Naropa-dopa

Ginsberg’s boomers ramble on
Micromanaging the muse
Inflicting on poetic crowds
Futile and postmodern views.

Born of crackpot meditation,
Formless poems, hippie dreams.
Useless psychedelia-lite:
Poetry as empty as it seems.

MFA meets beatnik-Buddha
(Lord, what fools these mortals be)
Fouling the Colorado air
Forcing on us weak green tea.

Punk-rock poetry is dull—
Neo-Buddhism much worse;
Please do not conflate the two
By bigging-up your boring verse.

 

  there’s so much to explore/we’re branching out/chart a new path/let’s stay focused

GET A LOAD OF THIS PROMPT (Day 3):

make a “Personal Universal Deck,” and then to write a poem using it.
The idea of the “Personal Universal Deck” originated with the poet and playwright Michael McClure, who gave the project of creating such decks to his students in a 1976 lecture at Naropa University. Basically, you will need 50 index cards or small pieces of paper, and on them, you will write 100 words (one on the front and one on the back of each card/paper) using the rules found here.
Don’t agonize over your word choices. Making the deck should be fun and revealing, as you generate words that sound “good” to you. The fact that the words are mainly divided among the five senses should be helpful in selecting words that you like the sound of, and that have some meaning personal to you. For example, my deck contains “harbor,” “wool,” “murmur,” “obsidian,” and “needle.”
Once you have your deck put together, shuffle it a few times. Now select a card or two, and use them as the basis for a new poem.

Vajra Cast From Golden Heights

ཆོས་ཀྱི་རྒྱ་མཚོ་

Bards of the bardo, hear my lay;
ye glacial Himalayas, sway.
Raise a warming toast in sake,
while my mystic muse gets cocky.

You who seek enlightenment
unto whom these lines are sent
open wide your spirit’s portal
(you—who are not yet immortal)

as we weigh a departed soul
and hurl a vajra. Let it roll
with tantric thunderclap appeal
while startled Bodhisattvas reel.

Turn from the heights with sober eyes
and under less celestial skies
let us scrutinize the preacher,
pop-star and Tibetan teacher:

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche
(born in a manger, so they say)
grew up deep in Eastern mountains,
fed by esoteric fountains.

Soon he became a monkish abbot
painting thankas, chanting sutra
in a saffron-colored habit
high above the Brahmaputra.

Later, the teacher headed west
suckling Maya‘s milky breast
selling used mantras on the way
to devis who came out to play.

Eventually, in Colorado
he rocked the Rockies, thrilled the Beats
Bringing to his own weird bardo
bolder moves and tipsy feats.

Crazy wisdom’s drunken master
clothed in smartly elegant style,
steered disciples toward disaster—
partying gleefully all the while.

He tantalized the Tantric flirtsDakini1
by seeking Buddhahood up their skirts;
preaching, as their morals sunk
from The Tibetan Book of the Drunk

Meditating, glass in hand
life of the party (of the damned)
the master mingled with dakinis
deep in the bardo of red bikinis.

Leaving behind a score of tulkus
empty bottles, broken parts
books of empty words that fools choose
after charlatans steal their hearts,

Trungpa Rinpoche went down
shaman of shame, hung-over clown
and tried to mend his Karmic puncture
where the left-hand paths make juncture:

Axis of the All, he spoke
a massive Himalayan joke.
Chogyam’s sacred shambala
brought last laughs to the last hurrah.

When his Dharma-dream was ended
Trungpa woke in hell, a snowball;
karmic punctures still unmended
prisoner of the Bardo Thodol

Should you doubt the truths I tell,
the facts are documented well.
Crazy, isnt it? What we’ll take
from vajra-vendors on the make.

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche,
Wisdom of sages and guru of pop

consulted dakinis in black bikinis;
talked shop…

Enlightened by wisdom’s varied liquors
fueled by a thirst for Buddhahood
this ex-Abbot fed his habit—
(not good).

Trungpa, winged with eastern wisdom
fell from Tibet to the decadent West.
Buddhist conjectures packed his lectures.
Trung was blessed

with warm and available devotees
who sought Himalayan experience .
One curious girl had a tantric whirl
of deliverance.

Escaping her Northern boarding school
she incarnated in his suite.
Spiritual union in carnal communion
yielded heat.

And then in nine months came forth a boy:
a reincarnated holy one.
Google his name of dubious fame:
the tulku son.

napo2015button3

Vajra Cast From Golden Heights

ཆོས་ཀྱི་རྒྱ་མཚོ་

Bards of the bardo, hear my lay;
ye glacial Himalayas, sway.
Raise a warming toast in sake,
while my mystic muse gets cocky.

You who seek enlightenment
unto whom these lines are sent
open wide your spirit’s portal
(you—who are not yet immortal)

as we weigh a departed soul
and hurl a vajra. Let it roll
with tantric thunderclap appeal
while startled Bodhisattvas reel.

Turn from the heights with sober eyes
and under less celestial skies
let us scrutinize the preacher,
pop-star and Tibetan teacher:

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche
(born in a manger, so they say)
grew up deep in Eastern mountains,
fed by esoteric fountains.

Soon he became a monkish abbot
painting thankas, chanting sutra
in a saffron-colored habit
high above the Brahmaputra.

Later, the teacher headed west
suckling Maya‘s milky breast
selling used mantras on the way
to devis who came out to play.

Eventually, in Colorado
he rocked the Rockies, thrilled the Beats
Bringing to his own weird bardo
bolder moves and tipsy feats.

Crazy wisdom’s drunken master
clothed in smartly elegant style,
steered disciples toward disaster—
partying gleefully all the while.

He tantalized the Tantric flirtsDakini1
by seeking Buddhahood up their skirts;
preaching, as their morals sunk
from The Tibetan Book of the Drunk

Meditating, glass in hand
life of the party (of the damned)
the master mingled with dakinis
deep in the bardo of red bikinis.

Leaving behind a score of tulkus
empty bottles, broken parts
books of empty words that fools choose
after charlatans steal their hearts,

Trungpa Rinpoche went down
shaman of shame, hung-over clown
and tried to mend his Karmic puncture
where the left-hand paths make juncture:

Axis of the All, he spoke
a massive Himalayan joke.
Chogyam’s sacred shambala
brought last laughs to the last hurrah.

When his Dharma-dream was ended
Trungpa woke in hell, a snowball;
karmic punctures still unmended
prisoner of the Bardo Thodol

Should you doubt the truths I tell,
the facts are documented well.
Crazy, isnt it? What we’ll take
from vajra-vendors on the make.

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche,
Wisdom of sages and guru of pop

consulted dakinis in black bikinis;
talked shop…

Enlightened by wisdom’s varied liquors
fueled by a thirst for Buddhahood
this ex-Abbot fed his habit—
(not good).

Trungpa, winged with eastern wisdom
fell from Tibet to the decadent West.
Buddhist conjectures packed his lectures.
Trung was blessed

with warm and available devotees
who sought Himalayan experience .
One curious girl had a tantric whirl
of deliverance.

Escaping her Northern boarding school
she incarnated in his suite.
Spiritual union in carnal communion
yielded heat.

And then in nine months came forth a boy:
a reincarnated holy one.
Google his name of dubious fame:
the tulku son.

napo2015button3