Tuesday, July 10, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 15

Cold Mountain is an undisturbed place
isolated from the worldly passersby.
Often I come across birds in the forest
and together sing our mountain songs.
Sacred plants flow along streams into valleys.
Venerable pines climb the difficult peaks.
Here you see an easygoing solitary
pausing by a precipice.


256-red pine; 257-henricks; 217-tanahashi; 258-rouzer

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 14

Cloud-blossoming mountains growing toward a heavenly blue sky. 

The road is out-of-the-way and the forest is profoundthere are no wayfarers here.

Far-off I see the desolate immortal toad moon shining brightly.

Nearby I hear a flock of birds and their familiar chirping.

An old man is sitting alone on a dark green cliff.

Retiring to this abode, he lets his hair grow gray.

He sighs the past is like the present day—

unpremeditated, like all those rivers flowing east.





122-red pine; 123-henricks; 178-tanahashi; 123-rouzer

Monday, July 9, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 13

Your brushstrokes may be uninhibited
and physique be quite substantial
but alive, there is your limit.
And dead, one is a nameless ghost.
It’s been like this since ancient days.
To struggle now is simply pointless.
So join me here inside white clouds
I’ll teach you timeless mushroom songs.


25-red pine; 19-henricks; 142-tanahashi; 19-rouzer


New Cold Mountain Transcreation 12

On Cold Mountain, there’s just white clouds,
noiseless, still, detached from dust.
My mountain retreat is a seat of grass.
The arc of the moon is my only lamp.
My stone bed overlooks a jade pond.
Tigers and deer make my only neighbors.
I prefer the joys of this hidden home
where living is always outside of form.


287-red pine; 290-henricks; 141-tanahashi; rouzer-292

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 11

I live alone beneath steep fluted cliffs
where the swirling mists amass all day.
In my shelter, dim and unilluminated,
my mind is protected from noise and discord.
In a dream, I pass through immortal gates,
my spirit returning across that slight stone bridge.
I leave behind my heavy quarrels
clang and clash goes the storied cup abandoned on a tree.


48-red pine; 44-henricks; 42-watson; 138-tanahashi

Sunday, July 8, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 10

Cold Mountain cold
freezing even rock—
obscuring mountain green,
revealing whitest snow.
The sun ascends to glow
and soon it all is melting—
presently its warmth
providing for this old visitant.


301-red pine; 305-henricks; 36-tanahashi

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Epistle to Zippy

Poetry is what I write when I’ve got nothing more to say. I'm done with all my scientific high-handedness, political self-importance, and spiritual exceptionalism. Doe, a deer. I came for the leaves and stayed because the river.

I've been writing poetry since the 2nd grade and still haven't said what I wanted to say. I remember loving Jesus but avoiding Sunday School with all my Heart. Winter was a lonely frozen playground. Summer was diving in the lake.

From a certain mountain point of view, poetry isn't even in the world. In my sophomore year at Central Catholic High School, I attended Mass on Nine First Fridays, and in so doing am assured of the Roman Catholic version of Enlightenment. Bless you Sister Margaret Mary.

I swear I saw the Loch Ness Monster in Lake Winnipesaukee. It offered me a dime bag for my first three Led Zeppelin albums. I took it. Poetry trivia! Who wrote The Drunken Boat? I took a class at Boston College on the Art of Sacred Architecture, Henry Adams, and the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres. You cannot forget such weird beauty.

Thought is the alien. Belief is the monster. Love is the mother. Poetry is the paradox behind every paradox. Judge not, love locally. And now my last poetics are the words, love, I don't know. At the sign of bhakti, stop your deconstruction. Being is the sign of self-awareness. What else, maybe a flower. A dream is a dream is a dream.






“Then she opened up a book of poems / And handed it to me / Written by an Italian poet / From the thirteenth century / And everyone of them words rang true / And glowed like burnin' coal / Pourin' off of every page / Like it was written in my soul / From me to you / Tangled up in blue”

by the time I finished writing my masters thesis in american history only to discover that the single lonely protest made against the boston associates' megamills of lawrence and lowell was the one by one who only wanted more to sell the water rights, i knew right then and there, i was a poet

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 9

The sun is setting behind the western hills.
Grasses and trees reflect its glowing light
but there are places dark and primitive
where pines and creeping vines entwine.
And there the tigers huddle and wait!
As I’m determined, they bristle and rise.
I’ve not the slightest sharp edge in my hand.
Of course I feel a reflexive fright.


278-red pine; watson-98;// 134-tanahashi; 144-henricks

Friday, July 6, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 8

Today I sit before a cliff 
and sit some time until the mist is clearing—
a single stream of crystal clarity;
high ridgeline of emerald summits;
shadows of the morning clouds so still;
pale moon rising toward its brightness.
This frame is free from dust and stain.
What darkness could ever dim the heart?


278-red pine; 92-watson; 128-tanahashi; 281-henricks

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 7

Fly in your three-winged boat
or hurtle on your long-distance horse,
you will never make my home.
I dwell in the deepest wilderness
in a cave on a cliff amidst the highest peaks—
clouds and thunder cascading every day.
There’s not an orator like Lord Confucius
but there’s no one here to save.


29-red pine; rouzer-24; 123-tanahashi; 24-henricks