Tao. The Poem. Verse 13 to 18.

13.

Honor and shame

bind us to judgment—

suffering is bound

to our own pretense.

But seeing all as oneself—

one is free to be here for all.

14.

Not seen, heard, nor felt—

one.

Rising, not light.

Falling, not dark.

Formless form.

Hold the Ancient Way

to journey here and now.

   

15.

Ancients were so unfathomable,

we only picture their appearance—

to be so murky as to settle into clarity,

so still to stir to life.

16.

Empty and resonate

in silence—

see all rise and return

to the root.

Not knowing is all-suffering

but knowing the way loses all

to be always.

17.

Best is nearly never known.

Next best is loved.

Then, feared—

the worst is scorned.

But words never do—

it appears

to happen

spontaneously.

18.

When the Way is forsaken—

responsibilities rise.

As knowledge ripens—

duplicity appears.

Then all becomes chaos—

blind faith persists.

Tao. The Poem. Verse 10 to 12.

10.

Can you rest

in the seam of opposites?

See Spirit and Instinct

as One?

Give birth

without claiming,

raise

without ruling?

This deepest power. 

11.

Shape clay into a cup—

from emptiness forms function.

As it is in a dwelling.

In being arises increase,

but in non-being rests value.

12.

Overkill deadens the senses;

wild pursuits enrage the mind;

treasure loses the way.

So a sage

observes insight

and overlooks eyesight.

Tao. The Poem. Verse 7 to 9.

7.

The world abides—

for it doesn’t exist for itself.

So by yielding the body—

one is present.

And being free of self—

one is fulfilled.

8.

As truth,

like water,

one helps all

and vies with none,

lives low—

as Tao.

All holds the truth—

by not resisting,

one is free

from illusion.

9.

A cup filled to the brim will spill.

Acts done in excess produce the opposite.

When work is complete, the self retreats—

Nature’s Way.

Tao. The Poem. Verse 4 to 6.

4.

Tao is 

bottomless

emptiness—

seeming source

of all things. 

Harmonizing,

it perhaps exists. 

Yet its birth is unknown—

image older than God.

5.

The cosmos isn’t humane

nor is the sage—

all beings are sacrificial.

The universe will always make more.

Thus abide in the silent center.

6.

The valley spirit never dies—

call it the feminine

mystery.

Its gate is the root of the cosmos.

Ethereal—

but in use

inexhaustible. 

Tao. A long poem. Transforming a transcreation.

In the summer of 2009 I started transcreating the Tao Te Ching, reading different translations (Ellen M. Chen, David Hinton, Stephen Mitchell, Red Pine and several others), pondering each word of each verse as translated in a word-by-word grid created by Jonathan Star, and abridging each and every verse into a 140 character tweet. I ended up publishing it in book form: http://www.amazon.com/Tao-Te-Tweet-transcreated-140-character/dp/1466248912/

I am now transforming the transcreations into short sections of a long poem as a new project, making minor revisions along the way, and no longer holding to the 140 character limit, although not necessarily adding or subtracting or revising either, except in the lineation added to the original. I am trying to stay true to the initial transcreation, which attempted to stay true to the original as viewed through translations—this is not a project revisiting those translations or that amazing grid, for that was an extensive project in and of itself.

The first three transformations are included in this post, with more to follow in future posts. I am considering it a long poem based directly on the Tao Te Ching—

the latest transformation

of an original transcreation

of several unique translations
of the nameless...

Tao

1.

No words

for Tao—

words are for things.

To know Tao

no desire—

desires are for things.

Both are sourced

in darkness—

doorway to no-thing.

2.

Knowing good

creates bad—

as ordinary opposites

relying on each other.

So the sage does

without doing—

claims nothing as

deeds are never lost.

3.

Don’t praise persons and things—

people will distort.

Lead by clarifying desire—

fulfilling essentials.

If nothing is doing—

all is done.

April Fools Da Da Da

April is the month of birdsong. Great intent is in the air.

Even trees begin to show their heartburn.

In an hour or so the rain will fall like rain is always falling somewhere.

The wind will speak with nurturing authority.

One could say the earth awakens to desire.

One could say awareness is appearing in the memory.

None of this is true beyond the artifice of space-time.

Does the river of existence flow upstream to be the nameless source?

Game of Games

The game is called long division; the only rule is play your part. 

Know division by zero is an unlawful operation

because the answer is unknown. Outlaws call this insight.

As it is in quiet desperation, so it is with the cry of war.

Further, laughter is the spirit of deconstruction

as speechlessness is the matter of truth.

All the players are shaped by social conditioning.

The field of battle is deoxyribonucleic acid.

And doves go flying through the hall of mirrors.

Fear and taxes. Sadness and a movie.

Location is the holy trinity of real estate.

Yet Christ alive! Everywhere is here in consciousness.

burn this poem

anew 

declaration 

awareness 

not belief 

love 

not politics 

wisdom 

not knowledge 

deconstruction 

not nihilism 

transformation 

not monuments 

The Crystal Peaks of Ten Thousand Ways

There's a new myth written every hour. This one says a recluse doesn't avoid people. Hermits avoid one person. That which looks like me.

Sure, there's a con-artist born every minute on the way. But there's only one way. That is my way.

Listen. I add my poem to the cairn. Basically there's view and source. And one step at a time.

Only follow this way until you see your own sign. Mountains and rivers. Sunrise sunset. Consciousness speaks to the child.

Real deconstruction isn't nihilistic. True north isn't east or west. Go visualize the sun.

I am hiking further lucid dreaming consciousness awakening forgiveness on the cross of love and wisdom Krishna Shiva Vishnu.

Self Play

The angel of absolute I is whispering a firmament of words. If April is all about memory and desire, March is all about innocence and experience. Clear woods, full sun, choiceless awareness.

So the universe is a phenomenon of an absolute I as we are the circus of the universe. Monkeys see and monkeys do. This is the elephant in the great room of the blind. Being may be useless but belief is a wasteland.

And absolute I is like the experience of deep sleep. And this universal dream is like the self-awareness of absolute I. Oh wisdom and love are too nondual for cats. Inhale, exhale, sneeze, and god bless you.

As if we the phenomena could usurp the blessings of absolute I. Not even the six eyes of lions and the four wings of eagles can approach the vanity of these two faces. To end, one must locate the beginning of this play.

Who am I? Absolutely.