Thursday, May 21, 2015

the message of the skeleton, excerpts







.



A melancholy autumn wind
Blows through the world;
The pampas grass waves,
As we drift to the moor,
Drift to the sea.


What can be done
With the mind of a man
That should be clear
But though he is dressed up in a monk’s robe,
Just lets life pass him by?
Why do people
Lavish decorations
On this set of bones
Destined to disappear
Without a trace?
The original body
Must return to
Its original place:
Do not search
For what cannot be found.
No one really knows
The nature of birth
Nor the true dwelling place.
We return to the source
And turn to dust.
Many paths lead
from the foot of the mountain,
But at the peak
We all gaze at the
Single bright moon.


If at the end of our journey
There is no final
Resting place,
Then we need not fear
Losing our Way. 


No beginning,
No end.
Our mind
is born and dies:
The emptiness of emptiness! 


Rain, hail, snow and ice:
All are different,
But when they fall
They become the same water
As the valley stream. 


The ways of proclaiming
The Mind vary,
But the same heavenly truth
Can be seen
In each and every one. 


Cover your path
With the fallen pine needles
So no one will be able
To locate your
True dwelling place.


As Ikkyu does not think of his body
As if it were his body,
He lives in the same place,
Whether it is town or country.


This world
Is but
A fleeting dream
So why by alarmed
At its evanescence? 


The vagaries of life,
Though painful
Teach us
Not to cling
To this floating world. 


If you break open the cherry tree,
Where are the flowers?
But in the spring time, see how they bloom!


To write something and leave it behind us,
It is but a dream.
When we awake we know
There is not even anyone to read it.


Look at the cherry blossoms!
Their color and scent fall with them,
Are gone forever,
Yet mindless
The spring comes again.


why is it all so beautiful this fake dream
this craziness why?

this ink painting of wind
blowing through pines
who hears it?


oh yes things exist like the echo when you yell
at the foot of a huge mountain 


sin like a madman until you can't do anything else
no room for any more


one long pure beautiful road of pain
and the beauty of death and no pain


mirror facing mirror
nowhere else 


sick of it whatever it's called sick of the names
I dedicate every pore to what's here


a well nobody dug filled with no water
ripples and a shapeless weightless man drinks 


oh green green willow wonderfully red flower
but I know the colors are not there

the mind is exactly this tree that grass
without thought or feeling both disappear


not two not one either
and the unpainted breeze in the ink painting feels cool


Ikkyu this body isn't yours I say to myself
wherever I am I'm there 


nature's a killer I won't sing to it
I hold my breath and listen to the dead singing under the grass


suddenly nothing but grief
so I put on my father's old ripped raincoat


when I was forty-seven everybody came to see me
so I walked out forever


my monk friend has a weird endearing habit
he weaves sandals and leaves them secretly by the roadside


even before trees rocks I was nothing
when I'm dead nowhere I'll be nothing


no nothing only those wintry crows
bright black in the sun


if there's nowhere to rest at the end
how can I get lost along the way?


that stone Buddha deserves all the birdshit it gets
I wave my skinny arms like a tall flower in the wind


no words sitting alone night in my hut eyes closed hands open
wisps of an unknown face


the wise know nothing at all
well maybe one song


melons eggplants rice rivers the sky
I offer them to you on this holiday


go down on your silly knees pray
for what? tomorrow is yesterday


I found my sparrow Sonrin dead one morning
and buried him just as gently as I would my own daughter


I hate it I know it's nothing but I
suck out the world's sweet juicy plum

you stand inside me naked infinite love
the dawn bell rips my dreaming heart


When it blows,
The mountain wind is boisterous,
But when it blows not,
It simply blows not.


Dimly for thirty years;
Faintly for thirty years, -
Dinly and faintly for sixty years:
At my death, I pass my faeces and offer them to Brahma.


–Ikkyu Sojun/Ikkyuu Soojun (1394-1481)
Excerpted from Wild Ways
John Stevens translation





.
Andrew Wyeth painting, on the death of a friend
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