention, that's a wonderful phrase. Yeah, there's something very radical about actually being where you are, seeing nature in us, just seeing and being present. And she conveys that so marvelously. Jen. One of those old Chinese poets, yes.

[33:03]

Well, I have it right here. And yeah, it does echo, in some ways, Wild Geese. When teachings and approaches are distinguished, Geese has a standard. Whether teachings and approaches are mastered or not, reality constantly flows. kind of get involved. Yeah.

[34:42]

Well, she saw everything as poetry. And that has a lot to do with our practice that, you know, we sit silently facing the wall, facing ourselves, breathing, just being with what's in front of us and around us and in us. And it's not something you can explain. But, you know, so much of Zen stories and Zen poetry is about

[35:44]

that which goes beyond our usual way of talking. Yes, Dylan. Sometimes I can think of art as a line. It's an entity that is responding to reality. constantly changing. That is pretty close to the definition of a living thing. So like that poem that you just heard, a couple of poems you just heard, they will never be better reacted to than the exact is not far from any of the changes.

[37:02]

Yes. When there is... When your authentic self is always Thank you. Together. So her questioning, well, isn't the water alive? We know there's living things in the water, but what about the water itself?

[38:02]

Yeah. Other comments or thoughts? Now, thank you all, and thanks to Mary Oliver for these wonderful gifts. So there's numbers of volumes of her poems that you might enjoy. We'll close with the Four Bodhisattva Vows, which we chant at the end. They're in the next to last page of the chant book, three times.

[38:41]

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