From: "genet son of genet" <radiogenet-AT-hotmail.com> Subject: --miracles Date: Thu, 27 Dec 2001 09:01:13 +0000 <html><div style='background-color:'><DIV> <P> </P> <P> </P> <P><BR>These are a few of my favorite poems by three of Japan’s greatest Zen monk-poets, Ikkyu (1394-1481), Basho (1644-1694),<BR>and Ryokan (1758-1831). </P> <P> </P> <P>Ikkyu <BR> </P> <P> I Hate Incense </P> <P> A master’s handiwork cannot be measured <BR> But still priests wag their tongues explaining the “Way” and babbling about “Zen.” <BR> This old monk has never cared for false piety <BR> And my nose wrinkles at the dark smell of incense before the Buddha. </P> <P> </P> <P> A Fisherman </P> <P> Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind. <BR> A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure. <BR> Dusk rain on the river, the moon peeking in and out of the clouds; <BR> Elegant beyond words, he chants his songs night after night. </P> <P> </P> <P> My Hovel </P> <P> The world before my eyes is wan and wasted, just like me. <BR> The earth is decrepit, the sky stormy, all the grass withered. <BR> No spring breeze even at this late date, <BR> Just winter clouds swallowing up my tiny reed hut. </P> <P> </P> <P> A Meal of Fresh Octopus </P> <P> Lots of arms, just like Kannon the Goddess; <BR> Sacrificed for me, garnished with citron, I revere it so! <BR> The taste of the sea, just divine! <BR> Sorry, Buddha, this is another precept I just cannot keep. </P> <P> </P> <P> Exhausted with gay pleasures, I embrace my wife. <BR> The narrow path of asceticism is not for me: <BR> My mind runs in the opposite direction. <BR> It is easy to be glib about Zen -- I’ll just keep my mouth shut <BR> And rely on love play all the day long. </P> <P> </P> <P> It is nice to get a glimpse of a lady bathing -- <BR> You scrubbed your flower face and cleansed your lovely body <BR> While this old monk sat in the hot water, <BR> Feeling more blessed than even the emperor of China! </P> <P> </P> <P> To Lady Mori with Deepest Gratitude and Thanks </P> <P> The tree was barren of leaves but you brought a new spring. <BR> Long green sprouts, verdant flowers, fresh promise. <BR> Mori, if I ever forget my profound gratitude to you, <BR> Let me burn in hell forever. </P> <P> (Mori was a blind minstrel, and Ikkyu’s young mistress) </P> <P> </P> <P><BR>From Wild Ways: Zen Poems of Ikkyu, translated by John Stevens. Published by Shambala in Boston, 1995. </P> <P> </P> <P>Basho <BR> </P> <P> Summer grasses: <BR> all that remains of great soldiers’ <BR> imperial dreams </P> <P> </P> <P> Eaten alive by <BR> lice and fleas -- now the horse <BR> beside my pillow pees </P> <P> </P> <P> Along the roadside, <BR> blossoming wild roses <BR> in my horse’s mouth </P> <P> </P> <P> Even that old horse <BR> is something to see this <BR> snow-covered morning </P> <P> </P> <P> On the white poppy, <BR> a butterfly’s torn wing <BR> is a keepsake </P> <P> </P> <P> The bee emerging <BR> from deep within the peony <BR> departs reluctantly </P> <P> </P> <P> Crossing long fields, <BR> frozen in its saddle, <BR> my shadow creeps by </P> <P> </P> <P> A mountain pheasant cry <BR> fills me with fond longing for <BR> father and mother </P> <P> </P> <P> Slender, so slender <BR> its stalk bends under dew -- <BR> little yellow flower </P> <P> </P> <P> New Year’s first snow -- ah -- <BR> just barely enough to tilt <BR> the daffodil </P> <P> </P> <P> In this warm spring rain, <BR> tiny leaves are sprouting <BR> from the eggplant seed </P> <P> </P> <P> O bush warblers! <BR> Now you’ve shit all over <BR> my rice cake on the porch </P> <P> </P> <P> For those who proclaim <BR> they’ve grown weary of children, <BR> there are no flowers </P> <P> </P> <P> Nothing in the cry <BR> of cicadas suggests they <BR> are about to die </P> <P> </P> <P><BR>From The Essential Basho, Translated by Sam Hamill. Published by Shambala in Boston, 1999. </P> <P> </P> <P>Ryokan <BR> </P> <P> When I was a lad, <BR> I sauntered about town as a gay blade, <BR> Sporting a cloak of the softest down, <BR> And mounted on a splendid chestnut-colored horse. <BR> During the day, I galloped to the city; <BR> At night, I got drunk on peach blossoms by the river. <BR> I never cared about returning home, <BR> Usually ending up, with a big smile on my face, at a pleasure pavilion! </P> <P> </P> <P> Returning to my native village after many years’ absence: <BR> Ill, I put up at a country inn and listen to the rain. <BR> One robe, one bowl is all I have. <BR> I light incense and strain to sit in meditation; <BR> All night a steady drizzle outside the dark window -- <BR> Inside, poignant memories of these long years of pilgrimage. </P> <P> </P> <P> To My Teacher </P> <P> An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill, <BR> Overrun with rank weeks growing unchecked year after year; <BR> There is no one left to tend the tomb, <BR> And only an occasional woodcutter passes by. <BR> Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair, <BR> Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River. <BR> One morning I set off on my solitary journey <BR> And the years passed between us in silence. <BR> Now I have returned to find him at rest here; <BR> How can I honor his departed spirit? <BR> I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone <BR> And offer a silent prayer. <BR> The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill <BR> And I’m enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines. <BR> I try to pull myself away but cannot; <BR> A flood of tears soaks my sleeves. </P> <P> </P> <P> In my youth I put aside my studies <BR> And I aspired to be a saint. <BR> Living austerely as a mendicant monk, <BR> I wandered here and there for many springs. <BR> Finally I returned home to settle under a craggy peak. <BR> I live peacefully in a grass hut, <BR> Listening to the birds for music. <BR> Clouds are my best neighbors. <BR> Below a pure spring where I refresh body and mind; <BR> Above, towering pines and oaks that provide shade and brushwood. <BR> Free, so free, day after day -- <BR> I never want to leave! </P> <P> </P> <P> Yes, I’m truly a dunce <BR> Living among trees and plants. <BR> Please don’t question me about illusion and enlightenment -- <BR> This old fellow just likes to smile to himself. <BR> I wade across streams with bony legs, <BR> And carry a bag about in fine spring weather. <BR> That’s my life, <BR> And the world owes me nothing. </P> <P> </P> <P> When all thoughts <BR> Are exhausted <BR> I slip into the woods <BR> And gather <BR> A pile of shepherd’s purse. </P> <P> </P> <P> Like the little stream <BR> Making its way <BR> Through the mossy crevices <BR> I, too, quietly <BR> Turn clear and transparent. </P> <P> </P> <P> At dusk <BR> I often climb <BR> To the peak of Kugami. <BR> Deer bellow, <BR> Their voices <BR> Soaked up by <BR> Piles of maple leaves <BR> Lying undisturbed at <BR> The foot of the mountain. </P> <P> </P> <P> Blending with the wind, <BR> Snow falls; <BR> Blending with the snow, <BR> The wind blows. <BR> By the hearth <BR> I stretch out my legs, <BR> Idling my time away <BR> Confined in this hut. <BR> Counting the days, <BR> I find that February, too, <BR> Has come and gone <BR> Like a dream. </P> <P> </P> <P> No luck today on my mendicant rounds; <BR> From village to village I dragged myself. <BR> At sunset I find myself with miles of mountains between me and my hut. <BR> The wind tears at my frail body, <BR> And my little bowl looks so forlorn -- <BR> Yes this is my chosen path that guides me <BR> Through disappointment and pain, cold and hunger. </P> <P> </P> <P> My Cracked Wooden Bowl </P> <P> This treasure was discovered in a bamboo thicket -- <BR> I washed the bowl in a spring and then mended it. <BR> After morning meditation, I take my gruel in it; <BR> At night, it serves me soup or rice. <BR> Cracked, worn, weather-beaten, and misshapen <BR> But still of noble stock! </P> <P> </P> <P> Midsummer -- <BR> I walk about with my staff. <BR> Old farmers spot me <BR> And call me over for a drink. <BR> We sit in the fields <BR> using leaves for plates. <BR> Pleasantly drunk and so happy <BR> I drift off peacefully <BR> Sprawled out on a paddy bank. </P> <P> </P> <P> How can I possibly sleep <BR> This moonlit evening? <BR> Come, my friends, <BR> Let’s sing and dance <BR> All night long. </P> <P> </P> <P> Stretched out, <BR> Tipsy, <BR> Under the vast sky: <BR> Splendid dreams <BR> Beneath the cherry blossoms. </P> <P> </P> <P> Wild roses, <BR> Plucked from fields <BR> Full of croaking frogs: <BR> Float them in your wine <BR> And enjoy every minute! </P> <P> </P> <P> For Children Killed in a Smallpox Epidemic </P> <P> When spring arrives <BR> From every tree tip <BR> Flowers will bloom, <BR> But those children <BR> Who fell with last autumn’s leaves <BR> Will never return. </P> <P> </P> <P> I watch people in the world <BR> Throw away their lives lusting after things, <BR> Never able to satisfy their desires, <BR> Falling into deeper despair <BR> And torturing themselves. <BR> Even if they get what they want <BR> How long will they be able to enjoy it? <BR> For one heavenly pleasure <BR> They suffer ten torments of hell, <BR> Binding themselves more firmly to the grindstone. <BR> Such people are like monkeys <BR> Frantically grasping for the moon in the water <BR> And then falling into a whirlpool. <BR> How endlessly those caught up in the floating world suffer. <BR> Despite myself, I fret over them all night <BR> And cannot staunch my flow of tears. </P> <P> </P> <P> The wind has settled, the blossoms have fallen; <BR> Birds sing, the mountains grow dark -- <BR> This is the wondrous power of Buddhism. </P> <P> </P> <P> In a dilapidated three-room hut <BR> I’ve grown old and tired; <BR> This winter cold is the <BR> Worst I’ve ever suffered through. <BR> I sip thin gruel, waiting for the <BR> Freezing night to pass. <BR> Can I last until spring finally arrives? <BR> Unable to beg for rice, <BR> How will I survive the chill? <BR> Even meditation helps no longer; <BR> Nothing left to do but compose poems <BR> In memory of deceased friends. </P> <P> </P> <P> “When, when?” I sighed. <BR> The one I longed for <BR> Has finally come; <BR> With her now, <BR> I have all that I need. </P> <P> (Written to the nun Teishin, his young mistress.) </P> <P> </P> <P> My legacy -- <BR> What will it be? <BR> Flowers in spring, <BR> The cuckoo in summer, <BR> And the crimson maples <BR> Of autumn... </P> <P> </P> <P><BR>From Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf: Zen Poems of Ryokan, translated by John Stevens. Published by Shambala in Boston,<BR>1996. </P> <P>.mir</P></DIV></div><br clear=all><hr>Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at <a href='http://go.msn.com/bql/hmtag_etl_EN.asp'>http://explorer.msn.com</a>.<br></html>
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