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.

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.

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?