Under the Light of the Eleventh Moon

Settling in the chill creekbed

Tonight under a soft blanket

Of December moonlight

There's a level of tranquility

Along the shoreline

I've never felt before

The waters have withdrawn

Far distant from the shore

And the tide gone so slack

It may never snap back again

From stillness of such depth

Things the Lawn Whispered to Me

Up until now I had only

Been dimly aware of the lawn's 

Interest in communicating with me

As sporadically displayed by

The mysterious calligraphy

The moles scratched out

As they dug their summer burrows

But now it appears the lawn

Has opened a second seasonal

Channel which consists of these

Barn hex or crop circle patterns 

That have recently begun

Popping up in the snow and

To be absolutely honest about it

I have no idea what they 

Could possibly mean

Winter Scene (II) -- in reply to A R Ammons

The other day

In the heart of Queens

I came across

The strangest scene

Mid-December

Midway down the block

A cherry tree stood

In full bloom

Around it buzzed

A dozen wasps

Resurrected from

Their winter slumber

A chill wind blew

The petals fluttered

Spring thus come in winter

Being both ill omen

And strange wonder

*************

This morning I read an A.R. Ammons called Winter Scene that had been posted to Twitter. "There is now not a single/leaf on the cherry tree" - as the poem begins. (You can read the full Ammons' poem here: https://allpoetry.com/poem/14370666-Winter-Scene-by-A.R.-Ammons.)

It immediately brought to mind this strange sight I came across last weekend when I went into the City to visit my kids. I have no idea how such a thing happens. One more sign of our planetary crisis or maybe just a tree recently transplanted from a greenhouse where it had been force-fed some Monsanto growth compound. As Paul Simon wrote, these are the days of miracle and wonder, except now there is a decided presentiment of time being broken and perhaps beyond repair.

Poem Written in Twilight on December 18, 2020 as I Stepped Outside the Front Door

I swear on the entire stack of poems

I shall ever write

Tonight while walking my dog

I beheld a most miraculous sight

Some might say the Star of Bethlehem

But no less spectacular I say

The near conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter

A once in 200 year celestial event

Just outside my front door

Soon to converge again

As Galileo first saw

****************

This poem was composed as a Tweet as I walked my dog this evening, swept away by the sense of serendipity to behold such a sight.

Poem Written While Standing at the Base of a Right Triangle Composed of Me, the Half Moon and the Setting Sun

We walked along the beach

Under a canopy of marbling clouds

The half moon 

Lay starboard side

I found myself nestled

In the base of a right triangle

Pinioned between the half moon

And the setting sun

Leaving no room for doubt

That daylight was nearly done 

Photo by M. Bridge

Ode to the Language Poet (for @ronsilliman )

 

The language poet 

Is insouciant

Tossing the literal

Aside in favor of the nut

Within the nut

Within the shell

And really what 

Did he find other than

The wheel turning to land

On Kora's season in Hell?

Oh but pity the poor language poet

The empty shell in which

He seeks to make himself

Feel more at home

More like a hermit crab

Than a lordly pair 

Of lobster claws

Scuttling along

The ocean floor 

Tweet for @kellyjeanrebar

 There's no weakness

In the branch hanging low

Just the plant's native

 Intelligence of using

Gravity to grow

A Broken Tape Dispenser

Here's a bit of random entertainment

for those of you living 

on the razor's edge of despair

or outrage over our inherent

right of repair 

Just now I closed the kitchen drawer

and heard the scotch tape dispenser snap into pieces -- 

picking up the larger shard I tried 

To tear off a piece of tape dangling there 

and mused to myself perhaps 

I should try to tape the tape dispenser back together -- 

How meta is that 

My inner daemon replied 

And finally on the third try I managed

but by then the tape dispenser was empty 

proving that obsolescence comes 

for us moderns in many shapes and sizes

Across the Visible Spectrum

This afternoon in the woods

I paused by the side of the lake

And almost lost myself the way

Narcissus did deep in the reflection

Not of myself but in the shimmering

Beauty of nature which trembled

With a breeze's gentle touch

Making the afternoon reverberate

Across the visible spectrum of light

Photo by

@AmariAdrianna

Drinking Alone in the Moonlight (by Li Bai)

 Here's my translation of one of Li Bai's most famous poems.  This is an old translation that I'm only posting now in order to share with a new acquaintance on Twitter.  But it's such a pleasure to reread Li Bai's wonderful poem ... I'm already looking forward to a jug of wine later tonight.

In blossom time

With a jug of wine

Drinking alone

Without a friend

I raise my glass 

And invite the moon

To share the bottle

With me and my shadow

What a party we make

The moon looks down

In sober disdain

While my idiot shadow

Follows my every move

Friends for the night

We come together in pleasure

To make the most

Of this glorious weather

But while I sing and dance

Shadow wobbles unsteadily

And moon remains aloof

Far overhead

If only I could sober up

Before the party ends

Maybe we'd all end up

The best of friends

Yet before stumbling apart

Let me propose a solemn oath

That we three reunite soon

In the distant Milky Way

Meditating in Moonlight (by Han Shan)

I first took note of this Han Shan poem thanks to a Twitter posting by @EstherHawdon.  What caught my eye was the first stanza, which struck me as unusual for Tang poetry, going beyond the typical Yin-Yang cosmology as a way of describing the workings of celestial light.  But as @EstherHawdon pointed out to me, the Chinese astronomer Zhang Heng (AD 78-139) had been a very early propounder of the theory that the moon borrows its light from the sun.

In any case, notable as the first stanza is, I find the second stanza even more remarkable -- Han Shan's own unique observations about indirect illumination - how the sun lights the moon and the moon itself provides illumination for the poet's own soul.

Meditating in front

Of a rocky cliff under the

Glow of the full moon

It's brilliant as day time

Everything casts a shadow

But without inherent light

The spirit is a vast void

Naturally clear

Emptiness contained

Such as in the depths

Of a mysterious cave

The same cause that makes

The moon visible makes

The moon a pivot on which

The heart's yearning turns

Hearing the Midnight Bell (JiaoRan)

 An ancient temple

Atop Cold Mountain

A distant bell

Borne by a fair breeze

The toll lingers

The moon drifts through the trees

Until the last echo expires

A fine rime of frost

Descends from the sky

It's nighttime forever

Meditating at first watch

Deep amid this frame of mind

Enthralled

Autumn Comes Anew, a poem sent to Magistrate Lu

 

The ancients studied the past

Hoping to gain perspective

And moderate their passions

To sit beside smoke and fire

Controlling their breath

So my good friend as you look

Upon the clear autumn scene

Up to the empty sky's origin

Where mountains loom as guests

Make no complaint at all and

 Still the sound of string and bow

Only behold the sunset and

The cicadas' rising call 

In the blue green clouds of twilight

Yearning to be reborn

Meditation Poem (by JiaoRan)

Written in the 8th century by the poet and Buddhist monk JiaoRan, this poem has a very contemporary ring to it.  Or maybe it's just that the essence of Buddhist practice hasn't changed too much over the 1300 intervening years.  It's all about standing (or sitting) alone under heaven and earth, studying without movement ...

Ten thousand dharmas

Stream forth from no-gate

One after another until

Wisdom grows faint

Disciples weigh the choices

Open to the novitiate

But standing alone under

Heaven and earth

Is the starting place

Practice is about what exists

Things from the outset

That in stillness persist

The key is to study

Without movement and

Behold the light shining forth

On the origin of all

Ten thousand things 

Speaking About Chan (by Bai JuYi)

Here is a poem by Bai JuYi that I translated today. This will likely be one of the poems that will be included in The Poetry of Awakening, an anthology of Chinese poems about the search for enlightenment that I am preparing for publication later this year. 

Full of paradox and word play, this poem is something of a departure from Bai JuYi's usual plainspoken style.  It was written late in life, as Bai JuYi immersed himself more deeply in the study of Chan Buddhism.  When it comes to enlightenment, being plainspoken will only get you so far.

Speaking About Meditation

 

What you must know is

Nothing is as it seems

What appears lacking  

Overflows in abundance

 

Words soon forgotten

Words clearly understood

In a dream to speak of dreaming

Is profound and void of meaning

 

How does emptiness blossom

To provide a double blessing

How does a searing flame

Transform into a fish

 

Disturbance comes amidst

Meditation’s stillness

Meditation is movement

Not meditating

Not moving

Such as it is

 谈禅境 

 

须知诸相皆非相  若住无余却有余

 言下忘言一时了  梦中说梦两重虚 

 空花岂得兼求果  阳焰如何更觅鱼

摄动是禅禅是动  不禅不动即如如

A Paroxysm of Green Delight

 In front of the Weesuck

Long in the tooth clinic

There's this hearty patch

Of milkweed thriving

In a sunny spot from which

My wife brought home a sprig

The other day so pretty

On our windowsill and

There to our surprise

We noticed three small caterpillars

Affixed to the velvety

Underside of the leaf

And the next thing I know

She spoke to our neighborhood

Shaman who advised us to put

It in a large mason jar

Cover it with gauze

Affixed with a rubber band

And wait for a week or two

To behold the holy liquefaction

And paroxysm of green delight

From which a Monarch is born

You don't really know

Why the basil failed to thrive

This year while the milk weed

Has thus transformed

But at least we have all winter 

To try and figure it out

Summer on the Brink

Whether you’re one of 

Those ultra-fit  gentlemen 

Who are more like the hydrangea

Or day lily preferring to stay

In the background blooming

All summer long

Not the greatest blossom

Not the least

 

Or more like the hibiscus

You own two weeks

At the height of summer

In their entirety

Throwing all your glory

At the sun without

Rival in your peak

 

Or like the snow ball

Pointing longingly

Westward at sunset

So well intentioned

Summer brings us all

In various ways

Right to the brink

Photo by Carrie Welch

Magpie Bridge

There's a beautiful and mind-bending article in Sunday's New York Times about galactic walls.  Vast as the Milky Way is and hard as it is for us to comprehend space in such magnitude, it is really just a small bounded enclosure; and like a garden fence, it obscures us from the view of much vaster domains beyond.  If we could only peak over or around the Milky Way, we would glimpse all these other galaxies strung out like jewels on an endless necklace.  Here's a link to the article in case you haven't read it yet.

The article reminded me of the Chinese legend of the Cowherd and Weaver, which is basically the Chinese version of Pyramus and Thisbe set against the backdrop of the Milky Way.  When the Chinese looked skyward on a summer evening, they saw Vega and Altair positioned on either side of the great Milky Way as the celestial embodiment of these star-crossed lovers.  Magpie Bridge is how they described the band of darkness that spans the celestial river of light flowing between them.  Much as I admire the explanatory powers of modern astronomy, I find the ancient legend equally compelling in providing a way to comprehend the boundlessness of the summer sky at night.

As companion to the NY Times' article, here's my translation of Magpie Bridge, by the Song poet Qin Guan:

Magpie Bridge of the Immortals

A filigree of cloud drifts by chance

A star sends its regrets as it shoots across

The luminous flow of the Milky Way

In the vast skies of autumn

Cowherd and Weaver meet

For their brief rendezvous

Equal to ten thousand trysts

In the earthly domain below

Supple and yielding as water

The fleeting ecstasy of a dream

To stand and mutely gaze across

The span of Magpie Bridge

The route of eternal return

When two hearts unite forever

A day or night together is of no concern

鵲橋仙

纖雲弄巧

飛星傳恨

銀漢迢迢暗渡

金風玉露一相逢

便勝卻人間無數

柔情似水

佳期如夢

忍顧鵲橋歸路

兩情若是久長時

又豈在朝朝暮暮

  

A Dream of Death

Death comes to me in the guise

Of an old friend who long ago

Traveled beyond but now

Has returned seeking

A means of ingress

It's his apartment really

That we have barricaded

Ourselves inside

Plushly furnished yet

Fearfully we hide

By the service entrance

By what right I wonder

Having renounced

Our friendship besides

Such intimacy we can't abide

So it is we have drawn  

These false boundary lines 

Hoping to segregate

Those of us still clinging to life

From all those who have died

First Bird of Morning

As if back from the dead
The first bird of morning
Sings its song sweetly
One voice to carry us all
Though long before dawn
And yet night has been
Banished completely

Oh Yes ( in reply to Robert Creeley)

If you sit long enough
You will come to it
And when you get there
They will give you a place to sit
Except you'll be sitting already
And what you'll really want
Is to unbend your knees
And rise up in song
And then you may see no difference
Between arrival and moving along

A Precondition of Life

A crack in the roadway

Through which a dream

Seeps into broad daylight

Imagination is nothing

More or less than

A precondition of life

Photo by Marissa Bridge

Poem for Heraclitus

No you never do step

Into the same river twice

But then again you never

Step out of it either
As we remain unsure

Where the shoreline lies

What's real and what's dream

Stasis and change being  

But two ways to describe
How we find ourselves amidst 

The same ever swirling stream

While Charon stands ready with

His ferry awaiting the moment

We become submerged

Grass (by Bai Juyi)

Far far across the plain

Spreads the grass

One year and another

It withers and returns

Never extinguished

By the prairie fires

With spring winds

It leaps back to life

Bringing near a fragrance

From an age-old path

So the green sward overgrows

Crumbling city walls and

Once again my friend

We must part with

Feelings boundless as grass

Overtaking my heart


*************

What it Means to Die in Early Spring

for Phil

It's early spring 

That brings us

This 2020 vision

Before the leaves unfurl

And the birds alone

Stand proud on the branch

That's when you passed

The marsh grass

Lay wan along the shoreline

Where we had tramped 

Together before

Last year's blades

Now sere and flattened

Reduced to stubble

Yet full of secret purpose

To blanket the tender

New shoots of grass

The north wind 

A choir at my back

Strong in its resolve

Sang of your passing

  Its voice lifted me up

Buoyant like your spirit

And carried me on

That's what it means

To die in early spring

Your last breathe trembles

With renewal's touch

Your complexion ashen

Yet clearly kindled 

With a Lenten blush

The Blood of a Poet

A dream may be just as well wrought as a poem, I suppose, though it's directed to an audience of one.  Just like a good poem, a central metaphor lies at the heart of a well-constructed dream; although it eludes being fully grasped by our rational minds, meaning radiates out from that central metaphor to illuminate all, like the rays of a setting sun.

Let me give you an example of what I mean from one of my own recent dreams.  Since I write much less poetry nowadays, most of my creative energy has been diverted into my dream life, which of late, has achieved an exceedingly fine texture.  REM sleep brings me close to rapture.  I’m no Charles Simic, otherwise I’d be trying to render these dreams as poems.  But for me, dream and poem are autonomous realms, not overlapping.  I am much more of a Freudian inasmuch as it’s far easier for me to reenter the dream realm through prose. So here goes ...

A few nights ago, I dreamed about riding down the highway on a bus at night. Two slender volumes of poetry lay in my lap, my only source of diversion during the long dull ride.  The author was the friend of a friend, someone known to me only distantly, and I felt indifferent to reading her poems, preferring instead to rest my head against the window, my mind wandering as I watched the oncoming headlights stream by.

Then I roused myself from reverie.  I picked up one of the books, opened it to a random page and began reading. I was struck by the sudden intense sense that I held a living thing in my hands. I could feel a pulse beating through the book’s cover and down the spine.  And then I felt the warm blood of the poet, seeping from the book, beginning to puddle in my hands.  At first, the sensation was mild and pleasing but soon gave way to a rising sense of panic, as the blood flow rapidly increased, pouring through my hands and cascading onto the floor. The poet, I realized, was bleeding out.  Frantically I began to search through the book, hoping to find the source of the wound.  On the last page I found a deep vein cut from which her blood streamed forth but there was nothing, nothing I could do, no tourniquet near to hand, and the life simply drained out of her as she passed through my hands.     

I woke up filled with distress, wrote a short note to myself, and then rolled over to go back to sleep, hoping to start dreaming afresh.  If books could bleed, as I wrote in my notebook, we would likely read that much less, but still our true life force would be that much more capable of expression.  

Jean Cocteau, The Blood of a Poet