First Chapter: The Container

     Welcome Poets! Please accept my respect for you, your family, and your culture.  This poetry workshop was written with respect for all cultures. I shake your hand and bow to you across the miles  Please remember the Container of respect this poetry class was written in, no rush through the material, take  a break when you need to and give your self Compliment Sandwiches as you write and not self-criticize…

     Today, in the midst of what has recently arisen on our paths nationally, may we continue with fearlessness and great compassion to practice walking in freedom, breathing in freedom, loving and caring in freedom, organizing in freedom, dialoguing in freedom, singing in freedom…May we support one another to embody, embolden and liberate the “lotus potential” of these challenging times within ourselves and in our communities and society. Jon Salunga

Quotes:

Freedom is not given to us by anyone; we have to cultivate it ourselves. It is a daily practice… No one can prevent you from being aware of each step you take or each breath in and breath out.”–Thich Nhat Hanh

—We have to walk in a way that we only print peace and serenity on the Earth. Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet. Thich Nhat Hanh

—Now, more ever, may we take REFUGE in the wholeness, strength and power of COMMUNITY and the world we’ve struggled and loved for, and the world we will protect. Jon Salunga

—People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar. Thich Nhat Hanh

Mystic –(root akin to myein to shut the eyes or mouth); a person who claims insight into mysteries transcend–ing ordinary human knowledge as by direct communication with the divine or immediate intuition in a state of spiritual ecstasy. (Mystic and mystery are in the same canoe.)

Music to Compose By:

Peter Kater & Nawang Khechog – The Dance Of Innocents

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aIBjLZB6tEk

Gary Malkin, Unspeakable Grace

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5SRirJpNL4&list=PLqdnlEQk6-jfxCEmyxTiJK7Xr1K0GExqM

Jamie Sieber, Hidden Sky

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jx0YwZWv84Q&list=PLb60Z4t-fOncev_Xj2psmg8lMzGfEy–r

Kim Rosen: The truth is in the wake of every poem that touches me, there is an uncanny sense of being loved. Perhaps that is what it feels like when the soul-door swings ajar. Will I walk through and dwell in the territory of wonder for awhile? Or will I turn away and launch into the next task on my perpetually humming to-do list.

Armfuls of Poetry, Drops of Sunshine – a poem of Thich Nhat Hanh

Sunshine rides on space and poetry on sunshine.

Poetry gives birth to sunshine, and sunshine to poetry.

Sun treasured in the heart of the bitter melon,
poetry made of steam rising from a bowl of soup in Winter.
The wind is lurking outside, swirling.
Poetry is back to haunt the old hills and prairies.
Yet the poor thatched hut remains on the river shore, waiting.

Spring carries poetry in its drizzle.
The fire sparkles poetry in its orange flame.

Sunshine stored in the heart of the fragrant wood,
warm smoke leading poetry back to the pages
of an unofficial history book.
Sunshine, though absent from space,
fills the now rose-colored stove.

Sunshine reaching out takes the color of smoke;
poetry in its stillness, the color of the misty air.

Spring rain holds poetry in its drops
which bend down to kiss the soil,
so that the seeds may sprout.
Following the rain, poetry comes to dwell on each leaf.
Sunshine has a green color, and poetry a pink one.
Bees deliver warmth to the flowers from the sunshine
they carry on their wings.
On sunshine footsteps to the deep forest,
poetry drinks the nectar with joy.
With the excitement of celebration,
butterflies and bees crowd the Earth.
Sunshine makes up the dance, and poetry the song.

Drops of sweat fall on the hard ground.
Poems fly along the furrows.
The hoe handily on my shoulder,
poetry flows from the breath.
Sunshine wanes away down the river,
and the silhouette of the late afternoon lingers reluctantly.
Poetry is leaving for the horizon
where the King of Light is blanketing himself in clouds.

A green sun found in a basketful of fresh vegetables,
a tasty and well-cooked sun smells delicious in a bowl of rice.
Poetry looks with a child’s eyes.
Poetry feels with a weather-beaten face.
Poetry stays within each attentive look.
Poetry—the hands that work the poor and arid land somewhere
far away.

The smiling sun brightening up the sunflower;
the ripe and full sun hiding itself in an August peach;
poetry follows each meditative step,
poetry lines up the pages.

Discreetly,
within closed food packages,
poetry nurtures love.

This poem, translated from the Vietnamese by Hoang Thi Van, has a lot 
of interbeing in it. The sun is green, because you can recognize it in the vegetables. Poetry is born from the wood that is burning in the stove. Without it, I cannot write. The last lines of the poem speak about the work of helping hungry children. We have used this poem as a New Year’s greeting. (from “Call me by My True Names  – The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh”, Parallax Press, 2005.)

I never claimed night fathered me.
that was my dead brother talking in his sleep. 
I keep him under my pillow, a dear wish
that colors my laughing and crying.

I never said the wind, remembering nothing,
leaves so many rooms unaccounted for, 
continual farewell must ransom
the unmistakable fragrance
our human days afford.

It was my brother, little candle in the pulpit,
reading out loud to all of earth
from the book of night.

He died too young to learn his name.
Now he answers to Vacant Boat,
Burning Wing, My Black Petal.

Ask him who his mother is. He'll declare the birds
have eaten the path home, but each of us
joins night's ongoing story
wherever night overtakes him,
the heart astonished to find belonging
and thanks answering thanks. 

Ask if he's hungry or thirsty,
he'll say he's the bread come to pass
and draw you a map
to the twelve secret hips of honey.

Does someone want to know the way to spring?
He'll remind you
the flower was never meant to survive
the fruit's triumph.

He says an apple's most secret cargo
is the enduring odor of a human childhood,
our mother's linen pressed and stored, our father's voice
walking through the rooms.

He says he's forgiven our sister
for playing dead and making him cry
those afternoons we were left alone in the house.

And when clocks frighten me with their long hair,
and when I spy the wind's numerous hands
in the orchard unfastening
first the petals from the buds,
then the perfume from the flesh,

my dead brother ministers to me. His voice
weighs nothing
but the far years between
stars in their massive dying,

and I grow quiet hearing
how many of both of our tomorrows
lie waiting inside it to be born.