Myanmar - Air of Freedom
shackled without chains
again the chants of monks
again the chants of monks
aung san looks over to the hazy horizon
for days when she would breathe the air of freedom
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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temple lotuses
riding the serenity
the chants of monks
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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High Spirits
This is an instrumental done with the Chieftains, in three sections. The first is up-tempo, a jig; the shorter second features Celtic chants by the Chieftains; the third slows the pace a bit and has Van doing a few da-da-das. The three sections are repeated, then parts 1 & 2 are done a third time before a fadeout of chants.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Be Proud
Be pride and poison for it,
Poor is the friar who took.
Pleasure is soon, sooner than ever,
When bones are picked by the vultures
Over our heads that speak of those ones that fly nearby.
Be proud and in the death of others be proud
Against a fountain of rifles and ammunition,
These are the guns we lift to our eyes and let vultures fly to die.
The monks are not in the vicinity, like hairy monks.
poem by Naveed Akram
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I Live in New York
I am happiest
near the ocean,
where the changing light
reminds me of my death
& the fact that it need not be fatal-
yet I perch here
in the midst of the city
where the traffic dulls my senses,
where my ears scream at sirens,
where transistor radio blasts
invade my poems
like alien war chants.
But I never walk
the streets of New York
without hoping for the end
of the world.
How many years
before the streets return to flowers?
How many centuries
before the towers fall?
In my mind's eye,
New York falls to ruins.
Butterflies alight upon stones
and poppies spring
out of the asphalt fields.
Why do I stay here
when I love the ocean?
Because the ocean lulls me
with its peace.
Eternity is coming soon enough.
As monks sleep
in their own coffins,
I live in New York.
poem by Erica Jong
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1. A House upon the Height
an abandoned house
saps the spirit with its
nagging and chilling
emptiness, a black hole
that sucks out the
shimmering warm sun
to throw shadows and
ice over the hazy lanes of
imagination
a broken empty house
on the height echoes
relentless gloom and tales of woe
through each of its missing
chilling window panes
missing pages of a horror
story that solicit entries
from the haunted mind
of an innocent who has
lost his way in the dark of night
the overgrown grass
strays haphazardly and
almost in a haste to doors,
windows, walls and collapsing
roof to claim its static prey
they wake up a body of
monks (ghost bumps)
with their reverberating
aum aum chants that
have the negative effects
of sending shivers down one's spine
a torn and soiled jacket strewn
across the menacing garden
a little baby's drum, holed and beaten
out of shape by the unkind weather
carry with them broken dreams
an empty house wears itself out
sooner than an occupied house
a world shunning loner, who eventually
descends into despair, a wretched
soul losing all its charm and love
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Day Without Rain
Who can say where the road goes,
Where the day flows?
Only time...
And who can say if your love grows,
As your heart chose?
Only time...
(chants)
Who can say why your heart sighs,
As your love flies?
Only time...
And who can say why your heart cries,
When your love dies?
Only time...
(chants)
Who can say when the roads meet,
That love might be,
In your heart.
And who can say when the day sleeps,
The moon still keeps on moving
If the night keeps all your heart?
Night keeps all your heart...
(extended chants)
Who can say if your love grows,
As your heart chose?
Only time...
And who can say where the road goes,
Where the day flows?
Only time...
Who knows?
Only time...
Who knows?
Only time...
song performed by by Enya
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walk in Beauty
Walk in Beauty
Walk in beauty when you are young
Walk in beauty as you grow wise
when the balance of life is upset
the hataalii~medicine man reverently
prepares a painting with many colored sand
of Mother Earth
he chants as the Sun appears
he chants to call the good spirits
whose presence is near
in the Hogan the cure will be made
with the aid of the Holy Ones
the sickness falls away
and once again the healed one will
Walk in Beauty
poem by Victoria Heim
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Devotion
As a priest of dedication and devotion
My life is gorgeous, complete and emotional.
The monks climb the ladders of faith,
And my life feigns a disorder, always bold.
The monk enjoyed his life when cold
But the shrine I build for my prayer is gruelling.
The shrine is gold, fully old and never shining,
Like the precious thoughts so pretended.
We save our time and find some space
For serious worship but the monks are fully told.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A Slaves Beginning
Freedom, freedom
All wrapped in chains
Written, Said
It's all the same
Once free and alone
Now bound with one
Chains with freedom
Screaming in my very soul
An oath
A desire
The song deep within
Freedom
Freedom
Freedom with chains
poem by Janelle Morehart
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How to quarrel
There were two monks who
shared a cell in perfect amity.
Yet they, concerned to perfect their compassion
for all humankind, wished to know all
mankind’s troubles.
Mankind, said the one,
seems always to be quarrelling –
always too ready to pick some fight -
how can this be?
It seems, said the other, that in order to
assert their selfhood and to be ‘somebody’,
they must then invent an enemy,
who seeks to take something from them
that they deserve to have…
so then, they can allot
a ‘mine’ and ‘thine’, and pick
a violent quarrel to prove
their right to be themselves…
they’ll find anything so to label –
‘my tribe, your tribe’—even though
to anyone else, they seem the same –
my religion, your religion – though God is unaware
of any such division or allegiance; or when they’re
really desperate for something to fight about,
‘my postcode public territory,
your postcode public territory’…
Oh dear Lord, said the other monk,
how can we have compassion
for these suffering souls? We’ve never had
a quarrel…
Then we must invent one, said
the first monk: suppose I draw a line
in chalk along the floor of our cell..
and then we’ll call one side, my space,
the other yours…
And this he did. Now, he said,
we can have a quarrel: look,
I’m standing in your half of the room…
No you’re not, said the other,
it’s not my half…yes it is, we’ve agreed,
said the one…
Oh very well then, take it … you win!
said the other.. But there’s
nothing to take! said the first…
The two monks sat and sighed.
They would never know how
human kind could ever own
anything worth the quarrel over.
How difficult a holy life can be.
Have compassion, then, for the plight
of those two monks…
*
[Based on a story from the
early days of the Desert Fathers]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Chant
We cant turn back the clock
But we can chant for love
Lets cut the idle talk so we can
Chant for love
We always have the time to quarrel
About such problems as money and war
Lets put it off until tomorrow
Who needs another dose of sorrow?
It dont necessitate an act of faith
To chant for love
What alibi is strong enough to wait
To chant for love
Though we dont hold the reigns of power
Somebody else seems to be in control
We mustnt waste another hour
Well get directly to the soul
If we can
Chant
For a world united
Chant
For a world thats dying for love
The hare krishna plays a drum and bell
When he chants for love
The tribal priest is afraid of hell
So he chants for love
I am not pushing some religion
Dont get me wrong,
I never mess with such things
Just be true to your own vision
This is your personal decision
The dervish spins to a hu hu hu
When he chants for love
Nobody knows what the angels do
When they chant for love
Youre at the bottom of the ladder
Someone may try to tell you where you should start
But the words, they never matter
If you can feel it in your heart
Then you can
Why dont you chant?
You can chant
Chant, chant, chant ...
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I upon the monks walk wander
Do you perceive beauty in a raindrop?
Elegance within the tune?
Do you believe for a second
That man landed on the moon?
Honour thee, this night is free
From the shackles of expectation
Honour comes so easily
In dissolving reputation
I upon the monks walk wander
Throughout the hills of hibernation
I upon the monks walk ponder.
The theme of revelation.
Listen as the silence hands so heavy on the air.
Listen as the silence brings a selfish soul to share.
For no sound is there to drown the voice of conscience,
Who he would normally ignore un-caring.
poem by David Lacey
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Guarded Religion
five buddhists chanting mantras down the hall
a young black man in the door way
tension in the atmosphere
I long to understand
why with such fear,
the entrance is guarded
and why with great hope, I've been misled
I demand to enter
I spew anger
with relentless screaming
confusion streaming
impatiently I push my way through
only to find
on the other side
no chanting
no buddhist monks
only me in eternal darkness
disappointed, I leave
not a word to the door man
with deepest regrets
I look back
to see the chanting
and the monks
in total isolation
the stern man...looks past me
The Cloak
The Cloak
Give to me
Your web of sorrow
And I will weave it
On the morrow
Into a cloth of shimmering gold
Interlaced with spells of old,
Chants against the days of sadness,
Armor for the days of madness;
Protecting hearts not meant to be
Stunned by life harsh threnody.
poem by David McLansky
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Dream Of Peace
Soft cotton balls in a room with no doors
Peace for a thriving world without wars
The Benedictine monks offer Gregorian Chants
The absence of fear for tomorrows plans
Promises dismiss the dark night of the soul
Soldiers returning home no longer on patrol
Humanity revisited and races for ever united
Endangered species are commonly sighted
Weapons of destruction no longer needed
Redundant politics forgotten and weeded
Money is no longer in print and out of style
All people are fed and life is worthwhile
Animals treated with respect and love
Abuse is non existent and not heard off
Our planet no longer exploited but free
Clean rivers flow into an abundant sea
Without guns violence no longer exist
Children play happily among our midst
Open borders and a land without police
I hope not to wake from the dream of peace
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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On the Lake (1)
Mountain monks facing chess sit
Board on bamboo dark quiet
Shine bamboo no person see
Sometimes hear down chess piece sound
Two monks sit facing, playing chess on the mountain,
The bamboo shadow on the board is dark and clear.
Not a person sees the bamboo's shadow,
One sometimes hears the pieces being moved.
Morning Ritual
morning offerings
a rested mind opens itself to
a leaf of a tree
another heart feels the
dance of the
still wind with the vines
the slow steps towards
the path
leading to the valley
are chants
when you arrive there
you become a temple of peace
overlooking the hill
meeting with the embrace
of a distant horizon
the sun sees this
and so it glows
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It could be true for M' lady Ernestine
Anselm the abbot avidly believed in bibliography.
He loved learning passionately and filled the abbey library
with scrolls and books of sacred lore and had scriveners by the score.
Who had the task of copying and reproducing everything.
Anselm decreed each monk must learn to read and write each in their turn
Although some monks were not impressed they had to learn at his behest.
Anselm the abbot’s word was law and soon the Abbey boasted more monks who were truly literate and able to communicate.
knowledge acquired painfully to other brothers easily.
Anselm had inadvertently created very probably
The very first religious school where love of learning was the rule
And so the abbey came to be more of a school than monastery
Anselm had realised his dream and risen high in the esteem
not only of the monarchy but of the church authority
The king decreed Anselm should be rewarded for his industry.
So he created Kings College where monks could pass on their knowledge.
And that’s how Oxford came to be in time a university
Where students came from far and wide to study by the riverside
A little bit of history not noted for its accuracy
I have no doubt you will agree it could well solve the mystery.
16-Dec-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Self Immolation
self immolation...
Tibetan Buddhist monks
silent screams to a world
gone deaf!
freedom and dignity
written on charred remains....
and no one sees!
too far away? no oil to gain?
'see no evil, hear no evil'....
as we rock to indifference!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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By The Fireside : King Witlaf's Drinking-horn
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,--
That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the pulpit
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomaeus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, 'Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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