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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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 9^th 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

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!