Son Mountain 6: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

I enjoy this space of natural awareness

amid the mist and vines and dark caves—

its wilderness is limitless

with clouds as easy friends

and roads that never reach the world

in mindlessness no one may reason away.

At night I sit alone on bedrock

until the moon ascends Cold Mountain.

(from the translations of RP-224, RH-226, BW-49, AT-27)

Son Mountain 5: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Fantastic, this passage to Cold Mountain

with not a sign of horse or cart—

one stream after another who can remember,

peak upon peak going who knows how high,

a thousand seedlings bent with dew,

tall pines sighing in the same wind.

Now that I’ve gone off trail,

form is asking shadow for the way.

(from the translations of RP-3, RH-3, GS1, BW-48)

Son Mountain 4 [a Cold Mountain Transcreation]

Cold Mountain holds so many wonders

climbers find themselves terrified—

when the moon is shining, the water is brilliant,

when the wind is blowing, grasses stir and sigh,

bare plum trees bloom with snow,

dead trees leaf with clouds.

A little rain transforms everything

but unless all is clear, you’ll never get through.

(from the translations of RP-157, RH-154, GS14, BW-45)

RP-157

Cold Mountain has so many wonders

climbers all get scared

water shimmers in the moonlight

plants rustle in the wind

withered plum trees bloom with snow

snags grow leaves of clouds

touched by rain they all revive

unless it's clear you can't get through

RH-154

Han-shan has many hidden wonders;

Climbers are always struck with awe.

When the moon shines, the waters are clear and bright;

When the wind blows, grasses rustle and sigh.

Withered plums, the snow becomes their blossoms;

Branchless trees have clouds filling in for their leaves.

Touched by rain, it's transformed—all fresh and alive;

If it's not a clear day, you cannot ascend.

BW-45

Cold Mountain is full of weird sights;

People who try to climb it always get scared.

When the moon shines, the water glints and

sparkles;

When the wind blows, the grasses rustle and sigh.

Snowflakes make blossoms for the bare plum,

Clouds in place of leaves for the naked trees.

At a touch of rain, the whole mountain shimmers

But only in good weather can you make the climb.

GS-14

Cold Mountain has many hidden wonders,

People who climb here are always getting scared.

When the moon shines, water sparkles clear

When the wind blows, grass swishes and rattles.

On the bare plum, flowers of snow

On the dead stump, leaves of mist.

At the touch of rain it all turns fresh and live

At the wrong season you can't ford the creeks.

Son Mountain 3 [a Cold Mountain Transcreation]

Following the way to Cold Mountain

undertakes a road that never ends—

the chasm is long and filled with boulders and rocks,

the watercourse is wide and veiled with reeds and grasses,

the moss is slick despite the lack of rain,

the pines sigh without any wind.

Who can leap directly from this twisted world

and sit with me among the white clouds?

(from the translations of RP-32, RH-8, GS8, BW-40, JPS-16)

RH-8

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?

RP-32

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?

BW-40

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?

GS-8

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?

JPS-16

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?

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.