Wendy Stern
If I could I would gatherAll the kindnessOf the world, my love,And lay it before you,Soft petals around, So that you might soften so deeplyAs to be free of the mind,Soften so fullyAs to be whole,And let go so profoundlyAs to make the moveTowards death Unhindered,Unafraid,And ready for that which awaits you. Pieces of suffering Be your suffering,Hold it in your hands,Feel it – smooth, clay, porcelain,Feel the enclaveOf its cheek-bones,The protrusion of its lips,Search its detail, its intricacy,With the intentionOf wisdom,Of acceptance,Of acute subtle awareness. Watch it as it changes,Melts, dissolves,Falls to pieces in your hands,No longer defined, definable. No longer "me”And “my suffering,”Just suffering,Coming and going,Passing through,Coinciding with the self. This way and that,Time and time again,Habits,Responses,Expectations,Loss,Nothing unique,Nothing personal,Just the mindClinging to an idea of itself. Pieces of clay,Pieces of suffering,Fragments of change,Resting in my hands,Ready to become anything... Vision
If all you see is cityness,Heavy cement, paving stones,Concretised un-breathing,Can you still notice out of the far corner of your eyeThat solo flying buttercup,Rooted in the crusty soil,There between the cracks,Amid the greyness, the bleakness,All radiant yellowness? Life,No matter what,Survival,No matter where. All radiant yellowness. Wendy was a Buddhist and poet who lived in Bristol, in the west of England. For many years she was completely bedridden, and her poetry therefore came from an unusual perspective. Writing poetry was Wendy’s passion and her only form of creativity and self-expression. Her work was produced without the capacity to look at text, to write or to use a laptop. Dictating the poems and then editing them aurally took an immense amount of energy and concentration. Wendy passed away on April 8, 2015.
If all you see is cityness,Heavy cement, paving stones,Concretised un-breathing,Can you still notice out of the far corner of your eyeThat solo flying buttercup,Rooted in the crusty soil,There between the cracks,Amid the greyness, the bleakness,All radiant yellowness? Life,No matter what,Survival,No matter where. All radiant yellowness. Wendy was a Buddhist and poet who lived in Bristol, in the west of England. For many years she was completely bedridden, and her poetry therefore came from an unusual perspective. Writing poetry was Wendy’s passion and her only form of creativity and self-expression. Her work was produced without the capacity to look at text, to write or to use a laptop. Dictating the poems and then editing them aurally took an immense amount of energy and concentration. Wendy passed away on April 8, 2015.