evaporated nor liquefied,
It makes the core of our body and Dharma's eye!
8
My Old Boat
In vain I have tried to repair
My old tub, my leaky boat,
Which brought me awhile ago
Some bread. Since then,
The planking has already
Gotten deformed and is about
To lay itself out
Until the bottom rots through.
From now on, no more
Bottom water, no more
The moon's disc smiling at me
From underneath
My ankle-deep limbs.
So, I am back to square one
In my attempt to cross
The stream of life, . . unwetted.
9
A Poet's Way
A true poet is one
Who treats oneself
As a sentient being,
Who only regards the truth
As the bright moon's disc
Reflected on the water mirror.
He is like a magician
Who regards all people
As creation of magic;
He is the Mind himself--
The round Perfection,
Like an antique vessel
For sacrificial offerings.
For all men he is like Oasis
In the middle of desert,
A sound of an echo bounced
Off the steep slope, a mass
Of milky clouds gathered together
Around a high peak, an appearance
And disappearance of the sun,
A bamboo with its empty bole,
A flash of lightning across the sky,
A young dragon's emerging
In the field for inexpiable fighting,
A sprout budding from a rotten seed,
A pair of the hare-horn boots,
A piece of the tortoise-fur coat,
A ridicule, especially for all those
Who'd like to be stabbed on a murky night.
10
The Unnamed Verse
My mind is soaring above the path;
Here, in the deep mountains,
Year in year out, my temples
Turn snow white.
Day by day I cherish my tiny orchard
And earth my vegetable patches up;
My hut I sweep diligently by pine twigs
At sunset, once, before bed.
Burning incense, I open my only reference --
The Oracular Book of Circular Changes,
And the current things spread before my eyes
In the sacred numbers, images and signs.
Drawing the curtain back, I contemplate
Thru the thick mist above the jagged cliffs,
And the moon's disc stares in the pool
Just underneath my thatched wicket. . .
Amid my friends, how many of them
Can afford observing Nature at such ease!
11
Still Perplexed
Last day of winter --
Leafless wild plums
But form their buds,
Challenging last frost.
First day of spring --
Still violet pall but
Forms appearance
Of the sunburst in full.
Daybreak prepares
Ten thousand forms,
But sunset is perplexed
With the moon on the wax.
12
No Kidding
How come that each
And every occurrence
Is like a dream,
An optical illusion --
The mountain spring,
Long shadow of a tree,
A lunar eclipse,
The moonlit silver lane
On the face of a creek,
A morning dewdrop,
A flash of lightning
And a crashed thunderbolt
Stroke straight
Into one's harrowed soul. . .
Just in this sequence
We have to view them all,
One by one,
To become insightful
For a short while. . .
And this is a serious thing
That happens to all those
Who read these lines
And do not kid around.
13
Heap Over
To what shall I
Liken this world:
The shine of stars
Is out in full force,
The pale moonlight
Glittered in the pond
In the middle of which
A heron prinks, standing
On one leg amid croaking,
Buzzing, humming, teeming. . .
14
As Something Else
The entire world
Can be depicted
As a moonlit night,
An early dewdrop
Shaken from a tip
Of the tall sedge,
A piece of a twig
In the stork's beak,
Which hurries its nest
At twilight. . .
And as something else,
Which is better to leave
Veiled and unpictured
On the scroll of experiences.
15
At the Crime Scene
It happened that a burglar
Dropped it behind him
While scrambled out
Of the window --
That was a moonbeam
Filled the windowsill
With its dazzle of fine silver. . .
That was funny! Such a slip
Never happened to him,
As he was a thief for a living.
Thus, all of a sudden,
At the very end of his 'career'
He got his share of illumination!
16
Contemplating the Milky Way
Reflected on the ocean surface,
I perceive the emptiness of Mind.
As the open night sky, I come to be
Drawn by the magic of the moon's disc,
Losing myself in the silver lane it casts off.
17
A Yokel
When I see the moon's reflection
Flickering in the ripples of waters
I believe in its reality down there,
Not upstairs, in the fathomless air,
Where the Galactic Ocean legislates
Its laws and ordering dimmed to me,
A son of the soil who sows and crops
In full accordance with the lunar phases.
18
Never-Sleeping Buddha
Lying on the crumbled floor,
A broom said to a figurine
Of the sitting buddha who
Found room for himself
Right on the upper shelf:
"Darkness is falling," he said,
"We, saints, should sleep."
The sitting buddha replied
From the top of bookstand,
"The bright moon is rising;
We, poor folks, must sweep."
19
Uninhibited
Oh, poor leaders of the world!
Most of them, inwardly,
Stuffed full as a hole for fuel
And outwardly
Fast bound with cords
When they look quietly round
From out of their bondage
And think they have got
Anything they could want,
They are no better than
Transported convicts
Whose arms are tied together
Or than lions and tigers in cages
And yet thinking they have got
Absolutely all they could long.
Ceremonies, media, briefings,
Anti-inflation measures,
Offshore accounts and
Currency indicators, . . with all
The loopholes of jurispruden
ce,
Are the trivial matters
In the chaotic establishment.
Rewards and penalties
With their advantages and sufferings,
And the inflictions of punishments,
Are but the trivial elements
Of regulative norms and instructions.
As opposed to them all, oh boy,
I mount on the clouds of the air,
Rides on the sun and moon's spheres,
And ramble at ease beyond
I can reach due to the absence
Of a second thought and
In the presence of the Pure Mind
Which I have cultivated so much
In the remote wilderness.
Neither death nor life
Makes any change in me,
And how much less
Should the considerations
Of advantage and loss do so! Amen.
20
No Bitter Remorse
I can see it with half an eye that
Grand music does not penetrate
The ears of the country bumpkins;
However, if they hear Beethoven's
Moonlight Sonata, or Violin Concerto
Of Tchaikovsky, or Bach's Cantata,
Would they roar then with laughter?
Is it true that lofty words do not remain
In the minds of the multitude, and that
Perfection of phrases is not heard
Because the vulgar words predominate?
By earthenware instruments like pots
The music of a bell will be confused,
And the pleasure that it would afford
Cannot be obtained by the subtle ears.
Now the world is under a great delusion,
And though I wish to go in a right way,
How can I succeed in doing it my way?
Knowing that I cannot do so, however,
If I were to try to force my proper way,
Would that be another delusion on top of that?
Therefore, my best course is to let my target go
And no more pursue it. If I do not pursue it,
Whom shall I have to share in my bitter remorse?
21
Unanswered Questions
How ceaselessly does Heaven revolve?
How constantly does Earth abide at rest?
And do the sun and moon contend
About their respective placements?
Who does preside over and direct all things?
Who does bind and connect them together?
Who is it that, without trouble and exertion
On one's part, causes and maintains them forever?
Is it, perhaps, that there is some secret spring,
In consequence of which they cannot be but
As they are? Or is it, perhaps, that they move
And turn as they do and can't stop of themselves?
Then how do the clouds become rain? And how
Does the rain again form the clouds? Who does
Diffuse them abundantly? Who is it that produces
This elemental enjoyment and seems to stimulate it?
The winds rise upwards to blow then to the west and
To the east, while some rise uncertain in their direction.
By whose breathing are they produced? Who is it that,
Without any strain of oneself, affects all their waviness?
In vain I venture to search all these phenomena true cause.
22
To Freedom!
Wherever an old wolf is howling
Addled amid the moonlit herbs --
Exactly like a petty dog,
A poor gipsy, lighted up
By the flame of campfire,
Keeps mending
His well-worn fur coat
He wears year in year out
Throughout the winter cold
And summer's scorching