Monday, August 22, 2016

Son Mountain 17: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

This place of my retreat,
so secret, it’s difficult to express—
without a wind, the wild vines stir,
without a mist, the bamboo is in the dark,
who do the mountain streams cry for,
why are clouds assembling together?
I sit in my hut at noon
suddenly realizing the sun is risen.



(from the translations of RP175, RH-176, BW-46)

Son Mountain 16: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Layer on layer of mountains and rivers,
cerulean film enclosed in rose-colored clouds—
a brush of mist soaks my cotton bandana,
morning dew dampens this coat of straw,
on my feet are sojourning sandals,
in my hand is a bamboo cane.
Again gazing beyond the dust of the world
not bothered by the dreams of that land.


(from the translations of RP106, RH-106, BW-44)

Son Mountain 15: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Divining a far-flung place to dwell,
Peace of Heaven—there’s nothing more to say.
Gibbons cry from the cold mists of the valley,
glowing peaks merge into a grass gate,
leaves thatch the roof of a home in the pines,
a pond is channeled from a spring.
Content at last to drop the world,
picking ferns as the years fall away.


(from the translations of RP79, RH-78, BW-43)

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Son Mountain 14: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

My home is below lush green cliffs
with weeds in the yard uncropped—
vines hang in spiraling loops,
ancient rock rises high and steep,
monkeys gather the highland fruit,
egrets fill their bills with fish from the pond.
One or two scrolls of the immortals
go murmuring under the trees.


(from the translations of RP22, RH-16, BW-72)

Friday, August 19, 2016

On Cold Mountain, Translations, and 19


There appears to be more than one cold mountain—the real cold mountain is an absolute cold mountain—the rest are but limited buddhist frauds.

Intent at this point is transcreate all or most of what i see as absolute cold mountain—maybe less than 10% of the collection—but who knows?

By reading three translations of a single poem, one sees the poem that hasn't been translated. I call this triangulating the translations.


Just got a book called 19 ways of looking at wang wei with 19 translations of a single poem. In cribbage it's impossible to get a hand of 19.

Father and uncle playing cribbage on a red picnic table at half moon lake—when one has zero for a hand, cards thrown in disgust crying "19!"

Cribbage hand can score up to 29—also no 25, 26, 27 but 28 & 29 are quite rare—20 thru 24 will be seen making the absence of 19 noteworthy.


So a 19-sided polygon is known as an enneadecagon or enneakaidecagon or anonadecagon. So i'm off anonadecagonning.

Son Mountain 13: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

I’ve yearned to go to that eastern cliff
for numerous years until just now—
yesterday I climbed by means of vines
but halfway there was checked by mist and wind,
and the path was too narrow wearing clothes,
and the moss was too slick wearing shoes.
I stopped beneath a red perennial cinnamon tree
to sleep with a cloud for a pillow.


(from the translations of RP-9, RH-295, BW-75)

Son Mountain 12: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

In the mountains it’s cold
always cold and not just this year—
peaks upon peaks choked in snow,
deep dark woods hawking up mists,
things only begin to grow after the start of summer
and leaves fall before autumn begins.
Anyone who wanders here gets lost
looking and looking not seeing the sky.


(from the translations of RP-6, RH-67, BW-47, GS-3)

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Son Mountain 11: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

I came to sit on Cold Mountain
and stayed for thirty years—
yesterday I looked back on friends and relatives
but more than half had dropped to Yellow Springs,
slowly vanishing as fire burns a candle,
passing as a river always flowing.
This morning as I face my solitary shadow
quickly tears are running in two streams.

(from the translations of RP-53, RH-49, BW-85, GS-10)

Son Mountain 10: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Since I disappeared to Cold Mountain
I’ve lived off its fruits and berries—
what worry is there in a life
abiding in the elements of cause,
days and months flowing like a stream,
time sparking off of rocks.
The world can change with heaven and earth
but I’m content to sit within these cliffs.


(from the translations of RP-169, RH-170, GS-17)

Son Mountain 9: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

When someone sees Cold Mountain
all declare he’s wild and crazy—
his face isn’t much to look at,
his body is wrapped in rags and fur,
they don’t understand his words
and he doesn’t speak their words.
His reply to all these passersby:
come and gaze on Cold Mountain.


(from the translations of RP-218, RH-220, GS-24, BW-57)

Son Mountain 8: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

When looking for a place to dwell
Cold Mountain gives enduring shelter—
light winds blow through hidden pines
and closer it sounds better,
beneath them is a silver-haired presence
murmuring immortal words.
It’s been ten years since I’ve returned
forgetting the way I arrived.


(from the translations of RP-4, RH-20, GS-5, BW-50)

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Son Mountain 7: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

People ask the way to Cold Mountain
but Cold Mountain isn’t attainable by road—
in summer the ice never melts,
when the sun’s out, it’s hidden by fog.
How did one like myself get here, you ask?
Maybe my heart and yours aren’t the same.
If your heart were the same as mine
you’d already be here inside.

(from the translations of RP-16, RH-226, BW-82, GS-6)



Son Mountain 6: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

I enjoy this space of natural awareness
amid the mist and vines and dark caves—
its wilderness is limitless
with clouds as easy friends
and roads that never reach the world
in mindlessness no one may reason away.
At night I sit alone on bedrock
until the moon ascends Cold Mountain.

(from the translations of RP-224, RH-226, BW-49, AT-27)

Son Mountain 5: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Fantastic, this passage to Cold Mountain
with not a sign of horse or cart—
one stream after another who can remember,
peak upon peak going who knows how high,
a thousand seedlings bent with dew,
tall pines sighing in the same wind.
Now that I’ve gone off trail,
form is asking shadow for the way.

(from the translations of RP-3, RH-3, GS1, BW-48)

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Son Mountain 4 [a Cold Mountain Transcreation]

Cold Mountain holds so many wonders
climbers find themselves terrified—
when the moon is shining, the water is brilliant,
when the wind is blowing, grasses stir and sigh,
bare plum trees bloom with snow,
dead trees leaf with clouds.
A little rain transforms everything
but unless all is clear, you’ll never get through.

(from the translations of RP-157, RH-154, GS14, BW-45)



RP-157

Cold Mountain has so many wonders
climbers all get scared
water shimmers in the moonlight
plants rustle in the wind
withered plum trees bloom with snow
snags grow leaves of clouds
touched by rain they all revive
unless it's clear you can't get through


RH-154

Han-shan has many hidden wonders;
Climbers are always struck with awe.

When the moon shines, the waters are clear and bright;
When the wind blows, grasses rustle and sigh.

Withered plums, the snow becomes their blossoms;
Branchless trees have clouds filling in for their leaves.

Touched by rain, it's transformed—all fresh and alive;
If it's not a clear day, you cannot ascend.


BW-45

Cold Mountain is full of weird sights;
People who try to climb it always get scared.
When the moon shines, the water glints and
sparkles;
When the wind blows, the grasses rustle and sigh.
Snowflakes make blossoms for the bare plum,
Clouds in place of leaves for the naked trees.
At a touch of rain, the whole mountain shimmers
But only in good weather can you make the climb.


GS-14

Cold Mountain has many hidden wonders,
People who climb here are always getting scared.
When the moon shines, water sparkles clear
When the wind blows, grass swishes and rattles.
On the bare plum, flowers of snow
On the dead stump, leaves of mist.
At the touch of rain it all turns fresh and live
At the wrong season you can't ford the creeks.


Son Mountain 3 [a Cold Mountain Transcreation]

Following the way to Cold Mountain
undertakes a road that never ends—
the chasm is long and filled with boulders and rocks,
the watercourse is wide and veiled with reeds and grasses,
the moss is slick despite the lack of rain,
the pines sigh without any wind.
Who can leap directly from this twisted world
and sit with me among the white clouds?


(from the translations of RP-32, RH-8, GS8, BW-40, JPS-16)






RH-8

Climb up! Ascend! The way to Han-shan;
But on Han-shan the roads never end.

The valleys are long, with boulders in heaps and piles;
The streams are wide, with grasses both wet and damp.

The moss is slippery—it has nothing to do with the rain;
The pines sigh and moan, but they don't rely on the wind.

Who can transcend the cares of the world,
And sit with me in the white clouds?


RP-32

Who takes the cold mountain road
takes a road that never ends
the rivers are long and piled with rocks
the streams are wide and choked with grass
it’s not the rain that makes the moss slick
and it’s not the wind that makes the pines moan
who can get past the tangles of the world
and sit with me in the clouds?


BW-40

I climb the road to Cold Mountain,
The road to Cold Mountain that never ends.
The valleys are long and strewn with stones;
The streams broad and banked with thick grass.
Moss is slippery, though no rain has fallen;
Pines sigh, but it isn't the wind.
Who can break from the snares of the world
And sit with me among the white clouds?



GS-8

Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain
The pine sings, but there's no wind.
Who can leap the world's ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?


JPS-16

Set foot on Han Shan’s Way?
Han Shan’s road is endless . . .
The gorge is long. Rocks, and rocks and rocks,
jut up.
The torrent’s wide, reeds almost hide the far side.
The moss is slippery even without rain.
The pines sing: the wind is real enough.
Who’s ready to leap free of the world’s traces
to come to sit with me among white clouds?


Son Mountain 2 [a Cold Mountain Transcreation]

When the birdsong and play overwhelm
I rest inside my thatched straw hut—
cherry blossoms flicker in crimson,
shoots of willows fall into lace,
morning sun is swallowed by blue peaks,
afternoon clouds wash out in a clear green pond.
Who thinks to leave the dust of the world
ascending South Face of Cold Mountain?

(from the translations of RP-133, RH-130, GS-13, BW-39)

  


RP-133

When I can’t bear to watch birds play
I lie inside my thatched hut
the cherry trees are bright pink
the willows beginning to sway
the rising sun swallows blue peaks
clearing clouds wash a green pool
who thinks of leaving the dusty rut
and heading South for Cold Mountain


RH-130

The birds chat and converse—feelings I can't really bear;
At times like these, I lie down in my straw hut.

Cherries, in reds that sparkle and glisten;
Willows so straight—branches like hair hanging down.

Morning sun—swallowed up by green peaks;
White, puffy clouds—washed clean in clear mountain lakes.

Who there knows to leave the dust and the vulgar,
And drive up the South face of Han-shan?


GS-13

I can't stand these bird songs
Now I'll go rest in my straw shack.
The cherry flowers are scarlet
The willow shoots up feathery.
Morning sun drives over blue peaks
Bright clouds wash green ponds.
Who knows that I'm out of the dusty world
Climbing the southern slope of Cold Mountain?


BW-39

The birds and their chatter overwhelm me with feeling:
At times like this I lie down in my straw hut.
Cherries shine with crimson fire;
Willows trail slender boughs.
The morning sun pops from the jaws of blue peaks;
Bright clouds are washed in the green pond.
Who ever thought I would leave the dusty world
And come bounding up the southern slope of Cold Mountain?


Son Mountain 1 (transcreation of a Cold Mountain poem)

(from trans. RP-131, RH-300, GS12, BW-38)
For thirty years I lived in the world
wandering more than ten thousand miles,
walking by rivers with lush green grass
passing the border where the red dust burns,
mixing up potions in search of immortality,
reading the classics and writing my verse,
and now I’ve returned home to Cold Mountain
to rest in the stream and wash out my ears.



RP-131

Born thirty years ago
I've traveled countless miles
along rivers where the green rushes swayed
to the frontier where the red dust swirled
I've made elixirs and tried to become immortal
I've read the classics and written odes
and now I've retired to Cold Mountain
to lie in a stream and wash out my ears


RH-300

Born thirty years ago;
I've been constantly roaming about—one thousand, ten thousand li.

I've walked by rivers where the green grasses merged,
Entered the borders where red dust kicked up.

Refining drugs, in vain I sought to become an immortal;
I read books and wrote poems on historical themes.

But today I've come home to Han-shan1.
To pillow my head on the stream and wash out my ears.


GS-12

In my first thirty years of life
I roamed hundreds and thousands of miles.
Walked by rivers through deep green grass
Entered cities of boiling red dust.
Tried drugs, but couldn't make Immortal;
Read books and wrote poems on history.
Today I'm back at Cold Mountain:
I'll sleep by the creek and purify my ears.


BW-38

Thirty years ago I was born into the world.
A thousand, ten thousand miles I've roamed,
By rivers where the green grass lies thick,
Beyond the border where the red sands fly.
I brewed potions in a vain search for life everlasting,
I read books, I sang songs of history,
And today I've come home to Cold Mountain
To pillow my head on the stream and wash my ears.




Sunday, August 14, 2016

Poetry Dares To Go Where No Words Do

i
Translating Nisargadatta:
the rare one
dissolves
the individual;
the one
who understands
the play
of one
transcends
the one;
no words beyond.

ii
The stars sound like crickets tonight.
After hydrogen appears the snake.
Duality is like laughing gas.
H-bomb beats laughing gas beats rock.


River Talking One

The river is my mountain
and this apartment is my hut
I’m not a hermit or a recluse
but I choose to be alone.
I’ve deconstructed personality to such extent
that people now appear to be mere clouds of thoughts
and talking to the love one really is appears to be impossible.
Exceptions to this rule are those whose love I’ve known
in what now seems another life.
Not only that, I know I still will backslide
and wish that disarrangement not on anyone.
So to that revelation in this myth,
the river may reflect the clouds
yet always be the river.


True Breath

These words I now exhale. 
Time isn't. 
Space is. 
Reality is neither. 
In other words, 
when I believe myself to be a thought 
in memory of time,
I'm not;
but as belief is deconstructed
and I understand myself to be this open
knowledge of space,
I am;
and resting in this universal being,
reality inhales.



Thursday, August 11, 2016

Return to Self-Awareness

Being may be a fetish but dreaming is the greatest. One person’s ying is another person’s yang. So when in doubt, erase.

Not this, not this, is the gist of every mantra. And awareness is that experience beyond all experience.

Don't believe in the known but keep faith in the unknown. For I am that awareness before any judgment.

In other words, I’m only as old as I think I am. And I think what I've been taught. But no one teaches being.

It’s said there are no last words. Every thought will be finished until love. Still, being is the knowledge of the unknown.

Monday, August 8, 2016

Resignation Day

Being feels like the sea.

The absolute ocean
stirs
into being
and the waves of I-am take
a life of their own.

Usurpation hurts interregnum me.


Saturday, August 6, 2016

Dark Matters


i

The absolute unknown pure awareness is always stirring
with the dark wild and obscure energetic knowing of self-awareness.

Being is the dark matter of space-time.
Mind lights up the place with story.


ii

In this August slant of time, the sun now sets before the hour of eight. Even the summer dreams of green infinity begin to yellow.

It's true that everything about the day is fiction. 
But the thought of waking is its prodigious masterpiece.

Self-awareness happens and what happens turns to being.
So the apple doesn't fall that far; it merely lands within its own universe.

Walking home across a midnight field, I see a falling star.
Falling through the dark wild sky, I search for Eve anew again.



Thursday, August 4, 2016

Caterpillar Smoke

For the unknown 
to be aware 
of the unknown 
is one thing. 

But to be 
this knowledge is 
something completely
different.

Being is
the mushroom
cloud
of self-awareness.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Eleven Ways of Looking at One

It's not a question of faith.
The absolute unknown is there.
That is a fact.

In the deep-sleep-like absolute,
being aware of that absolute unknown occurs,
and the big bang dream-like experiencing takes place. And time.

In the unknown absolute,
there's nothing personal.
There is a constant breathing though.

Not knowing is
a deep and wide
potentiality.

In one, two begins. 
But three is limited—
because in one, two claims to be two. 

In the beginning there's nothing to say.
And in time, because of that which can't be said,
there's still nothing to say.

The seed has sprouted. Let
it
dream.

The absolute can't be known.
That is what I am.
To that, this being only happens.

Deconstruction is easy.
Transcending knowledge is not.
The first love is the strongest.

From two, one is separate.
From zero, one isn't.
Krishna says one is one.

Or, zero and two are the same, love.
But one changes.
How is this?

My Transcreation of a Cold Mountain Poem

Vague, dark, Cold Mountain way
Empty, useless, banks of cold river
The singsong of birds is always present
Still and silent, no traveler is near
Whisper, sharp breath, the wind cuts my face
Flake upon flurry, the snow buries all forms
Dawn after dawn, there is no sun
Year after year, no knowing of spring


This is my transcreation of a Cold Mountain poem, utilizing these translations of Red Pine, Robert Henricks, and Gary Snyder:


The trail to Cold Mountain is faint
the banks of Cold Stream are a jungle
birds constantly chatter away
I hear no sound of people
gusts of wind lash my face
flurries of snow bury my body
day after day no sun
year after year no spring

~Red Pine (38)


Rough and dark - the Cold Mountain trail,
Sharp cobbles - the icy creek bank.
Yammering, chirping - always birds
Bleak, alone, not even a lone hiker.
Whip, whip - the wind slaps my face
Whirled and tumbled - snow piles on my back.
Morning after morning I don't see the sun
Year after year, not a sign of spring.

~Gary Snyder (9)


Dark and obscure— the way to Han- shan;
Far apart— the shores of the cold mountain stream.

Chirp, chirp— constantly there are the birds;
Silent and still— in addition there are no men.

Whisper, whisper— the wind blows in my face;
Whirling and swirling— the snow piles up all around.

Day after day— I don't see the sun;
And year after year— I've known no spring.

~Robert Henricks (31)



Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Six Translations of a Single Cold Mountain Poem

Translations. Translations. Translations. Dance of the original poet and a second language. I’ve made amateur transcreations of the Tao, Kena, and Lalla myself, and have read so many different versions of these to know none are completely reliable although there are some that follow the poet’s lead better than others, and others that whirl into a completely different room or even universe.

Here are six English translations of the 9th century Chinese poet Han-shan, or Cold Mountain, who wrote in an authentic voice, influenced but not owned by Zen and Tao, and now out on his own upon white clouds (and for whom Jack Kerouac would dedicate 'Dharma Bums' in 1958 which starred Japhy Ryder, his fictional name for Gary Snyder). This particular poem is one translated by each of the major translators, listed here in order of year: Arthur Waley; Gary Snyder; Burton Watson; Red Pine; Robert Henricks; J.P. Seaton. 

As for my own taste, bias, and vexation, I prefer the organic Snyder and imagistic Red Pine. I least like the overdone Seaton and overpoetic Waley. Henricks and Burton are useful, the former prosaically so and the latter poetically accordingly. One should note only Red Pine and Henricks are the completists (305/300). Watson is 100; Seaton 95; Snyder only unfortunately 24. There are other translations, I’m sure, but one has to draw the line somewhere, and these are the majors.

I’ve arranged them by latest translation first, and have included, at the end of the translation, the translator’s name, the translation’s number in their collection, and the year the translation first appeared, although there might have been a second revision later on and the version presented here may be it.


Set foot on Han Shan’s Way?
Han Shan’s road is endless . . .
The gorge is long. Rocks, and rocks and rocks,
jut up.
The torrent’s wide, reeds almost hide the far side.
The moss is slippery even without rain.
The pines sing: the wind is real enough.
Who’s ready to leap free of the world’s traces
to come to sit with me among white clouds?

~Seaton (16) 2009


Climb up! Ascend! The way to Han-shan;
But on Han-shan the roads never end.

The valleys are long, with boulders in heaps and piles;
The streams are wide, with grasses both wet and damp.

The moss is slippery—it has nothing to do with the rain;
The pines sigh and moan, but they don't rely on the wind.

Who can transcend the cares of the world,
And sit with me in the white clouds?

~Henricks (28) 1990


Who takes the cold mountain road
takes a road that never ends
the rivers are long and piled with rocks
the streams are wide and choked with grass
it’s not the rain that makes the moss slick
and it’s not the wind that makes the pines moan
who can get past the tangles of the world
and sit with me in the clouds?

~Red Pine (32) 1983


I climb the road to Cold Mountain,
The road to Cold Mountain that never ends.
The valleys are long and strewn with stones;
The streams broad and banked with thick grass.
Moss is slippery, though no rain has fallen;
Pines sigh, but it isn't the wind.
Who can break from the snares of the world
And sit with me among the white clouds?

~Watson (40) 1962


Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain
The pine sings, but there's no wind.
Who can leap the world's ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?

~Snyder (8) 1958


Long, long the way to the Cold Mountain;
Stony, stony the banks of the chill stream.
Twitter, twitter--always there are birds;
Lorn and lone--no human but oneself.
Slip, slap the wind blows in one's face;
Flake by flake the snow piles on one's clothes.
Day after day one never sees the sun;
Year after year knows no spring.

~Waley (7) 1954


Monday, August 1, 2016

Octavian Was Clueless

The Vault of Heaven 
doesn’t bounce off walls. 
The Ground of Being isn’t 
milk and honey. 
August first singsongs, 
John Barleycorn must die.
And Purple Loosestrife lately
doesn’t seem the same.
Cold Mountain
in the Conservatory
with Big Stick!

After Cold Mountain 2016

Either don’t pay taxes and plan on going underground.
Or pay them and stop the whining.
The empire provides the shelter for sitting still.
There's a part of me that likes to look at a train wreck.
There's a bigger part of me that doesn't want to be in one.
I sit in the living room and look at woods.
I rest in the bedroom and feel the river.
This house is nothing but a cave for an open sky.