“What do you think, O Monks, is
rupa permanent, or is
it transitory?”
“It is transitory, Reverend Sir.”
“And that which is transitory –
is it painful, or is it pleasant?”
“It is painful, Reverend Sir.”
“And that which is transitory,
painful, and liable to change – is it possible to say of it: 'This
is mine; this am I; this is my self'?”
“Certainly not, Reverend Sir.”
“Is feeling, perception, volition,
consciousness, permanent, or transitory? Is it painful, or is it
pleasant? Is it possible to say of it: 'This is mine; this am I; this
is my self'?”
(Buddhism as Philosophy, Mark
Siderits)
1. I have
travelled far and long,
and I have seen the
oceans, and
lay upon their
shores. I have felt
the fleeting fire
of a snowflake
upon my tongue, but
my god,
it is nothing
compared to the
countries of your
body.
Don't talk to me
about
impermanence of
form -
don't talk of
consciousness.
We're a tangle of
blankets
and bad memories, a
pair
of lost birds, a
microcosm
of all the chaos in
the world.
In your arms, there
is no
consciousness –
don't you see?
There is feeling,
rising up in me
like smoke, there
is perception,
and there is all
the permanence
of the world,
suspended on the
tightrope of
desire.
We are young, and
there is
a long way to go.
My life
is not your life;
nor is yours
Mine.
This am I, this is my self.
And that is you,
beyond the
border. Don't
pretend like
you know me. Don't
pretend
that we understand
each other -
we've known each
other a few
fumbling hours, for
god's sake.
I'm nothing new.
There is nothing new
here, today, in the
bright lights
of a pulsating
city; but our grandparents
would never
understand. Our parents
would try, and
fail. Life is moving
fast, and we take
impermanence
in our stride, we
hold on to it
and use it to our
advantage.
Imagine if I were
forced to spend
my life with you.
We are young.
The impermanence of
form -
is drilled into us.
I know about it
already. Don't read
poetry to me.
This isn't a poem:
this is life.
In this scene, you
and I,
are on a bed. Or a
couch.
In this scene, one
of us
will always be able
to back out
in time. Before it
gets
serious, real,
threatening.
We're a desperate
tangle of limbs,
an amalgamation of
reason and passion,
a mess of innocent
desire and paradox.
We will unravel
before we grow roots,
before we sense
moss. We will unravel
because, O
stranger, there is no permanence.
The years are
slipping by – learn to slip by
with them. It is
painless, this partition, there
need be no history,
no memory at all.
O lover, you are
not mine, nor am I yours.
Your corporeal form
wrapped in mine:
let us make this
distinction of souls clear.
2.
The clock on the
mantelpiece
sounds the same as
it did, all those years ago.
The pictures are
fading faster in the sunlight.
I have watched the
sun rest on the taut string
of horizon, from
this window, a hundred times.
I have watched my
hands grow old, and I have watched
yours. I feel the
lines, like webs, across my face my arms
my hands and legs
my once-beautiful neck, and I can look
you in
the face and tell you this corporeal form is transitory.
We're constantly
reading about love, watching it
being overused in
the advertisements, like
Christmastime or
puppies, or God. You and I,
have watched each
other from the blossoms
of our youth to
today – what is this? Where are we?
What am I to expect
from you when all we have
is the ransom of
memory, a thread from you to me,
stretching farther
and farther with every day, every sigh.
I know the backs of
my wrinkled hands, now, like I know
the backs of yours.
I have seen your precious face,
every morning, for
years – and I want to call this
Love, like we did
in the start, but I can be honest,
can't I? We are
used to each other. We don't know
how else to be, who
else to watch, where else to go.
It is too late for
options. Too late for romance.
Too late to know if
I made the right choice
when I chose you.
We have contracts and agreements,
tangible (in the
photos, in the grandchildren's sparkling eyes),
intangible (in
society's quiet, decisive conditions about marriage);
but all set in
stone. Permanent. Our love is eternal.
My god, we're going
to be buried together. Isn't this
what we always
wanted? This isn't transitory -
it
isn't painful – it isn't pleasant. This is mine;
this am I; this is my self
– because it is all I have.
Your body, and
mine. The privilege to watch
the ravages of
time. Our feelings, perceptions,
our consciousness,
volition. Some days, I can't stand you.
Some days, I feel
lonely when I drop you off in the car.
Either of us might
go first – and then the permanence
of your goddamn
face will disappear, a clean slate.
I'll be a newborn
again. Innocent of the malice
of love, of
eternity, of unbearable lightness.
Love, as a
necessary evil. Love, as salvation.
And to think
that I could have
chosen
Christmastime, or
puppies,
or God.
3.
O my little monk,
huddled under white sheets on this grey
morning,
what can I get you to drink? Listen:
raindrops scrape
against thin walls. There's another
sliver of eyelash
on your porcelain cheek; make a wish,
beloved, unfurl your dreams into the
wind.
Someday I will look back and search for
meaning
in memory: let me set the scene for
posterity.
Four walls, sound of rain, palewhite
hands in mine.
A swollen bookcase, feeble smiles,
prescriptions
and medicine drawers, bills for
chemotherapy,
shuddering roof against onslaught of
sea from sky.
One little figure in bed, bald, huddled
in white.
I want to hold each raindrop
in the hollows of my hand, and fashion
them
into oceans for you. Oceans are
permanent,
infinite and alive, but what of the
oceans
of your eyes? Your form is transitory,
fragile,
a solitary silver feather caught in a
cage
of shatter-glass bone. Your fingers,
your scars, your
breath warming my shoulder: transitory.
Your body
against mine, the mole on your cheek,
dark curls
against the valleys of your
collarbones. Your arms,
limp against the harsh white of
bedspread.
Your body, painful. Liable to change,
lapping
against my life like a singing wave,
unsure, unsteady.
Your smile, my endless blue sky. Your
eyes,
watching me unfold my life a step at a
time.
Your thunder of life in a corporeal
frame of flesh.
The endless rhythm of heartbeat against
my chest -
it is transitory. Is it possible to say
of it:
“This is mine” - can I
accept the flaws
that come with your particular
perfection,
smile at your apologetic smile, and
say:
“This am I”?
This is where I am,
in the embrace of
your momentary
corporeal form,
split-second reality.
For
this life – is it transitory?
- yes,
by god, it is
ephemeral and fleeting and yet
it is the only
thing that is eternal. It is liable
to change, and
mutate, and writhe in agony,
and it is the only
constant, our only hope.
This life, it is
painful, I know, as do you.
I will go through
it all again if I have the chance.
Every desperate
tear that I have ever shed. Every heartbreak,
every
gut-wrenching, white-knuckled time the doctor said
'We don't know'.
Don't worry, doctor. The answer
doesn't lie in your
files.