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Devoted to Luang Por by Ajahn Kalyãno

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Devoted to Luang Por

by Ajahn Kalyãno

Devoted to Luang Por

This little book was created following a very playful conversation between me and Luang Por Sumedho in the sauna at Amaravati inJune 2014. I had been occasionally sending Luang Por poems overmy years as a monk as little offerings. He told me that he liked themvery much and had kept all of them in a scrapbook. He asked me if Ihad any more. I felt very much honored of course and confessed thatI had thought of producing a small booklet of poems to give himfor his birthday, “I’ll even write a recommendation for you if youlike,” he said. This was how the idea of a personal present becamethe idea for this publication. The poems that follow span nearly20 years of my relationship with Luang Por and his teachings, arelationship that has profoundly affected my life. I include all thepoems I could fi nd that I actually sent and also, with his permission,a few more that I would have sent had I known how much he likedthe others. The themes of listening and intuition, of space and of themindfulness that makes the ordinary extra-ordinary I hope clearlyecho his teaching.

“I am not very good at poetry,” Luang Por said to me, “so I needsomeone else to do that for me.”

Alright, I will try but you’re the inspiration, right!

Kalyāno 2014 July Bhikkhu

Introduction

Knowing ( given to Luang Por after the Winter Retreat of 2001)

Knowing makes the breath that calmsKnowing smells the goodness that trustsKnowing feels the Grace of composureKnowing thinks the uplifting smileKnowing sees the space that reflectsKnowing tastes the freedom of the momentKnowing hears the silence that awakensKnowing knows deathKnowing is the path to the deathless

Listening moonListening Is the listening moonWithin

ListeningIs the listening tombWithout

ListeningListening So please don’t shout

Ordinarily (in a letter to Luang Por sent in July 2013)

The ordinary sky is made of birdsAnd birds are made of sky

The ordinary house is made of loveLove is made to fly

And ordinary loveIs made never to die

Love is (in a birthday card to Luang Por 2006)

Love isLove is loveLove is love is loveBetween, between, between

The knowing groundThere in the brightest lightThere in the formless soundAnd here in the silent soundHe had finally foundThe Knowing, growing ground

When the one who knows still listensLike a still jewel that glistens Turning the light of awareness back within It fills the present full to the brim With richest, silent meaning

Past and future are no moreVirtue steps to the foreAnd suckling turns to weaningFor craving’s children

They will try to drive us on Or pull us backUntil we take up the slackFinding again the gold thread The meaning both of the deadAnd of the livingBoth of loss and of givingShame and forgiving

For there is the hope of eternity For the purest spiritForever beyond past and future Securely in the refined pastureOf the love and spaceOf the grace above

Reflective Glory (sent to Luang Por from Thailand in June 2007)

There we give up all we have And no longer desireTo quench the fireOf needThe seed Of sufferingSuch is our release from formThe cramped focus With its binding hocus-pocusThe unholy thinkingThat is forever sinkingTo gather like glueAnd stick us into the zooLike a petty crookInto a boring book

And when there is no needWe sow no further seedTo grow and fadeIn this perilous gladeAnd we live not on needThat spinning wraithBut on faith.The collective GloryOf the Lord Buddha.

The hair from nowhereThere had been no such thingAs the hair from nowhereUntil he was nothing

In the sweet, sweet airSweet, sweet nothingThat was still thereStill, still there

Still knowingStill growingStill growingStill growing

Closely wrapped in the soft brown robeThe Buddha’s beggars’ robe of blessed restraintAspiring to turn earthly ponderingTo spacious blessing bubbles of kind prayerOver the foam of fleeting formsWithin and withoutAching to offer, not a petitionBut a humble vision of harmony.

Thus I entered the chapelOnly to be caught again by my desire My eyes, spasms of grabbingElectric flesh sucking with its jelly camerasForgetting that it could not hold on To one quantum of the pretty light.

The Chapel (written for Luang Por after the temple opening in 1996)

Puppet to time’s whimDrunk with youth scorching faith with immodestyDull with age that hums hymns for comfort, grabbing religion While helplessly dying. Let these spasms not be soughtBut softened and smoothedWith the caress of the sympathetic breathAnd the neutral, fearless gaze that offers the freedomTo begin again.

Thus may giving tame the grabbing ghostsIn a privileged silence.Silence learned in disciplineIn the humility of hungerOf stormy celibacyOf surrender to painful stillness

Sitting let my bones be my crossSilence sustained by the generosityOf the grabbing ghostsGhosts of grabbing That openedAnd gave back.

Let us not allow this gift to become superstition ,To just exalt the signsThat appear at deaths knock to consoleLet it not bind us to dreamy comfort So that we miss the liberationThat may awaken the transcendent eyeFor death is knocking now if we are listeningNot hopelessly bargaining with hot, hopeful candles.Let us not be deceived by the grabbing ghostsThat notice not how every light stolenStiffens, dulls and drags usInto a prison of meatHow every glance of craving shrinks usTo fit such a gristly form,Believing in it’s own sights,Including that fleshy image of itself.

Nor let us allow this cathedral’s spectacleTo be so taken by desire’s whirlpoolNor take beauty’s barb, the roses’ thorns, beyondBut as still water reflect withinOn devotion’s untiring work.Rather may such giving,That knows nothing can be heldIn its compassion not replenish The spent stubs of hope lostTo keep the illusion alive

May instead the cassock-black tears of a monks’ grief Mature into sublime cloudsThat caresses the vault with loveCondensing to rain like joyOf knowing upon our hearts.

Open skyThe open sky opens into spaceThere is only his infinite graceA new heaven for the body to findA new heaven eternally kindA new heaven completely freeA new heaven for all to see

In the silenceAs old as stoneThe silence means everythingAnd history alone Is rewritten

Writing out the wanton stranger

And as fresh as flowersThrough the endless hoursThe silence just means everything

Free from danger

And only the sweet dew fresh from heavenHangs on by a threadFor the fairy of the ordinaryTo gather the sleepy dead

And only the sweet dew fresh from heaven

Before the dandy doodle dawn and afterFrom heart-bed to heart-rafter Dreams drifted up and in and over, Droopy past and dingly future Until the dusk-sea breeze,Flowing from the waving waters, Laughed enough to draw the streetsOf sacred sons and daughters Draw them in as close as maybe To the wide cream silken pasture

To the softest field Whose every life and yield Is heaven’s garden and sacred pardonTo the faithful in their prayers

To the same fieldThat is every crush, green and lush to the fairday lover’s tender ears

To these two lost together, undercover,In their separate dreams The field, it seems...

The perfect death of the simple breath (I read this to Luang Por at his invitation shortly before his 80th birthday)

And the porcelain that had rememberedAnd the white lace that had whispered Dispelled the deadWhere nothing had ever been saidAnd the larger, slower sermon on the innocence of men Was the creamiest pasture that blew and blewerLike surf and surfer and awoke us, right then,Just to mingle and playA second time in a single day.

Like the shining open big sea waterThat shall glisten, listen to the breezeWhispered whimsy, heaven’s daughterSo eager to pleaseThat they may then dance the weatherSo very peacefully togetherEven though it still seemsThat they too inhabited different dreams

Until, taking its foothold in the gaze of angelsTo form its final pleaThe breath blew warm and dear, straight from the sea, The silken breeze scattering innocence over the open field of gloryAnd gently, gently closing the simplest story...

I would be those clothesThose clothesThese are too tight

I would be those clothesI would be dressed in light

I would be thoseUntil they are theseIs that alright?

The day was drearyHis hands were wearyThud, thud went the heart of mud

And the veins ran in blue streams Into a lardy white sea Of lucid dreamsBlue was the blood of the dead

‘Read to me,’ he said.

His room, the first world within a worldAnd the first deathAnd a world within him a secondAnd in a second a sun fellAnd all was wellFor a full moon rose in the second deathThat was the first beginning

And weary was the handMade of lard and sand

‘Come inside’, he said

And bright was the heart within the heartHere In the dear

And bright was the breath within the breathOf the third death

For the heart-world was the only world leftThen there the earth fell as deft as deathFrom the rising heartAnd what was real was just art

And fire opened, lightening to the air and brought rivers and streams to the valleys and dreams of the heart

‘Look to the sky’, she said

And the blood of the word and the deathless midnight seasonAnd the summer fermentRose the blood red moon And there in the air There was a ribbon of blood in her hairIn the third deathThe death of the dead

‘Hold my hand,’ he said.

She did not hear

Beat...beat...meat

‘Why are you placing the sheet

Over my face?’ he said.

And the world was as light and white as a cloudUnder the shroudHe said.

And when the light shone throughThere was One, not twoAnd the world was just clothesTo a costume showThat we all knowSo wellSo very well

And the dead were nowhere to be found

And life sang forever the silent sound

And learning to dieMistily decked in skyWith a necklace of starsThe space was oursThat wore the mountain by the sea

And thus, my friend, As we came to the open endThe hour was finally to be you and me

And learning to be bornThe mountain was wornTo breakfast with the assembled companyAnd the mountain in turn was wearing the sea

So suitably clothedThe world was betrothedTo the soul Of the wholeFor tea

For we were just a twinkleIn the eyeA wrinkleAnd a valley of tears

Tears of joyThat tinkle in the earsThat listenLike a toyAnd that glisten

Like Thee

And not torn from space But worn with GraceWere we

And not born from GraceBut worn by GraceWere we...

At dawn in the open palaceFor the sun of the heart to riseAnd be wiseThe silver light shimmers in sliversAs the dew-light shiversAnd falls

Then, as intended, the calmer light of pewterMay greet the gallant suitor That calls

And befriendedAre the open ended, sacred hallsWhose walls of whimsical Will-of-the-WispAre not walls

And the solid parallel is well For form is warmed within by the sightOf sight itself drawn within by this world of lightTo this within that reaches afarAnd loves as milk-white As the light of the stars

And the light of the stars itself loves like money As gold as honey

Until light, milk and honeyThick and runnySweet and funnyAnd as silly as deathAre there in the simple breath And whitest light is frozen by humble boneAnd rubies are the blood of our real home

Perfectly OrdinaryThink in spaceHappy facePink embrace

The sweetest fairyMrs. Perfectly OrdinaryIn its own little wayQuite contrary

Rare blueIn a rare blue Sun skin zoo,Of squares thrown askewUpon squares,The fence snakesSideways and breaks, free,Free of itself, ordinarily,Through the white witch sightOf silent light.

Coming and going

Seeing and knowing

Neither here nor thereNot mineNor another’sThe soft silver shineIs neither here nor thereBut like a stillness in the gentle airIt is everywhere.

And that’s neither here nor there.

Lightest touchIn waking dreamsThe Sage seemsTo gently liftThis mantle of mistAlso from the heart.

SuchIs His touch.

At leastSo it seems.

The true feastIs not in the eyeOf the wondrous sighBut rests further within.

Lightly,Brightly,Held in just the same wayIs the all-powerful swayOf perfect answersAs calm and composedAs perfect dancers.

Truths that shall lightly remain,Before any pain,On the tip of His tongue,Ready to pounce,Unannounced.

Today’s truths are weavedSilently into the autumn leaves

They are as naughtYet they are caughtIn the soft silver lightOf simple things.

They singOf wisdom

They are wingsOf freedom.

HomeWhen a line gathers closelyAround a reassuring circleAnd the time is ripeThere can emerge the unifying miracleOf the pipe

And the flowing may fall still

And the stillness may flow on

Like the tear of the mother who is ready to cryLike the blood of the warrior who is ready to dieNot just on the field of gloryBut even here, in the warmth of homeEven here, without a storySo that the heart may no longer roam,To be the heroOf the big fat zero.

UnbecomingHe was feeling a little bit flatTired of running this way

and that

Old and cold, was it time to hang up his hat?Was it time to disappear?

Yet the way was not clearFor it seemed there was nowhere to hideOn either sideOf the great divideOf life and death.Of life and death.Of life and death.

Yet he found in the simple breathThat he did not need to runThere was lots of funHere, before the whole thing had even begunBefore he was tempted to become this Or to feel thatBy the silly mind

Under the silly, unbecoming hat.

Right here in the silenceOf unbecoming this and that.

In the light of the silenceIn the silent light.

Silent lightIn the light of silenceIn the silent light, sublimeThere can be a mimeThat is beyond time

Yet how will it speakLet alone rhyme?

It will calmly playIn the heart everyday

In such an ordinary way.

We will see the danceAs a subtle lightOf goodness and of good chanceReflected in simple light.Light that is madeClear by the shadeOf things.

Clear sightSilent lightMakes nothingOut of thingsSweetest nothingSo brightSo right

Simple thingsMake nothingOut of clear sightSweet nothingGentle and calmBeyond harm

Silent sounds (Given to Luang Por as a parting gesture in his final summer at Amaravati)

Watching the paint dryOr the saint flyBegs the same reason why

Noticing the paint crackDemands an answer, a new tack Or the saint to come back

Seeing the paint flakeOr the heart awakeIs our reply

Don’t cry

For we will finally meetThere at the bare concreteSo soundAs the immutable sound of silenceMeets the silent soundHere at the highest senseOf the ground.

Between, between, betweenBetween fast and slowAt a new paceBetween outer and innerIn a new place

Between brother and sisterShowing a new face

So freely the heart shall flowAs open as a summer meadowBetween, between, between

Between higher and lowerWith a new taste

Between innocence and graceBathed in a new light

Between time and spaceEndowed with fresh sight

Seeing as far as one can seeAs open as the seaBetween, between, between

Slipping betweenSlipping freeYou and me.

Here is my heartUntil death do us partHere is my heart

Until, red as redDead in the bed

Until, splutter, splutterDead in the gutter

Until itch, itchDead in the ditch

Until choked on the breadUntil bashed on the headDead as dead

And when death do us partHere is my heart

Right hereThe heart was openThe angels were beckoning

Then time stood stillAs it surely willOn that day of reckoning

That day which is todayAnd every dayIn the heart

And here we areHere is the brightest starThe highest art

And right here Is the noble seerThe One who Knows

Right here

Silence speaksFrom the heart freshly awokenThe silence has spokenThe truth glistenedThe silence has listened

The Sky FamilyAlthough not visible to the naked eyeMr. and Mrs. Sky

Had two daughtersCalled What and Why

And we could feel them in our watersAnd we were so happy we could cryFor they had all the answersOh me, oh my!

And they spoke not a wordAnd nothing was heardBut our own gentle sigh

And their formless formWas friendly and warmAnd would never dieFor it was the form of the SageUnchanged from age to ageSo very high

Still milkOut of a forest of watches and watchedThrough hatches and hatchedTo a tame chamber of starsAs mellow as hummer and summerStopped walker and walked

There would be misty talkIn the alleys and valleysOf the walkers that still walked

And in the dingles that tingledRang the treeThat sparked the middleThe middle that marked the riddle that barked

Until the dogs in the grassAnd the heads in the arseWere parked

Then, hark, the angels could singAnd, without need of a single thingBe heart

AcknowledgementsIllustrations and poems by Ajahn KalyānoGraphic Design by Andy HackAndy would like to dedicate his work to his mother “An inspiration to many, a law unto herself.”

Buddhist since he was 17. He began visiting Amaravati in the 1980’s. As a layman his path of practice and enquiry led him to work in hospitals for nearly twenty years specialising in neurological rehabilitation and learning disabilities as a Clinical Psychologist, Physiotherapist and T’ai chi teacher. He has a particular interest in exploring the relationship between body and mind. He took full ordination at Chithurst Monastery in 1998 and has since travelled to Italy, Thailand and Australia.

Ajahn Kalyānowas born in Hitchin in 1961. He has been a practicing

Copyright:

This book is offered as a gift of Dhamma. It has been made available through thefaith, effort and generosity of people who wish to share the understanding it contains with whomever is interested. This act of freely offering is itself part of what makes this a ‘Dhamma publication,’ a book based on spiritual values. Please do not sell this book in any form, nor otherwise use it for commercial purposes.

If you wish to help publications such as this one continue to be made available, you can make a contribution, however small or large, by either contacting one of our monasteries (for a listing see www.forestsangha.org) or by visiting www.amaravati.org or www.forestsangha.org

Devoted to Luang Por

Lokuttara ViharaSkiptvet Buddhistkloster Lundsveien 1961816 SkiptvetNorwayhttp://skiptvet.skogskloster.no

First electronic edition published by Lokuttara Vihara 2016 This edition published 2017

Digital Edition 1.3Copyright © Lokuttara Vihara 2017

Designer: Andy HackFirst published by Bee Price 2016

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