As for me, I delight in the everyday Way,
Among mist-wrapped vines and rocky caves.
Here in the wilderness I am completely free,
With my friends, the white clouds, idling forever.
There are roads, but they do not reach the world;
Since I am mindless, who can rouse my thoughts?
On a bed of stone I sit, alone in the night,
While the round moon climbs up Cold Mountain.
- Han-shan, from Cold Mountain
Behind closed eyes in sunlight
I saw the spirit, touch and brush
with infinite dexterity,
the floral biosphere,
each blade of grass, grew instantly
when painted, evergreen as out of time;
the causal - echoing sublime
half caught, half sought
to stem each primrose at my thought ;
and what have I to verify -
seems too bizarre to show it,
to see the cause of everything
at work, to see and know it!
Alas the need to open eyes,
slow down to what the brain might say,
and yet the brain must rest, to know
what universal mind may show;
behind my eyes like open sky
when June was sleeping with July.
Sometimes a presence, walks with me
as if to share my life,
so like the sun above, that casts
my shadow with its light,
walks with me through the gulls
and round the scaurs,
along the margin where the tide roars,
the line of tide along the sand
and the life-line upon my hand :
Seeking spirit is like looking for the wind,
not finding the wind but only what the wind does ;
a presence within, as if from beyond
where the mind cannot reach
as it meets transcendence-
as my eye is dissolved by blue sky ;
with me, it seems, all day, in endless moments,
a gentle companion,
‘til the mundane world returns, to span,
fill the depths and shrink the man.
If poets want to post
but not speak to their fellows,
what does that say about fellowship,
which lies fallow,
dormant but expectant?
Poetry helps us cope,
like chirps that comfort,
and chip away the pain
of standing on so many
exposed promontories all at once -
finitude with its decrepitude
and limited time.
We are subject to the objects around us,
that are subjected to the same rules,
hence, disturbed and disjointed play.
Latencies can lie low,
or play with each other,
dalliance of words
in playrooms of your choice.
Voice finds itself through speaking,
may remain possible,
but increasingly distant.
What is barely possible
may pass us by,
and surpasses us,
even as we try to catch its wind.
I feel a yearning
To step into the circle of fire
Without a drop of water
And if I burn
Let me burn
This grand confusion -
And this fire
It devours it like a hungry lover
Like a wild beast that is
In love with its pray
It is all aflame
Turning thoughts into ashes
Reminders of what used to be me
But no more
What a relief.
in the prism of Buddha
Teaching a new way
In the presence of the master
Blest by his chant
Meaning of life
On the way