Wednesday, August 17, 2016

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.