Forest Poems 3—Death and Other Indignities

white cow skull in grass with yellow flowers

Death and Other Indignities

These poems explore the practice of asubha, or reflecting on the repulsive, a method the Buddha recommended to help overcome sense desire and lust for bodies. The suttas mention two main asubha practices; the first is going to a charnel ground to meditate on a decaying corpse, and the second is analysing the 31 parts of the body. Both of these practices cut through our idea of beauty by revealing loathsome and unattractive aspects of bodies whilst helping us see not-self, and reminding us of our very fragile mortality.


Ticks. Mosquitoes. Flies.
Today in the forest
I am a feast for many.


Today the chilly shadows
of the forest
seem to suit
my sombre mood.

But stepping
into a patch
of glorious sunshine
and feeling that sudden warmth—
Ahhh.

Life is good.
I am happy.


Old

Rubbing a salve into my aching joints
My bones already
falling apart from the inside.

A skeleton puppet hemmed in by skin
hanging together by threads.

But not for long.

Remember that.


Cold Sunset.

Shivering in the forest
thinking: should I return?
Return to the place of bones,
to look at them again.

To see.

To make it real.


Bones

On the wet earth,
everywhere bones.
Bones of animal bones
Bones of trees
all broken now and useless.

And so it is. And so it is.


Death Contemplation

Sitting in the forest
looking at cow bones
thinking about death.

‘This body of mine.
These bone of mine.
I am just bones
that will lie here, too,’ says the monk

Your bones??’ says the tree deva watching,

‘You think those bones belong to you?’


old broken tree brances lying on rocky soil

Tree skeletons

Bleached
bare branches.
The forest is full of bones
of dead things.
I ask the fallen tree:
Did you live knowing that you would die?


Tree skeletons
or
Skeleton trees?

Either way; they're dead.


Revulsion

The swarming blackness
parts
to reveal
the source of this buzzing frenzy:
Ahh
a small lump of mouse flesh,
purplish and rotting.
Grey hairs still visible

.

A feast for the flies;
this foul nutriment.


Black Stump

Wretched body.
Soon you will become
like this blackened stump.

Let go of the body!
Do you really want this pissing,
shitting, ugly mess of suffering?
You think you can’t let go.
that you can’t abandon it just yet?

But when the time comes,
do you really think you’ll even have a choice?

They will ready your body
and calmly burn your bones.
Nothing left
but little black stumps in the ash.

Blood and breath flesh and bones—
a slow disintegration followed by

separation.


Escape

It’s all just fucking awful.
This world
this life.
So, endure this base body
a little bit longer

Use it to get out.


Pit Toilet in Summer

I go to shit
in the scungy pit
and before I'd even finished
a thousand flies

are buzzing around my stinking arse—
feasting.

They eat it all up
and then walk
that sticky shit
all over my arse cheeks.

Then, zooming around
the hot, airless tin shack,
they come for my face.
Rubbing my own shit in my eyes
as if to say: See it? Do you see it, human?

Shoving their filthy little feet
into the corners of my mouth
with glee—
Here taste this, human!
You called it food before!

In the tight space
of that stinking hot shack
the loathsome truth
can’t be ignored—
Am I really so superior?

The difference between
food and fertiliser
is just a matter
of time.

And soon my body
will be food for flies.

That’s why this world
is nothing but
shit shit shit.
From start to finish,
You can’t avoid it.
Shit.


decaying bones and fur lying on rocky soil

Practicing death

This is how it will be
at the end—
a fly
perched on your cheekbone
feasting away
at the corner of your eye.

And you'll be lying there
with no blink
no twitch
to swoosh it away.
Unable to lift
even a finger
to flick the hungry flies
mauling at your mouth.

They'll drink your oozing fluids
shit on your marbled skin.
Treat you like bloated buffet.

There's nothing we can do
in the face of death.
But the flies will die too
so don't begrudge them
their meal.


Feeding

Fucking flies!
Fresh from rotting shit
they rub their filthy little paws
all over my body
pressing their horrid shit-filled mouths
on my lips—
an unwanted kiss

Taste it! The putrid flavour of the world.
Some nutriment!


dead brown calf covered in ants

The Dumping Ground

How now, dead cow?

Dumped
with one swift kick
from the pick-up truck.
The tyre tracks still visible
speeding away
from the stench.

Your swollen yellow hoofs
stick in the air.
Dead eyes
face the sky.

Instead of tears
Ants stream down your cheeks
their bodies shine like jewels,
sparkling in the sun.
Beautiful guests at a gruesome feast.

How now, dead cow?

Your ruddy red coat
Bloated and stiff.
Your poor neck
twists at an unnatural angle.
Head resting in the dust.
I feel its sad, wasted weight.

From your gaping mouth
hangs a swollen purple tongue;
a bridge for the invasion.
Now countless hungry ants
march upwards and onwards
to feast from within.

How now, dead cow?

Was this a better end?
A dusty dumping ground
compared to the bleached floor
of an abattoir?

At least here
you are amongst your ancestors.
Your dead eyes cannot see, but
look, here a carcass rots beside you,
from before you came.
And behind you
see the whitened bones of
earlier relatives.
Long gone.

But I am here.
The alive one
who sees you.
Your death,
your decay
was not unwitnessed.
For all that it matters.

How now, dead cow?

The smell of you
lingered on my body,
all day,
attracting flies
confused by the scent
of death.
Hungry for more.

How now, dead cow?


Half a year has passed
The stench has gone,
your red coat has withered,
tufts of ruddy hair
stick up here and there.
But now the emerald grass
has grown
and soon will hide
your white bones.

Poor calf.
Dead now, longer than
you lived.

No marker for your grave.
Yet it is here in this
sad and sorry place
that the flowers
bloom the brightest.