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| ACAPULCO. MEXICO. 2008. 28th WORLD CONGRESS OF POETS |
for the Taiwanese poet Yu Hsi
Grass,
growing in the east
in
yellow waves, and
kneeling
and bowing
for
so long
to
the exalted east.
I
place my aching head
upon
its warm breast.
It
strokes my brow
with
its yellowing fingers,
my
tears falling thicker and thicker,
covering
the silksoft lichen.
An inner suffering
rides
upon waves
into
the east,
marking
my warm body,
and
grasshoppers flock
into
the silent aeons,
dispersing
the light
at
the final moment of rest…
And
for some time yet to come,
its
face unchanging
in
golden waves, there will be
grass,
growing in the east.
Bankok
BEAUTY,
DOZING
To
touch the silvern collar
of
the beauty, dozing,
was
my eternal desire,
and
my own silver verses
lit
the way like a candle.
My
own dear love herself
had
fashioned the portentous evening moon,
and,
moved by the moment,
I
offered a joyful candle,
an
ancient prayer, to the Buddha,
while
silence filled the spaces
between
joyful leaves.
But
still more desires
pain
the shameless vagrant…
I
touch the silvern neck
of
the beauty, dozing,
but
my eternal desire stays unfulfilled.
I
touch her lips…
THE
SKYBLUE OCEAN
(from
The Book of India)
How
can I forget your skyblue ocean?
How
can I forget the silent and beauteous Buddha?
How
can I forget the eyes of melancholy stones?
How
can I forget the unshod Tamils?
How
can I forget a temple with a golden roof?
How
can I forget the love of small children, holding out their hands?
How
can I forget the girls with their callouses and shining eyes?
How
can I forget sneaking a look at their naked breasts?
How
can I forget what I saw in the raging velvet of the blue ocean?
How
can I forget the huge white elephants, their legs in chains?
How
can I forget enjoying the milk from split coconuts?
How
can I forget a life in the glance of a single elder sister?
How
can I forget the skyblue ocean?
How
can I forget the fishing boats, fading away into white?
How
can I forget the thought of spending my life with them in song?
How
can I forget pouring water by the round moon, o goddess, yearning to reach
you?
MY
GENTLE INDIA
Give
up your callouses, India,
give
up your gold and precious stones,
wipe
the mark on your forehead,
and
keep your shining vision.
Briefly
fix your oceans,
and
do not let your lime trees wither.
I
want to hold you, naked.
I
want to press the folds of your gown to my face.
I
want to listen to how your heart beats.
I
want to taste your lips alone.
I
want to stroke your womb, which bore Tagore.
I
want to dip my pen in the tears of the TajMahal.
I
want to remember you, to love you as divine.
I
want to lose patience, to stir up a storm on the ocean waves.
Give
up your ornaments, my dear one,
look
at me in silence, my India.
When
the moon rises in the east,
may
it be, Lord Buddha, as though you are
surging.
When
its majesty declines,
may
it be, o Heaven, as though you are wild.
And
o my gentle India,
give
up your golden callouses…
The Bay of Bengal
THE
LEAVES ARE TWISTED
The
leaves are red,
and
they are twisted in the wind,
but
to think of their mothers, the precious trees,
gives
them most happiness…
The
petals are frayed,
upset
by the hail,
but
to dream of their swaying stalks
gives
them most pleasure…
The
Buddhas are distressed,
they
make the people angry,
but
the ancient universe
is
their clearest meditation…
I
The
magic golden brush of the sun
opens
my eyes every morning.
The
Buddha has finished drawing,
he
flushes my face
with
a special honor,
as
though looking at the world with compassion.
Mankind
is older by a day,
the
flowers wither, their desires unrealised.
But
every morning I take in my hand
more
precious than anything,
the
key which opens the inner heavens,
and
I cast it aside when evening comes.
THE
ONE
As
I sit, suffering with the autumn grasses,
there
is someone leaving me.
I
said I would abandon my dreadful suffering.
I
would forget that person, but I could not forget.
The
one who had walked with me down the path of Heaven.
The
one who had been my friend in the land of Heaven.
The
one who had been my protector among savages.
The
one who had been the eastern grasses.
The
one who had gone back earlier than I had hoped.
I
have no friend other than the moon.
EVERY
DAY
How
every day can the bright sun dawn
without
growing weary of us?
And,
every day, how can it bear
the
pleasure of our mad lion minds?
It
is a bluesky, timeless thought.
It
is a mindless, skyblue tenderness.
It
thrills with hope, each day,
the
bright gold sun.
It
is for us a bouquet of wonderful secrets.
But
when we might come upon it…
THE
FLOW OF THE WORLD RIVER
Notwithstanding
the
flow of the world river,
notwithstanding
the
emptiness under the monk’s hat,
in
whom can I place my hope now?
Notwithstanding
the
mists of the ancient universe,
notwithstanding
the
eyes of the Buddha,
why
should I hope to return?
Notwithstanding
the
numbers of the heavenly stars,
notwithstanding
this
universe,
whom
can I hope will come?
DESIRE
The
women are changed
into
flaxen grasses.
Out
comes the moon, and
sweet
memories awaken in them.
Their
fragrant red lips
still
bear dew,
cast
unrestrained
at
the golden sun’s kiss.
So
it was when they were human.
But
the lovely girls
have
not altered their desires,
they
honor them.
But
when I offer
brush
and paper to heaven,
I
desire the dark winds
to
cause the grasses and the girls to fade.
THE
GOLDEN STAFF
The
fresh, fine snows are blowing about.
Where
did the silent melodies go?
My
mind is once again disquieted,
wayward,
with a leonine glance…
The
fragrant flowers unfold their petals.
Where
did the singing laughter go?
My
mind is once again shouting,
burning
with a leonine anger…
The
clear, full skies are praying.
Where
did the peaceful whispers go?
My
mind is once again unshocked,
blazing
with a leonine pride…
Where
is the golden staff hidden?
Yes
– it’s in my third eye.
IN
THE AUTUMN WIND
The
white grasses,
fading
in the autumn wind,
are
unusually like me.
The
red of leaves
are
like me.
The
wings of swallows
are
like me.
Above
the caragana,
the
moonrays are like me.
And
so, while this man of rock-crystal
dwells
within me,
he
is quite dissimilar to me,
quite
dissimilar…
Alone
in the autumn wind…
A
BRUSH
Wait
for me at the door of Heaven.
My
brush is there.
I
have been looking for the ink,
hard
to find, to depict the world beyond.
I
have sought it in the human world,
I
have sought to distill it from temple grasses.
And,
with melancholy respect,
and
tired of waiting, I walk excitedly
to
take up my brush,
my
brush is there…
GOLDEN
EYES
I
would open the moon’s eyes like a maker of Buddha statues,
but
if it didn’t see us, how could we be happy?
I
would open the eyes of the universe like an artist,
but
if it didn’t wish to see us, how could we be happy?
I
was a pure devotee of the land of fresh snows,
I
took a candle, searching for the mind’s light.
This
life of lies flew in the limitlessness of feeling,
thinning
out the burnets of my desire.
I
was the maker of Buddha statues, I opened the eyes of grasses,
already
I had come, changing the color of the fluttering leaves,
calming
the eddies of past autumn mists.
But
upon my forehead
I
drew golden eyes.
THE
SMITH
Although
all of the keys I made
could
open every door,
I
was an unsuccessful smith,
I
could not tamper with the swollen world.
Although
all of the keys I fashioned
could
open whichever door I chose,
I
was an unfortunate smith,
I
could not bring forth a stream of tears.
IMPERMANENT
Humanity’s
song, the one they call “Impermanence,”
and
the musicians, sounding their silver strings,
step
out quickly quickly,
to
reach this shining moment, they
go
stumbling stumbling
onto
this cherished rosy path.
And
we notice none of this.
The
moment we hear this song of impermanence,
we
grow up, yes, like a child who’s left the breast behind.
THE
ORNAMENT ON YOUR ROSARY
Before
you know it,
you
don’t see the ornament on your rosary wearing away.
Before
you know it,
you
don’t see the swarm of butterflies returning.
Before
you know it,
you
miss the front door getting lower.
Before
you know it,
you
don’t see the elders, shining, setting out.
Before
you know it,
you
don’t see the eternal snows flowing.
Before
you know it,
you
miss the child leaving the breast.
THE
DUNGFIRE
Please
do not blow on me -
a
dungfire does its own thing.
Please
do not poke me –
a
dungfire does its own thing.
Please
do not be angry with me –
a
dungfire does its own thing.
Please
do not doubt me –
a
dungfire does its own thing.
I
awake from a dream of the sun’s scent.
To
awaken from a dream of the sun’s scent
is
precious to me.
I
awake from a dream of autumn mists.
To
awaken from a dream of autumn mists
is
precious to me.
SEARCHING
I
got lost as I searched far afield
for
the silver steps which lead to you.
I
did not know that you were waiting,
all
around me, in your thousands and thousands.
Many
a year I spent looking for you.
As
I moved through the far distance I thought about you.
Eternally
blue,
the
shining Buddha was a companion to me,
was
a friend to my mistaken mind,
and,
in love and in forgiveness, a crutch for me
was
the moon, my dearest lover.
And
now, I will put them aside
like
a raincoat,
or
else I will set off
into
the habitual blue.
QUESTIONS
With
which hand will you correct
this
idea of the pure universe?
When
will you enjoy
sucking
out our human purity?
You
Buddhas, with so many hands,
you
whisper quite silently.
Did
you suffer, as you waited for our education,
as
we forgot the language of your saving hearts?
AUTUMN
When
will you set down without a word
the
memories of ancient springtime?
You
have long been poking my heart,
painlessly,
with your feathery quills.
The
huge, clear moon…
The
uncertain flight of white clouds…
Wood
grubs, crossing the water…
Simple
eyes, with their long eyebrows…
And,
at that precious moment,
the
magic of words escaped me.
I
couldn’t find the handle
on
the ever-shining door.
I
searched in vain in books
for
the candle’s yellow flame,
and
grasshoppers came flying,
a
rasping in their wake.
MEMORY
It
was something I took, unthinking,
from
the cold ears of the hare in the moon.
Once
I had given it to him,
the
poet stopped using the term “charming.”
Because
tomorrow had a chilly melody,
I
chose to hide my schoolfriends in the warmth.
The
warm ears of the hare in the moon
brushed
against my love closer than the silver world.
SOMEONE
WITH A GENTLE GLANCE
The
sadness of grasses,
brings
continual sadness.
Another
man
has
brought me low.
To
make the Buddha sad,
brings
continual sadness.
And
yet another man
has
brought me low.
To
make the east sad
brings
continual sadness.
Another
of these vicious men
has
brought me low.
Someone
with a gentle glance.
It’s only me…
YOUR
LIPS
Every
morning, strangely attractive,
you
paint your lips,
you
would have them be the image
of
the red sun’s rays.
But
oh, I will give up waiting for my desire,
traveling
here to steal a look,
the
beauty in your face is known to the wind
and
the beauty in your heart divine.
Perhaps
love insults her,
perhaps
life deceives her,
only
delay your lips…
EVERY
DAY
I
rescue myself from myself.
Every
day I rescue myself.
At
every moment I rescue myself.
In
every second of my life
I
rescue myself from myself.
I
seek the respect of Heaven.
A
PEACEFUL EMPTINESS
The
books I read,
a
peaceful emptiness.
My
sparring friends,
a
peaceful emptiness.
The
music I play,
a
peaceful emptiness.
My
harmful enemies,
a
peaceful emptiness.
The
prayers I spread around,
a
peaceful emptiness.
The
damage I receive,
a
peaceful emptiness…
THE
IMAGE
On
the mountain’s southern slope,
an
image of my teacher the Buddha,
made
from white stones
on
the clear surface of the river’s flow,
gently
smiles.
But,
unusually, from between his lips,
beautiful
girls keep popping out,
setting
off the sound of love.
I
found an eye on my palm.
And
now, oh,
I
have stopped looking at the sky.
I
found the sun on my eyelid.
And
now, oh,
I have
stopped looking at myself.
SPRING
In
town,
the
red deer hazily steps.
I
took it, and placed it in a frame,
with
the distant snow mountains, and with the sky.
Tears
took birth in the valleys,
followed
it for some time after.
I
am going now
into
the blue sky.
How
shall I change
into
this color of blue…?
I
am going now
into
the blue sky.
How
shall I abscond
into
this color of blue…?
In
the light of the sun, day after day,
I
see rays newer than myself.
And
in that bright gleaming,
appear
skyblue evenings yet to come.
FOOLISHNESS
Three
steps away from extinction,
playing
with the silver moon,
I
am the world’s foolishness.
Two
yards away from misery,
messing
about with precious Heaven,
I
am the sun’s foolishness.
One
fingerwidth from death,
joking
with awesome destiny,
I
am human foolishness.
IN
THE SNOW
The
snow flurries,
and
the earth is resting.
The
snow flurries,
and
the heart is resting.
At
that moment, Heaven,
please
do not relax.
I
am fluttering now like yellow grass…
My
pain and my sickness,
and
the snow in flurries,
flurries.
FACING
THE FACTS
I
faced the facts, and confronted the blue Heavens.
I
faced the facts, and grew used to the light.
I
faced the facts, and looked through the window of action.
I
faced the facts, and enjoyed sweet melancholy.
I
faced the facts, and seized the hare in the moon.
I
faced the facts, and was lost to the world’s winds.
I
faced the facts, and missed my way back.
I
faced the facts, and came home.
THE
ARTIST
a song
The
beautiful Buddha in the picture
is
gazing with oval eyes.
Looking
from every direction,
he
gazes with silent sadness,
his
heart feels distress,
he
feels the omen of illness.
And
oh, you
radiate
a pure compassion,
conjured
into life… but the artist
paints
away at once with lightrays
the
injury of your silent sadness.
Yard
by yard
you
come to him,
and
the poor man keeps shouting
Humanity, accept the Buddha,
and
the picture of silent sadness,
dodges
this, as though alive.
SKY’S
EDGE
I
go out onto the road,
the
sky a distant blue realm.
As
I stand, stirred by impermanence,
the
silver moon rises behind me.
I
wave my hand on the silent path,
a
gleaming line in the pure realm.
As
I shade my eyes, weeping for the earth,
the
world tugs at my sleeve.
CARTS
The
carts of these sad times are moving on,
heading
in columns towards the Buddha,
over
the wall of peaceful being,
over
those who cast their eyes down upon their palms,
flattening
the yellow grasses,
seeking
the narrow path to Shambhala.
At
first, the drivers of the carts
were
fearful, they had not found
this
precious healing path…
And
just here, in these sad times,
the
columns and columns of carts hove into view…
AT
THE TEMPLE DOOR
I
thrill to the temple’s every gleam of melody,
as
though approaching my last days.
I
am separated from the primeval ocean,
though
I am come to the temple with but one intent.
I
envy the round white seashells,
who
wake the Buddha with their pliant melody,
their
white white gleam,
their
clear clear melody.
The
temple doors are opened by the light,
and
I offer in prayer a flock of doves.
A
BRIGHT MYSTERY
There
was a bright mystery
looking
at me,
and
this steadfast jewel,
three
prayers in one,
was
covered in scraps of cotton cloth…
The
omens,
which
led me on,
I
realised to be contrary,
they
followed me in my dreams.
My
father’s old deel
followed
me on the wind,
and
I realised my bad character.
The
landscape of juniper and saffron
watched
darkly as I passed.
Their
green seeds followed me,
and
I thought of my nervousness.
But
I’ve had no time, as yet,
to
look at the dark branches,
at
where I am going.
ON
A WALK
I
have a brush in my hand,
and
the ink of the glimmering moon.
I
have a magic brush
settled
upon my protruding nose.
Such
bright faith has changed me,
a
visitor from the red sun,
and
I would draw a single magic line.
I
receive the brush from heaven,
I
walk out of the light,
I
walk across the darkness,
and
powerless I kneel
on
the road, covered in dust.
I
stumble towards the silver Buddha,
I
met him on the road,
walking
with
a brush in my hand,
walking…
LOVE
AND ME
For
love to make me a man,
preserving
the music
of
the freezing earth,
I
was raised in a cradle of sheepskin.
For
love to make me a poet,
wiping
the eyes of the world,
its
cheeks glistening with tears,
I
sang the most precious lullaby.
For
love to make me…
SAKURA
The
cherry trees are in bloom
in
Danzanravjaa’s homeland.
This
news makes me think that my friends,
now
forgotten, are all in bloom.
Shaking
the pollen
from
my shoulders,
I
shade my eyes with my hand
and
look to the northern skies.
The
flowers in the window
startle
me, their petals spread.
I
don’t get up, I sigh
and
push my notebook away.
The
cherry trees are in bloom
in
Danzanravjaa’s homeland,
and
my bookish friends’ minds
are
moved…
ONE
MORNING
A
man, riding on a white camel,
came
back to the door.
He
took a while
to
smell the snow, to feel the wind.
He
came because the smouldering juniper’s
evening
perfume had dissolved.
He
blew gently on the brazier in wordless prayer.
I
thought my fingers entwined
by
the gentle yellow sunlight,
it
had secretly sketched the omens in the dawn…
A
book from Tsogthairhan’s library on my table,
the
instruction of wise Lashin,
and
the gentle first month of summer,
when
I became friends
with
the monk Soninbayar, and with Enhbayar…
This
man I know, riding on a white camel
his
face becoming clearer and clearer…
IN
THE SPRING WIND
A
woman is walking
in
the spring wind.
The
melancholy of aloneness
moves
her.
I
would take her hand and walk,
feeling
the warmth.
Soon
the first rains will fall,
and
later the autumn…
She
feels the pain she carries,
transforms
into the autumn leaves.
A
woman is walking, alone,
in
the spring wind.
A
SEEKER’S NOTES
My
twenty-year-old self
stays
far, far away,
and
as much as his beauty
remains
in my fingers,
I
do not believe he pleased
your
shining heart.
I
doubt that I was
the
ruler of this shining heart.
Now
I have only memories,
and
you are dear to another man.
Oh,
how far should I search for this,
which
was my life?
The
other side of beauty,
I
hope that there will be grass,
I
hope that there will be tall white mountains
the
other side of beauty.
The
other side of beauty,
I
hope that there will be feathers,
I
hope that there will be birds to tell me stories
the
other side of beauty.
But
the other side of beauty,
how
sad that the world is marred by day.
But
the other side of beauty,
how
sad that the Buddha lasts for but a day.
HUMAN
BEHAVIOR
Like
other people,
I
am starting to avoid my own shining Buddha.
I
am wiping away the world’s dust,
which
flows against the path of the moon.
And,
like the foreigners,
I
will avoid the ancient nagas.
I
will wipe the eyes of heaven,
sad
that I haven’t found the narrow track.
SHINING
BEETLES
Shining
beetles glow on the grasses,
gently
gnaw upon the shadows of shining drop.
They
are not playing on the criminal earth,
these
simple beetles,
they
are not poets undergoing punishment.
Shining
beetles glow on the dewdrops,
gently
gnaw upon the shadows of shining night.
They
are not broadening their horizons,
these
simple beetles,
they
are not poets who have borne suffering.
Shining
beetles glow amid the darkness,
they
gnaw upon the shining shadows.
Their
precious wish, that the light
might
come from the sun, does not shun them,
these
shining beetles, these shining beetles.
We
do not come close to the moon now,
we
worship the light,
we
do not change our simple pleasures.
We
do not come close to the moon.
We
do not honor the moon now,
we
feel the melody,
we
do not wipe away our false desires.
We
do not honor the moon.
We
are not distracted by the moon now,
we
bow like a monk
to
the candle’s warm light.
We
are not distracted by the moon.
MY
SILVER SOUL, STARING
Kindly
I place my hand
on
the shoulder of impermanence.
Happily
I am conversing
with
my silver soul, staring.
My
heart shakes, just a little,
but
carefully holds my memories in its hands…
My
intuition was somewhat abandoned,
but
my poems holds the scent of the shining sun…
How
will the Buddhas perceive my hesitation
in
the face of change, if they are not insensitive?
How
will people consider my doubt
in
the face of exhaustion, if they are not in pain?
My
silver soul, staring,
for
a long, long time…
I
close my eyes.
The
clouds are moving,
a
clear white gleaming.
I
close my eyes.
I
close my ears.
Brushing
against the rainbow sky,
clear
and enticing sounds.
I
close my ears.
I
restrain my mind,
The
prayers offered by the flowers
seem
strangely clear.
I
restrain my mind.
My
shining contemplation
is
right for you…
Shall
I hold you to my clear breast…?
IN
THE LAND OF GOLDEN PRAYER
A
knock at the fine door
of
the land of golden prayer,
and
this, this was the hand
of
my pure desire.
I
took my hat and polished my shoes,
I
came to you a fine man.
But
the bright door opened suddenly,
I
lit a lamp in this familiar abode
with
my simple verse…
I
stuck a match
into
the lotus of a flickering candle…
You
still had three cups…
It
was the homeland
which
I will forever enjoy…
PEARL
The
hidden path of heavenly bodies
is
clear, but it is secret,
it
exists but doesn’t exist.
Here
it is a pale yellow,
a
bright line into the far distance.
The
Buddhas come along this path,
descending
with a flutter of robes.
This
path offers no way back,
but
those who are beyond us have dispersed,
and
our world is cleared away…
The
pure heart of the meditator
is
a small pearl, hidden.
THE
MEDITATOR’S SONG
Up
in my roof, repairing their nests,
the
choughs were screeching.
And
then, protected by their deels,
they
floated into the great blue overhead.
My
friend, hungover, pressed me by phone
to
return home from the road to Shambhala.
And
then, wearing their houseshoes,
the
Buddhas flew into the heavenly lowlands.
I
looked sadly through the window at the sun,
I
locked up my wisdom like the temple doors.
But
then I glanced warmly at my shoes,
they
were covered in the dust of yesterday.
MY
SONG TO THE GRASS
The
sun-yellow grasses
bow
down, as though gently
praying,
We will come to you.
How
will you meet with the Buddha?
Or
will you grasp that great image,
the
golden secret transformation
of
people into grass…?
One
thing we lack,
to
sense your language.
One
power we lack,
to
create your land.
One
day, one day…
We
will live for just a while
with
our simple understanding.
THE
SONG OF HUMAN BIRTH
The
gleaming of Heaven,
and
my own simple gleaming,
have
a similar brightness,
the
same magic.
This
dear friend of mine
shines
crystalline red,
but
I am something other…
I
will never stop shaking from my shoulders
the
world’s many garments,
and
poetry is preparing to return,
rustling
on the yellow leaves.
You will certainly be born a human,
a
secret voice
beating
against my brain,
until you rise forever from this
scornful world.
INTIMATELY
While
the elders trust that
to
love others more than you love yourself
is
a higher pleasure,
dearly
I love
the
simple poets.
And
until I come home, I will trust that
to
kneel, not to the Haan, but to my lover
is
the highest pleasure.
Divinely
I love
the
crazy poets.
And
until I return, I will trust that
to
put my faith in wine more than in the Buddha
is
the pleasure of existence.
Intimately
I love
the
ordinary poets.
I
PLACE MY HOPE IN THE BUDDHA ALONE
A
flock of red robes
flutters
right and left.
The
world is waiting for the last days.
Light
touches my indistinct gaze, and
the
fire reawakens, doused in my heart,
turns
my face red.
In
the blistering cold, the wretch’s gaze
can
barely hide his suffering.
The
heavenly calendar is malign,
and
Heaven’s wise pleasure elusive.
Now
I put my trust in the glory of the heart…
Now
I place my hope in the Buddha alone…
A
flock of red robes
flutters
in this world,
but
in the final moment, this single tear
shed
for me will multiply…
Stockholm
AT
THIS MOMENT
At
this moment, how will the vast door
be
opened by my wisdom?
At
this instant, how will the threshold of nonduality
be
opened by my vision?
At
such a point, how will the silver divinity
be
opened by my understanding?
And,
oh, at this moment, how will the condition
be
opened by my wisdom…?
PATTERNS
I
spread my palms,
and
search the myriad patterns,
the
tears of my destiny
glistening
briefly.
And
I smile,
and
the bright moon is my support,
and
scent brushes past on the cool air.
It
seems that the spirits are blessing me.
Heaven’s
palms hold me with whispers.
And
I cannot find a single track
through
the myriad patterns,
I
cannot see a path beyond myself,
for
all the yellow dust.
But
every day I don my hat of hopefulness,
and
I search among the myriad patterns…
A
FEW PETALS
A
wind from the wilds
perfumed
my skyblue books.
Once
I had transformed into the yellow grass,
I
asked naïve questions about Shambhala.
Youth
is generously given to us,
a
stifling fire is given to us,
love
is given to us entirely,
and
in the evenings we are given tipsiness.
Please
don’t worry about me,
please
recall the autumn.
You
are scared, and subordinate to Heaven.
I
am subordinate to the dew which remains.
And
a few skyblue petals
purse
their lips against the wind…
UNCLEAR
The
stars, unclear,
awaken
my third eye.
The
rays, unclear,
are
my third hand.
In
the world, unclear,
I
am living, so clearly.
In
this instance, unclear,
I
am shining, so clearly.
Eternal
blue Buddha,
constantly
gazing,
when
will you release me from the path?
But,
hidden
from the silver moon,
I
will repent before you.
You
will tire of these warm and kindly glances,
together
we will fulfill a strange desire.
IN
THE MOONLIGHT
I
am sitting, sad in the moonlight,
astride
a petrified sandalwood tree.
I
am not the last monkey,
depressed
by the lack of fragrance.
On
the earth where humans become grass,
it
is child’s play for wood to become stone.
And
calm now, I look up.
Already
the precious moon has given way to the sun.
Desire
stands
on the border like a child.
Merit
lies
on the ground like an armless Buddha.
Longing
flutters
on the shoulder like one remembering the breast.
Purity
flashes
in the heart like loving sadness.
As
for me…
THE
THRONE
The
ruler has ascended the throne, and
unerringly,
at this moment, I am trying
to
occupy this throne.
And,
from this golden throne, gleaming and high,
I
will respectfully ask
what
happens in this life.
I
approach the Haan on his golden throne,
I
struggle against his loving mercy
for
this highest of thrones.
This
precious throne, shining here,
desires
no rulership
of
a human birth.
My
fortunate windhorse
amid
the fragrance of juniper,
opens
its gentle eyes.
My
fortunate windhorse,
in
a moment of pure melancholy,
raises
its golden mane.
My
fortunate windhorse,
is
not scared of the path of desire,
is
not frightened by the world of men.
This
horse of mine
presses
its face against its mane,
conceals
my brush in its tail.
NOTES
AT THE ENTRANCE TO SHAMBHALA
A
life lived happily,
fallen
among adamantine poems.
The
silver Buddhas have created
a
noble timeless pen.
A
fine youth, like a song,
sung
with a wonderful brush.
And
a noble scribe,
with
a most precious office.
A
poet of prayerful magic,
a
brush sharpened at Shambhala.
I’ve
fallen into the NoyonHutagt’s palm,
he
a diamond to support my books.
I’ll
walk around happily,
I’ll
worship with ancient prayers.
I’ve
never shared arhi with the NoyonHutagt,
but
I’ll kneel to this diamond, unshared.
moving
like a mist
down
other people’s paths
floating
like haze
down
an obvious route
fluttering
like leaves
down
the sun’s wind
swaying
like grass
in
the autumn, until we watch
a
little track, self-created,
fails
to appear
tears
spontaneously roll…
spine
spontaneously fades…
REALISING
TARA
Morning,
and the rays of the ancient sun
strike
through my window,
thread
through my sad mind.
The
evening candle glows its last with a red flame,
loops
across my book.
I
am meditating like a monk
on
the candle light, and
in
the silver candle flame
I
realise a thousand Taras,
Buddhas
in clothes of yellow.
But
then this little scribe, and the candle,
will
go and repay old mother‘s kindness,
and
I sway through future evenings,
supported
by my tipsy mind.
THE
GAZELLE AND ME
The
holy gazelle descends from the temple roof
and
follows me,
enjoys
a secret life
upon
the brown earth.
Fleeing
the peaceful pleasure of Heaven,
we
make friends on the curd-scented dharma throne,
we
listen to the lamas’ melody,
to
the whisperings of Heaven,
but
only in our own tongues.
Soon
we will follow the paths of sadness,
we
will chase down the tracks,
down
the news of the glimmering sun…
And
you say how, in the last moment,
while
the Buddhas are weeping with love,
you
will preserve the meaning,
shining
on the temple roof.
But
I am quite different,
I
cannot sit, like your ancestors,
hiding
away in such shyness
before
those half-closed eyes.
My
little gazelle,
the
earth will spell out to us
my
only verse…
There
is a future, shining,
at
the threshold of timelessness.
We
will leave the road from there.
Until
then, we will be friends.
Solitary
white grasses
bend
with fascination.
They
are not my forebears,
who
lived long ago.
But
if they were…
Raindrops
kiss
my body.
They
are not my ancestors,
who
painted their destiny.
But
if they were…
BLUE
PARADISE
The
blue, blue grasses
sway
and weave.
A
feeling for my darling
tumbles
in tears,
how
close in my heart…
how
deep within my mind…
The
day’s dust fall in streams,
yesterday’s
leaves flutter yellow,
and
in that moment I am a man,
and
throw my strange wishes down.
The
blue, blue grasses
sway
across me,
my
darling…this
is
my blue paradise.
A
STRANGE BLUE BUTTERFLY
In
the loveliness of a look,
I
finally switch from swallow into butterfly.
In
the loveliness of an eye,
I
shun the yellow glabrous butterfly.
In
a ruddy beauty,
I
rustle, a strange blue butterfly.
But
when spring comes,
I
will again awake in the warm rain.
HEAVEN
WILL FIND ME
Heaven
is searching for me,
and
this shining feeling
will
find only me,
and
not the ever-moving feathergrass,
and
not the stars, deceived by tears,
it
will find only me.
Until
this, then
I
will share my sadness with the autumn grass.
And
until Heaven comes,
I
will calm myself with what gives me joy,
and
the dear lives of others
will
melt, pouring at my feet.
This,
my bright moment...
This,
my yellow, swaying paradise…
AUTUMN
Discerned
among the mists,
a
maral stag.
But
if this maral stag
has
sadness in its eyes, then it is this…
Discerned
upon the tips of grasses,
the
lofty skies.
But
if, in the meditation of the lofty skies,
there
is sadness, then it is this…
Discerned
upon the path,
a
silver grasshopper.
But
if, in the heart of this silver grasshopper
there
is sadness, then it is this…
RIGHT
HERE
I
was a man, daydreaming,
my
eyes on my mind.
I
was a believer in the red sun,
these
charmed eyes were searching.
My
eyes grew from a noble wish
to
see myself.
I
was seeking in the light beyond,
these
eyes simple and propelled.
I
have left the months of hardship behind,
my
difficulties start here.
I
have seen off the rosy dawn.
Right
here, I will become a poet.
THE
BLUE FLOWERS OF WISDOM
The
blue flowers of wisdom
and
the fragrance of my ink
cover
my path,
the
seed of this enchanted flower
is
in my mind…
It
is formed,
in
the pleasure of turning the wheel of the world,
in
the pleasure of collecting Vajrapani’s power,
and
shining within me.
But
now that I am muttering,
the
sky holding me in its palm,
the
blue flowers of wisdom
are
following my brush with their fragrance.
AN
AUTUMN SKY
All
around, the autumn sky.
Around
so clear and dear a friend,
how
can I be sad?
The
silver moon, sorrowful and afraid,
places
a hand on my shoulder,
scatters
far and wide
the
beautiful deceit which occupies my heart.
The
autumn sky all around…
All
around, the autumn sky.
In
the light of so magic a candle,
the
fallible earth…
Dear
not to my soul, but to my body,
the
last remaining creature bows in shame.
Precious
to me, my sorrowful third eye
breaks
away like a falling yellow leaf.
The
autumn sky all around…
The
autumn sky.
OH…
with
no other lantern
but
the grasses’ voiceless tongues
with
no other friend
but
the skies’ peaceful grieving
with
no other mantle
but
the blue wind of misty autumn
with
no other teacher
but
the untroubled error of humanity
oh
my face…
with
no other Buddha
but
the yellow sun by day
with
no other meditation
but
the book of poetry in my lap
with
no other home
but
the empty world of bright shadow
with
no other pillow
but
lonely Mongolia with its smoky gers
my
poor profile…
YOUR
VISITOR
From
every moment, flashing
in
waves of silvery power,
the
people so gentle,
the
buddhas so peaceful,
a
sky so cloudless…
a
pair of cheeks so red,
close
neighbors so warm,
a
land so pure in contemplation,
a
mountain so white in piety,
so
intimate in every moment,
inner
beauty in a letter…
When
I met you
in
a studio of such red leaves…
for
you, there was only me,
seven
arcs of a flashing rainbow,
so
skyblue a man,
come
from the east,
come
from nowhere else…
LEAVING
MY COUNTRY OF WHITE, WHITE SNOWS
I
am leaving my country of white white snows,
heading
out like a white white cloud.
The
female Buddhas in the land of snows
remained
smiling
on
white lotus flowers.
The
guardians of the snows
remained
there,
burning
white, white incense,
multiplying
their dark, dark mantras.
They
remained, arguing whether more wolves
are
born than humans,
or
than horses.
They
remained, arguing whether juniper
grows
higher than the sun
or
than the moon…
At
the junction of light and shade,
at
the crossroads of milk and tears,
like
Heaven’s guest, I am seeking
I
am tired like the wandering Tsataan.
But…
softened
by the snow of snows,
this
precious heart has not left me, and
lit
by the moon of snows,
this
swaying feeling has not left me, and
expanding
into the universe of snows,
this
eternal intuition has not left me, and
flowing
with the night of snows,
this
silvery candle has not left me, and
I
am leaving my country of white snows,
heading
out like a holy man, riding a white stag.
THE
MONASTERY RUINS AT AMAR AMGALAN
On
the monastery roof at Amar Amgalan,
I
am sitting, quietly flurrying.
On
the Buddha’s shoulders at Amar Amgalan,
I
am silently meditating, glistening.
On
a candle flame at Amar Amgalan,
I
am turning, with secret breath.
On
the moon of mantras at Amar Amgalan,
I
am flying again, coming to rest.
Oh,
on
the monastery ruins at Amar Amgalan…
The
fragrant flowers abandon their scent,
the
golden grasses wither and fade.
The
bird’s loving mind is full of sorrow,
and
I am leaving my friends behind.
THE
RIVERBANK
I
can feel
a
smile,
the
wicked glance of beauty, and
now,
just now, I can feel
the
pleasure of wounding the world.
The
sharp recollection of everything
is
for me the taste, the savor of everything.
Later
we speak of how it doesn’t last, and
I
courteously place a hand on her shoulder,
Suddenly
I notice that the moon has come down to the riverbank,
and
beauty starts to flutter her eyes again.
WHEN
THE SPRINGTIME GRASSES ARE TINGED WITH BLUE
When
the springtime grasses are tinged with blue,
the
nightingale’s heartfelt poems fly to you.
You
are the homeland steppe, the dawn’s rays,
you
are the familiar wind, the silver clouds,
you
are the gentle moon, the dew on flowers,
you
are merely, merely the bright sky.
This
is the direction of my heart’s last flight, trembling into eternity.
This
is the direction of my last petal, beaten by the hail.
The
nightingale’s trembling poems fly to you
when
the springtime grasses are tinged with blue.
GOLDEN
LEAVES
You
have illuminated me
with
your incomparable divinity,
and
your pouring forth is beautiful,
like
the whitish moon of autumn.
You
have leant upon my shoulders,
and
your drunkenness is lovely,
like
arhi in a silver goblet.
I
have not considered right or wrong,
I
have only grown used to you,
my
golden leaves
falling
on my heart…
I
have not known to sing my tears,
I
have thought only that this meeting is past,
my
little golden poems
falling
on my lips…
I
have not learnt of love and parting,
I
have thought only to go in silence,
my
melancholy
remaining
in my memories alone.
MISTS
I
cannot say
when
the mists might break apart
with
news of you,
and
I realise they might never break apart.
Mists…
mists
in layers…
The
more I know that you are well,
the
more I am shot through with desire.
I
desire to reach beyond,
as
to a needle of silver.
But…my
comfort is away,
past
the mists, and
certainly
there is nobody there.
This
beautiful news of you has cut through my sugared heart,
how
amazing that a pearl has grown within my breast.
Oh,
pale mists,
my
happiness.
WHILE
I WAS WATCHING
While
I was watching,
a
strangely bright man
arose
from where you were, but
where
he went I do not know,
and
I felt deeply
that
he would never return.
While
I was watching,
a
strange Buddha of light
lifted
from your body, but
where
he had been I do not know,
and
this man of love
felt
for you a sudden affection.
While
I was watching,
a
strange, crystal fish
fell
from your eyes,
shed
light upon you, whom I know so well,
and
then I suddenly noticed
that
this was a mantra.
While
I was watching,
a
strange golden filigree
fell
away from your palms,
and
the spirit of the earth
leapt
forward and swept it away.
But
while you were watching…
SONG
OF THE GOLDEN SUN
I
sit cross-legged like a lotus flower,
and
raise my eyebrows and my eyes to Buddhahood.
I
sit, focussed on my meditation.
Nearby,
abandoned and without desire,
the
warm gods of life have made me better.
As
always, a simple, clear glance,
as
though bright life has returned.
A
symbol of perfection,
the
third eye forms a triangle, but
seems
not to overwhelm me with distress…
Am
I the visitor of the golden sun,
so
much distress?
How
shall I now
remake
myself as quite another man?
If
only a golden cord would fall down to me, exhausted,
and
lead me forward.
If
only life would grasp me hard,
I,
who have ignored golden Heaven,
and
bend forward,
and
draw me, exhausted, onwards.
BEFORE
THE SWORD
I
would lie, gazing at the familiar blue sky,
and
think
how
I have no precious door
to
be reopened.
From
where within me
did
there flash
a
powerful and pure light,
as
though reaching the Buddha,
as
though penetrating Shambala?
Beautiful,
how
I opened my door,
but
your cavalier sword
chopped
through
my
moonclear mandala,
and
where now shall I go?
You
are slowly pulling from my trunk
the
red leaves of past autumns.
A
SKETCH
On
White Stupa Hill,
a
man is sitting in a red shirt.
Around
him,
the
blue blue waves
of
the powerful ocean
splash
and splash the blue waters.
The
heavy heavy steps
of
dinosaurs
are
trampling left and right.
The
wormwood steppe has forgotten
how
it covered with peace so many eons,
and
the poet, in his red shirt,
like
the melody
which
is the fear of peace,
doesn’t
hear it…
And
White Stupa Hill,
like
the sadness of leaving eternal peace behind…
Ah
yes,
the
one in the red shirt,
it’s
my brother Urianhai…
There is a lovely place in Dorngoviaimag
named White Stupa.
OVER
THERE
Over
there, against the backdrop of the lightening dawn,
smoke
is twisting out from the gers.
Over
there, to the sound of clanking stirrups,
a
flock of rooks start upwards.
Over
there, an offering scarf snatches the smoke,
and
fades in the wind around the roofring.
Over
there, dark-skinned men
have
been talking for some time, indistinctly.
Over
there, from tea made with fermented milk
a
warm steam is billowing up.
Over
there, the lotus left behind in a small bowl
sticks
out like a black flower.
Over
there, caught on a willow rafter,
a
felt fox is fading.
Over
there, where the Buddha’s framed in wood,
the
sunlight is gleaming.
Over
there…
SONG
OF THE BUDDHAS
Chiselled
onto
solid stone or
white
marble
by
the unmoving wind of time:
eternity
is easy to find.
The
pattern is chosen
for
its elegant thread,
embroidered
with great skill
onto
expensive silk:
a
place of honor is easy to hold –
and
it’s easy to possess the golden world.
But
it’s not easy to hold a solitary person,
nor
a melancholy mind:
there’s
no frontier to force, and
the
one-time-only option doesn’t ease eternity.
It’s
a fragile fortress,
its
ownership inequitable, and
it
has no garden to rest in, and
its
eyes are stained with fear….
Oh,
but
there
stands my golden temple.
Oh….
TO
A PUPPY
A
fine white cloud, moving wearily
this
side of the rising sun,
for
the both of us
is
happiness, my vagabond
puppy,
is pain…
I
am watching my child smiling,
a
heart split from a gentle heart
a
fragment of my own dear flesh.
Beneath
the moon’s sphere,
like
a wall you are lying around me
and
dozing, pups
pounding
your teats.
And
for the two of us alone,
there
will be joy and suffering.
Such
a landscape
bears
us both,
my
vagabond breeze…
Today
I am a man, but you are a dog.
They
will place my bones in the earth,
the
autumn winds will quite tangle my hair,
and
will repair my soul
in
the fortress of heaven.
We
are both alike,
in
my house of rock,
the
two of us…
AT
THE DOOR OF THE SKYTENT
At
the door of the skytent,
holding
a golden lantern,
by
the light of my golden lantern, I can see
that
the old ones are coming,
mounted
on high upon white clouds.
A
gentle creature, smelling still of milk
is
coming, wading through the milky ocean.
Through
tantric practise and endless recitation,
a
monk has shrunk his body, small as an elbow, and
he’s
coming, flying cross-legged.
The
door of the skytent
swings
quietly open….
Twenty-one
young girls, their eyes all-seeing and clear,
are
coming into the Buddha’s presence.
The
pure of heart, free of sorrow,
free
now from the world,
have
thrown the door wide and stand amazed.
A
child comes to her mother, and
a
mother comes to her child, and
they
go seeking the profundity they lack.
The
door of the skytent
swings
quietly open….
And
every time that door swings quietly open,
it
steals a count of breaths
from
life’s red bulb.
Gold
and silver fishes,
impermanent,
seem permanent
inside.
They
are content in their own way.
at
the door of the skytent,
holding
a golden lantern….
HEADING
OFF
Whatever
your talents, please
just
fall, sprawling off into the juniper.
Whatever
the earth does, please
just
fall off into the juniper.
Whatever
wears you out, please
just
fall off into the juniper.
DESTINY
Beneath
the branches of blue Hurmast,
one
golden leaf.
On
one golden leaf,
BUDDHA
grasps my hand…
MELODIC
When
previously the golden autumn
had
excited me,
it
has come again
with
its smell of rain,
with
its old grasses,
with
its white mists,
with
its clashing stars…
Thought
has bound many glances,
has
passed many pleasant months,
and
so the leaves have turned red,
and
when was there ever such an autumn?
This
gorgeous autumn,
I
wore the pinkish moon on my forehead,
I
spread out my white parasol…
However…
NOTES
WRITTEN BY MOONLIGHT
The
one who experiences the lover,
and
the lover as being the beauty of the
world,
her
glance is somewhat shining.
If
only your glance were as shining.
The
one who knows the secret,
and
thesecret as the beauty of love,
her
tears are somewhat shining.
If
only your tears were as shining.
The
one who recognisessoftness,
and
softness as the beauty of the moon,
her
lips are somewhat shining.
If
only your lips were as shining.
The
one who senses dreams,
and
dreams as the beauty of kisses,
her
heart is somewhat shining.
If
only your heart were as shining.
ONE
SPRING
I
stay by the window,
thinking
of you.
There
is nothing to see through the window
but
life and happiness,
sadness,
and a leafstorm.
There
is nothing to be heard.
At
this glass window,
you
are waiting, watching me
with
your gentle gaze,
and
only your lips are bright.
But
this morning,
I
noticed a strange clear feeling
gently
tickling my neck,
and
the flowers at my window
sown
together in rows,
were
already thrusting out
their
showy pink petals…
ONE
MOMENT
She
is exhausted from sowing wisdom’s blue seeds
upon
the white moon which fills the water,
and
the snows of heaven have fallen
onto
my mother’s soft black queue.
I
have left behind this one moment,
this
one moment…
YEARNING
How
I would love to roll in animal dung.
How
I would love to bear that smell into a room of books.
The
snow gets blown from my pigtails,
scented
with the mountain’s place of honor…
How
I would love to roll in animal dung.
How
I would love to walk in the mist.
How
I would love to walk by day like a maral,
stroking
my forehead with fresh branches.
How
I would love to come down, just before the new moon rises,
the
petals of pheasant’s eye and dianthus sticking to my shins.
How
I would love to walk in the mist.
How
I would love to talk with the elders on a fresh lawn.
How
I would love to come home smelling of such vitality.
How
I would love to fall asleep before the family chest,
a
little in awe of my father, my mother stroking my head…
How
I would love to talk with the elders on a fresh lawn.
THE WHITE CLOUDS OF OCHIRVAN MOUNTAIN
The
white clouds of Ochirvan Mountain
follow
me, moving through the world.
They
grow, covering my path,
as
far as the eternal green juniper.
The
Buddha of these silvery mountains
is
shining on my shoulder.
The
white winds of Ochirvan Mountain
follow
me, blowing through the world.
They
bless my peaceful destiny
as
far as magical, golden Hurmast.
The
guardian of these impasto mountains
is
shining in the mirror of my heart.
Such
a lovely landscape in the world
is
such a lovely mountain of the mind…
HOMELAND
When
once I came to my homeland, the smell of fresh dung
was
every day on my body.
When
once I came to my homeland, the rays of the new moon
shone
every month from my poems.
When
once I came to my homeland, a magic secret mantra
radiated
every year from my heart.
When
once I came to my homeland, the sun of pure gold
warmed
my fate in all that I desired.
And
when once I came to my homeland…
AT
YAVUUHULAN’S CAMPSITE
I
have come back to Yavuuhulan’s campsite,
to
listen to the poet.
I
have come back, murmuring like a well-tuned fiddle,
to
the blue droppings scattered here.
I
have come back to sit cross-legged,
among
melody’s skyblue rainbows.
And
I have come back to receive a blessing,
to
praise the mystical gods of wisdom.
A
family might have overwintered
on
the blue droppings
where
great Yavuu was born,
lining
up the ashes from the dungfire.
Their
children might have played
with
the brown, brown rocks, and
they
have abandoned camp…
Perhaps
fame is even more irrelevant
than
intimate words,
The Campsite where Yavuuhulan was Born
inscribed
on a simple iron slate
in
white paint.
I
have come back, clanking my stirrups for the poet,
to
the droppings which preserved Yavuuhulan’s camp.
MEND-OOYO
Like
a candle lit in the moonlight,
the
gentle poet Mend-Ooyo
walks,
unhurriedly,
among
the yellow yellowpasque flowers.
The
blue blue beans
are
round like blue pearls,
and
he comes walking,
skirting
the scattered juniper.
The
eight shargas come trotting.
Ten
foot pines are swaying on the ridge.
A
special vehicle struggles, unceasingly,
from
Otgontenger to the mountains on the distant steppe.
The
mountain of Altan Dari prays beneath the moon.
The
brilliance of relics is placed in a stupa…
A
meeting, three centuries away,
in
three steps lights up the space of his mind.
One
vast, white mountain,
they
say it’s Ochirvani,
flashes
a little further away.
A
distant cloud,
they
say it’s from AltanOvoo
moves
a little closer.
Like
a candle lit in the moonlight,
the
gentle poet Mend-Ooyo
walks,
unhurriedly,
among
the yellow yellowpasque flowers.
THE
LAND OF THE SKYBLUE STUPA
for Lama N Namsraijav
They
say the sky in the southern Gobi
is
a tall, skybluestupa.
They
say the mind of the huvilgaan
is
but a single worshipper, unwavering.
They
say that a cool moon
sways
over the land of Sevrei.
They
say that, if you try to awaken in your dream, then
LovonBadamjuna
is
shining in his mandala.
They
say that the rainbow of mantra
stands
over on the steppe.
They
say that, if you relax and are peaceful, then
LovonBadamjuna
is
moving towards the center.
They
say the sky in the southern Gobi
is
a tall, skybluestupa.
But
they say his relics
are
two grey-haired lovers…
MY
FRIEND TELEPHONED
There
were people there, and
my
friend telephoned.
He
asked after the dark grasses,
the
mirages of spring, and the peaceful mountains.
I
told him that the land was lovely,
the
boys riding the ridges,
chanting
the giingoo.
Inside
the sun, which touched us through the tentring,
the
cranes were crying and crying.
There
were people there, and
my
dear friend
telephoned.
WINTER
MUSIC
A
herd of deer, pursuing a wolf,
racing
around on the icy river
until
the sleeping fish awake.
One
of them slips, falls
sliding
onto his belly.
On
the horns of the pale moon,
calling
snow poet, oh snow poet, and
a
frantic knocking at the window,
that
I, dwelling in the city, might take flight.
A
POEM ABOUT CLARITY
As
death approaches, I am very clear.
I
am waiting, swimming in the world of mist.
But
my children, my descendents, are born quite clear,
they
lose their crystals through how they act.
Between
these two clarities
there
is the earth.
My
love, do not put your trust
in
anything but these two clarities.
A
SILVERY LIGHT
My
crystal box is solid,
it
has not opened except to the moon.
My
steed’s head is of poetry,
it
has not turned white on the ovoo of cheap scarves.
My
blue juniper is of the snow,
it
has lacked nothing amid the Buddha’s relics.
My
fiery nature is of blood,
it
has not fallen into another’s care.
My
icon-maker’s omens are heavenly,
they
have not been abducted by savages.
My
delicate gifts are fresh,
They
have not been trained in the world’s suffering.
My
beautiful flowers are of mantra,
they
have not been broken by earthly desires.
But
now, the silvery light
of
your fortress is upon me…
UNDER
THE ETERNAL, CLEAR SUN
The
snow upon the ancient mountains will no longer glisten silver,
but
in the high skies the smoke will glisten everywhere.
Last
year’s leaves will not again turn the paths red,
but
the wisdom of the Dharma will again turn experience red.
The
loveliness of neck and cheek will not show youth forever,
but
the elders’ inner men will always show.
Yesterday’s
moon will not again rise today,
and
we will know no other truth under the eternal, clear sun.
THE
GODS AND US
In
their joy, the gods said nothing.
In
their exhaustion, the gods said nothing.
In
our disobedience, we said nothing.
In
our sorrow for the world, we said nothing.
The
joyous path away says absolutely nothing.
The
happy route home says absolutely nothing.
Like
you’ve bitten on a golden ball.
Like
you’ve swallowed a golden mouse.
But
we sense their laughter.
We
sense their candid weeping.
We
sense their eyes blinking in contemplation.
And
we sense their kind protection.
THE
WORLD IN A SINGLE SEASON
It
is autumn, and a motherless man,
keeping
to the southern slopes, Orion’s scatter through the skies
desperately
seeking one like him.
There
is peace upon the ocean, meteors striking, but
deeply
he groans.
A
fiery form in the picture’s brilliant frame, but
he
sits, weeping at eternity.
The
world in a single season…
The
rising and the setting of the sun are fine principles,
the
freezing of the smoky mountains is a gentle transformation,
the
breaking of the sky is a worrying omen,
the
turning of the milk of misery is a turbulent flow,
and
the clouds are floating, and the clear white clouds
are
floating as they please.
But
this death is a lie,
it
bows the blades of grasses,
it
ripples through the people.
But
this pain of activity is empty,
and,
as the mandala lurches on,
the
pliant melody of Hormast’s golden womb
fells
the pondweed.
Careless,
they set light to the feathergrass,
and
it sparks like mountains of crystal ice.
The
heedless diagonals of weather
fall
upon a pattern of open palms.
Beneath
the white moon of fate which baffled the world
a
sudden crash, and the crux of fate is grasped.
This
world in a single season …
The
lotus petals redden in the moonlight, and
in
the moment when a thousand suns’ desires are sleeping in a dark pool,
in
a thousand years when those who hold the western mandala
are
at rest upon the packed white peaks,
I
AM LIVING…
This
world in a single season …
As
though my heart’s heavier thundering
is
heading away.
SONG
OF THE FLOWERS
Upon
a whitecapped flower
they’ve
pitched a tent.
Upon
a white mountain peak,
the
half-moon
blazes
like a candle.
In
the tent, tied up we think,
a
dog
as
though wearing a hat,
sticks
its nose between the flaps.
A
sudden ow wow wowow
shatters
the lapdog’s
restraint,
it jumps,
pulls
on its rope,
yelping
and yelping,
rushing
into a hole,
the
tent pulsates, ducks…
The
old lama, the doctor,
crawls
to bring the dog
safely
into his lap.
The
half-moon
sputters
like a candle.
The
wind’s utterance,
wild
on the gentle tundra,
vexes
the unlucky spirits…
It
says saw-wortand sassafras…
THE
SONG OF LOPONCHENPO RAVJAA
Their
knives are not inside their sleeves,
but
wrapped carefully in offering scarves,
and
the whole family stares as a thousand horsemen
ride
around the hitching-post,
all
heading in one direction,
all
galloping as one.
Their
eyes avoid
the
Gobi’s gentle yellow sun,
the
blue hills lurk nearby,
among
the shrubs and bushes,
the
wild leek’s white hair
flutters
as though thrashed,
and
the serpentine clouds
split
apart as though cursed.
A
thousand horsemen
swarm
to the place as the holy man instructed,
pile
together a thousand knives,
here
in the eastern desert.
The
ironsmiths run in, weeping,
the
bellows are hard to work, they light
a
thousand knives, they weep…melt…flow,
pouring
down their broad shoulders,
their
lips and noses,
their
broad foreheads…
For
a thousand years I have avoided
the
slaughter of men with knives
preferring
the slaughter of sheep.
They
rode to the holy man’s instruction,
they
were legless on hard liquor,
and
they brought to life the great Buddha of knives.
They
say his eyes unceasingly
guard
an area to the east.
Grasshoppers
through
the Gobi, and
white
clouds
gently
moving…
The
families, amazed,
are
peaceful upon the steppe,
and
the horsemen are galloping,
singing
out greetings.
These
dear ones
have
gathered the knives
to
create a Buddha,
they
are scared
to
greet the world.
SONG
OF THE STUPA
In
the white whitestupa of my bones,
in
the red redstupa of my blood,
there
is a precious thing.
It
has been entrusted, and this is topaz,
to
this old woman, holding her rosary,
to
that old man, leading his horse.
A
fox of felt is called a dream,
a
thumbsized egg is called an omen,
the
grassy steppe and the grey mountains are called thoroughbreds,
and
the high blue skies have whispered life.
In
the white whitestupa of my bones,
in
the red redstupa of my blood,
is
the most precious
and
singular thing,
it
is my noble Lord Buddha…
SONG
OF THE WILD STEPPE
A
mother named Sorhogtani prepares for a long journey.
She
is leaving her cushion of skyblue,
a
country where the dianthus has blossomed pink.
Harhorin
is sobbing,
and
black clouds are overwhelming the sky.
Memories
of her cheeks, scented with milk,
this
loving mother,
waiting
one more time
for
her fine, fine boys….
The
Haan’s eyes see
how
she watches
the
shrubby mountains.
They
recognise the passions
of
the wild, wild horses,
they
bestow a noble death
before
Ögödei.
A
moment, waiting
for
the young men to open the gates,
coming
closer and closer
to
make an offering to illustrious Tuliu.
The
daughters of JahaHambu
have
lived so long
in
joy,
in
pain.
They
say Hubilai will not come,
they
didn’t see him
escaping
his unsurpassed reign.
This
mother,
her
right breast slack and aching,
defends
her son
to
the point of tears…
The
western skies are ailing and sick
and
staggering.
The
Haan,
in
a carriage pulled by elephants,
comes
stooped and weeping
through
the wild autumn of Halh,
like
a child robbed of his toys.
Who
knows why
the
Haan,
with
the Yüan’s authority,
sticks
his face in the dirty grass
strangely
weeping and weeping…
THE
BLUE EASTERN SKY
I
am the blue eastern sky.
I
sleep standing like a horse,
I
wake like the birds,
I
contemplate like the Buddhas.
I
am the blue sky…
I
give blessings once more upon the hills,
I
am blue, blue texts.
I
dispel fear on the crown of the world,
I
am a small skyblue fox.
I
ignore what is said
in
this dry eternal world,
silent
like a fish.
I
am exhausted from losing all that is precious,
from
being moved
on
the finite winds…
I
fear
these
men,
powerful
and foolish,
unceasingly
they smile.
People
flee one another,
the
arc of light has faded along the seam of gold,
and
I am aching.
I
am the blue eastern sky.
I
have pacified the world’s activity,
I
am the blue sky of sheep.
I
snarl and protect the east,
I
am the blue sky of lions.
And
oh, this herd of men
has
stripped away a square of the sky,
and
I have bound them together.
And
I have opened the golden chest,
pouring
with tears at my bitter orders.
I
am the blue eastern sky,
the
blessing of flowers entwine my legs.
Is
there light in the face
of
the nomads’ peaceful Buddha,
his
hands like lotus flowers at his chest?
I
have gone from you,
such
gentle coaxing, and
with
love I am drawn to you,
holding
your hair in my palms.
THE
EAST
On
my left shoulder,
the
spirit of peace.
On
my right shoulder,
the
grey musician of pure love sits cross-legged.
I
am the east of hidden stillness.
The
west is my fear,
it
has stolen the rays of my golden dawn.
The
west is my anxiety,
it
has stolen my family’s joy and
replaced
the modesty of my darling girls.
The
west is my dear friend,
it
is constantly taking care of me.
The
west is my dear comrade,
it
has taught me to hold fast to the grassy steppe and the snowy mountains.
I
am the east.
The
moon’s secret and the sadness of the cosmos
are
my principal ornaments….
The
clear night and the quiet steppe
are
the gifts of my ancestors….
The
sky is my profound philosophy,
in
which we hear the Buddha’s holy breath.
The
big dipper shakes,
the
echo of my flowing tears.
The
bronze door of the world creaks open,
and
the golden souls of passers-by come in to me.
I
am the east.
I’ve
nothing hidden up my sleeve,
but
I conceal tender kisses and wounds of love.
The
moon knows my secrets,
and
she knows the secrets of beautiful women,
and
she knows
how
I kneel, all in a blue haze,
before
pregnant women,
How
I purify, with a melodious drum
beating,
and with powerful rites,
around
the horses and an open fire.
I
am the east.
I
have no fear
of
the impermanent wind,
its
cold breath blowing forever from the west,
and
my horses’ anxiety….
Their
fear is not known to me.
I
am the east.
I
am the fat, golden snake,
testing
the milk,
curled
up at the back of a nomad’s tent.
I
am the horned demon,
occupying
the grey land of Xiongnu,
renewing
the green world where the tents once stood.
I
am the east.
I
am entwined in the magic light of sun and moon.
None
can destroy me.
I
am secretly secured by diving wisdom.
None
can change me.
I
am the east.
I’m
a wall of sandalwood arising,
I’m
red sandalwood rafters,
I’m
an opening for sandalwood smoke.
I
am the east –
THE
EAST!
