 |
| INDIA, 2007. 27th WORLD CONGRESS OF POETS |
THE
SIGNIFICANCE OF THE STUPA
My
bones are in the white stupa
My
blood is in the red stupa
There
is one precious thing in the stupa…
This
old woman holding prayer beads
Driving
her horse her hais is gray
This
is your prescious stone she advised
It
is said that the felt fox will be in your dreams
The
print of your thimb will reveal your future
The
grassy steppe the gray mountains this is
The
thoroughbred
Then
she whispered the high blue sky is your soul
My
bones are in the white stupa
The
most precious
Single
thind is there…
My
kind Chingis is there
Translated
by Sh.Tsog
ERIC OF
GREAT LOVE
Under luminary
of the new moon poured down
We mounded the
word separation
Among the whirl
of new snow
We discover the
word grief
While looking
for sanctity we created carelessness
Made the great
love wept
Under the dark
saber of extinction
We worked out
the dark history
Unable is bear
love
Indulging the
great love
Also worked out
the blunder epic
In making the
noble love wept, we were happy.
On making the
sun and moon felt cold, we lived.
In destroying
the great love, we were happy
In complaining
the bluish globe, we lived.
The great love
wiped off and sang thousands times
The hoarfrost
fallen on heart and
The mist
drifting on eyes
The great love
mourned and tattered thousands times
In hot fire of
jealousy
In shouting of
dark ages.
The great love
faded away, worried several times
In hot fire of
jealousy
In shouting of
dark ages
The great love
faded away, worried several times
In grieve of
iron sixty and
Beside all in
completed story
Our epic is such
woven articulately
By high-land
towns of stone rose
Mystery humor of
the great Pyramid
Oath gold coral
and pearl
Cold smile of
Taj mahal and
Milk tears and
moon grief.
While loading up
a lot of unnecessary things
We have the
slanting blue earth
While having
haughty destiny as steppe wind
We have slanting
careless life
The tears run
down along ear
But the master
is unknown
The dew glitters
along forehead
But the head is
not seen
Oh!
Who enlightened
the golden sphere?
The great love
has enlightened it
Who shaped the
golden ages?
The great love
has shaped it
Who throbbed my clam destiny?
The great love
has throbbed
Life it self
glorified own self
The great love
sitting in gray
At the world
jamb, without door of return
Has been taken
pity on
While the well
known eastern silver evening
With-make
believe tears
Staring steppe
nomadic Mongolia with pondering
Feels a gnawing
pain
Oh!
Who enlightened
the golden sphere ...
Translated by J.Gendendaram
I’ll open the door of peaceful rest –
and Buddha’s there.
I’ll open the shining door of purity,
and Buddha’s there too.
I’ll open the lofty door of mercy,
and Buddha’s there.
I’ll open a single impermanent door,
and Buddha’s there too.
I’ll find the secret door of the world,
and Buddha’s barely there.
I’ll knock at the sad door of the moon,
and Buddha’s barely there…
Peacefully meditating in front of me,
an enormous tall Buddha.
I’ll step towards the golden threshold,
but there am I…
A
SUDDEN CHANGE OF HEART
The horse’s head on the ovoo turns
white,
turns really white,
like nothing’s happened in the world….
Like finding peace,
like the stillness of stallions,
the horse’s head turns white.
This divine creature
threw back his head.
This dumb creature
forgot
to neigh.
Mark
his golden skull with the words:
“Gone away.”
“Gone away.”
Oh…
A spring haze hangs like washing.
He’s jogging, whinnying, his mind’s gone
this way,
his raging pounding pounding
heart’s gone that way.
The world’s left him
empty.
Just like it’s left me,
left me….
Just as my golden conscience,
which inscribed this destiny of mine,
goes this way.
Just as my tender heart,
which pursued that gentle love of mine,
has left me behind, so
the one I loved goes that way,
scattering my songs and my tears.
The tips of the grasses,
brown swaying on my homeland steppe,
whistle their agitation,
that the one who’s passed is forgotten,
poor thing….
The horse’s head upon the ovoo, and
the moon turns white over the lonely
hills.
A
VERY BIG, WHITE ELEPHANT
A
very big, white elephant
has
passed through the world.
He’s
left with the calmness
of
the mighty ocean.
He’s
left, uprooting
the
serenity of the earth.
He’s
left, shaking
dew
from the topmost leaves.
He’s
returned, disturbing the sun gods.
He’s
left, comandeering
golden
temples, shining with blood.
He’s
left, waking
grey
peaks under snow.
He’s
left, shutting the eyes of the mighty.
He’s
returned, shaking East and West.
A
very big, white elephant
has
passed through the world.
A
very big, white elephant….
MUSIC
Times
of loud noise inside the ger,
of
the fire’s smell…
The
lion protects our heritage in the moonlight.
Father’s
dreams underfoot,
mother’s
fingers on her rosary,
only
Buddha in their minds…
Their
calm, clear eyes are heavy, their
mantras
flying,
an
ornament of sound…
DREAMS
I
see your beauty…but
by
the light of your candle,
the
monks are flying, and
emptiness
is peace, and
emptiness
is peace they say.
I
see your beauty…but
by
the light of your finger,
the
spirits are flying, and
emptiness
is peace, and
emptiness
is peace they say.
I
see your beauty…but
by
the light of your progeny,
the
great Buddhas are flying, and
emptiness
is peace, and
emptiness
is peace, they say.
My
beautiful one…
SONG
OF THE CANDLE
My rock crystal heart is sick,
around you
a candle is flowing…
On my head,
as though ripped from the Buddha’s
breathing,
a small flame, yellow, divine.
This is my meditation,
a self discovery,
this is my love,
for the sake of your honor,
and this is my purity,
my vulnerability pulsing from within.
Loving…
Purifying…
Meditating…
My rock crystal heart
is occupied softly by a yellow light,
and there is eternal green lichen
in the empty silver space of this
candle.
My rock crystal heart is sick,
sick in waiting for a butterfly, and
around you,
I am a candle, flowing…
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.
SORROW
I
have come crawling to you,
through
arrogance and sudden drops in temperature,
through
the colors of the world and
through
the suppression of dreams.
I
want to love you
with
the kind of sweet affection
that
can dwell only in a human being.
In
my heart I mourn one thing,
that
I’ve not been able to love another.
I
regret I’m not a swallow on the wild steppe,
that
I cannot soar to meet another.
I
want to love you, to
open
the eyes of cross-legged Buddhas.
I’ve
such a magic storm –
I
want to make a lily in the snow glance up.
I’ve
such a shining wind….
I
want to love you…but
in
the hazy smile of this moment
I
can’t come close to you.
In
this cold glow of arrogance,
I
cannot come to you.
I
wanted only to love you….
THE
BLUE FRONTIER OF TRANSCENDENCE
I’ll
not go beyond the blue sky.
A
felt fox is following me in tears.
Wishing
prayers are following in tears.
A
blue, blue dungfire is following in tears.
The
rabbit in the moon overhead is following me in tears.
The
milk in the pan is following in tears.
The
scent of saffron is following me in tears.
The
galloping horse I so desire is following in tears.
The
strength of nomads is following in tears.
Teary
eyes are following.
I’ll
not go beyond the blue sky.
Peace
and tranquility are following me in tears.
The
lion who guards our coffers is following in tears.
The
brown earth is following in tears.
My
red blood is following in tears.
The
walls encircling me upon the dark green grass
are
following me in tears.
I’ll
not go beyond the blue sky.
I’d
not go beyond the blue east,
for
it is my eternal blue pavilion….
I’ll
not go beyond the blue sky,
for
it is my blue frontier of transcendence….
SPIRIT
OF SADNESS
There
is a spirit
in
the sky above.
He
has found pleasure
in
the shining nakedness of people.
He
has found pleasure
in
the full moon’s striation.
He
has found pleasure
in
the grasses’ changing colors.
He
has found pleasure
in
the fortune of the generations.
He
has found pleasure
in
the rising again of the sun.
He
has found pleasure
in
the volcano amid the peaceful blue.
And
oh there is a great spirit of sadness.
He
is irritated
by
the oceans’ calm.
He
is irritated
by
the flowers’ sedate poise and slow growth.
He
is irritated
by
the unblinking eyes of a thousand Buddhas.
He
is irritated
by
the steppe’s gloom and by the barren wolf.
He
is irritated when the golden stars take time to glimmer.
He
is irritated when eyes fail to tear.
And
oh,
he
is irritated when the earth turns and turns.
In
the deep blue overhead
there
is a spirit
like the one at my core.
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….
THINKING
OF YOU
Your
coat pink, and your hair
fluttering
always,
let
loose beneath the gentle moon.
Your
look doesn’t change…but,
these
young men,
rutting
for you across a hundred steppes,
are
not like me at all,
Only
their hearts are.
How
can we forget
this
marvelous wine
under
so lovely a moon…?
A loving and easy embrace
in everything I do.
IN
THE CITY
I
stand and look at the distant mountains, so far away,
my
thoughts recurring like the scent of juniper, and
father’s
ger and mother’s beads are forgotten,
the
taste of salt growing stronger and stronger…
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
HORSES OF TIME
The
horses of time, this time,
are
whinnying at my side, and I’m sad.
I
cannot know if this little planet, in a mirage of white milk,
will
be turning through the universe in a thousand years.
Maybe
I cannot make out this planet of ours, so blue it is, but
I
won’t know, in a thousand years,
if
Xiongnu will be hazy.
The
horses of time, this time,
are
whinnying at my side, and I’m sad.
I
won’t see the famous being born
in
this great land in a thousand years.
I
won’t know, in a thousand years,
if
the grass will be growing in Sumbe.
I
won’t see the suffering of the world,
however
many lovely girls are born.
I
don’t even notice the carigana right now,
shining
golden on the steppe.
The
horses of time, this time,
are
whinnying at my side, and I’m sad.
Who
will take the brush of the vast blue sky,
to
draw a thousand years of joy and misery?
Who
will bind the powers of east and west,
and
ease the pain of this subversive poet?
The
horses of time, this time,
are whinnying at my side, and I’m sad.
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 wow ow
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-wort and sassafras…
SONG
OF THE STUPA
In the white white stupa of my bones,
in the red red stupa 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 white stupa of my bones,
in the red red stupa 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 Jaha Hambu
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…
BUDDHA
Liberation
from the universe, on the branches of the Bodhi tree,
contemplation
of the turning world, on the branches of the Bodhi tree:
your
suffering, my suffering,
your
joy, my joy…that’s what we’re told.
Merciful
deliverance, on the branches of the Bodhi tree,
great
desires realised, on the branches of the Bodhi tree:
the
true seeker is visible in the coming light.
Firmly
shut the doors to the five senses…that’s what we’re told.
Realising
the world is not eternal, on the branches of the Bodhi tree.
Penetrating
eternal emptiness, on the branches of the Bodhi tree.
Arising
from delusion and desire,
the
patterns of the weary mind are uneven…that’s what we’re told.
The
grief of grasses withers on the branches of the Bodhi tree,
the
cooling dew of effort, on the branches of the Bodhi tree:
purifying
the soul by taking the right path,
the
purity of the chiseled sky grows near…that’s what we’re told.
To
pass beyond flowing tears, on the branches of the Bodhi tree,
a
life in this fractured body, on the branches of the Bodhi tree:
this
cosmic world is false, it’s a mirage,
these
shining qualities are also empty…that’s what we’re told.
A
glowing of flowers, on the branches of true Bodhi,
a
shift into the blue yonder, on the branches of true Bodhi:
when will you know how to arrange such
things?
Death
will come for sure, right now or in a hundred years…that’s what we’re told.
Oh…BUDDHA!
Translated
by Simon Wickham Smith / England /
