Spring Candelabra (a love poem to my favorite tree)

On our morning walk

Marissa and I came across

This magnolia tree fully possessed by

The first light from the East

A spring candelabra

Of outlandish beauty

With its shadow dancing 

On the lawn in front of us

Bobbing in a light breeze

And I stood befuddled

Transfixed really having

Stumbled upon it at the

Very moment of its blossoming 

Like a fireworks display

In staggered bursts 

Of green-yellow flame

Opening before my eyes

A shot for the Year Book 

It was truly an epiphany

At least in the droll personal history

Of me and my favorite tree  

   

 

A Light Rain in Early Spring (by Han Yu)

 

From Heaven's byways

A light rain falls

Fine as silk

The grass looks

Bedraggled

On the verge

But not yet here

Peerless is springtime

Surrounded by blessings

The willow triumphs

Shrouded in mist

An Emperor enthroned

In the Forbidden City

A Single Spring (by Han Shan)

Today I translated this poem by Han Shan, the hermit-poet of Cold Mountain.  It's the last line of this poem that takes my breath away.  How many years lie within a single spring?  This for me captures the essence of early spring - a time filled by infinite possibility -- when all of life is crammed into a handful of days as the worms first begin turning the soil.

My home is spare

And well hidden

Dwelling far from

The earth's clamor

I tread on the grass

To make three paths

And gaze upon the clouds

Who are my nearest neighbors

The birds join me in song

There's no else to discuss

Any matters of Dharma

Each day bears the fruit

Of Karma's great tree

How many years I wonder 

Lie within a single spring 

    

The Dream Machine

It comes without instructions

Nor are any needed really

The design is intuitive

You just plug it in 

And close your eyes

Tightly or ever so slightly

It matters not a bit

The pillow rises and falls

As if breathing on its own

Part of a larger apparatus 

Which delivers dreams

Directly to your head

All of which are recorded

On a flash memory card

Retrievable periodically

Subject to overwriting and error

In accordance with an algorithm

First inscribed in the Book of the Dead

 

 

Spring Scene (by Du Fu)

This Du Fu poem (written in the mid 8th century) captures the mood of the moment for me -- the return of spring in a world that has not yet emerged from a period of disruption and ruin.  Why write poetry at a time of seeming social collapse?  Is it a sympathetic fallacy to suppose that a millennium or so hence someone may understand that much better how they are feeling?  

Spring Scene

The country lies broken though

Mountains and rivers remain

As spring returns to the city

Grasses and trees regain

The depth of green

But in the mood 

Of these days

Dew sprinkles the flowers

Like tears on the cheek

And the heart knows only regret

Watching the sparrow take flight

For three months 

The beacon fires have flared

Making a letter from home

More precious than gold

And my white hair grown

Thin from constant scratching

Won't even hold a pin

 

Ode to My Tinnitus

Oh tinnitus

Boon companion

Through all these years

Harbinger of headache

Sentinel of joy

How you dissipate

When I meditate

How you follow me

Walking along the shore

One of life's constants

Yet only a figment of

My perceptual apparatus

No less barometer of my soul

Coeval and coequally formed

An auditory shadow

That can never be ignored

Persistent and cloying

No one celebrates your arrival

Or will mourn when you're gone

Much as self-awareness itself

The atman and anatman

Together entwined 

Being an effect undeniable  

Still without discernible cause  

So pleased at last to encounter

Your mercurial nature

In slightly more fixed form

Marcelo Zissu's Brain

Singing Alone in the Mountains (by Bai Juyi)

Everyone has their habits

Mine is composing verse

Everything else has faded away

But this weakness alone 

Has stayed with me

Whenever I come across

A beautiful scene

I want to do right

As I would with friend or kin

To sing aloud or make note

About this encounter

With divine mystery

Whether I'm floating down river

Or resting half way up the mountain

When a new poem

Presents itself

Or alone on the path

Hiking up the eastern cliff

Resting my body

Against the white rock

That overlooks the precipice

And clinging to the branches

Of a laurel tree

My wild song

Shatters the peace

Of the ravine below

The birds and apes

All cry in response

Whether they're

Scared or laughing

I can't be sure

And the suddenly

The world seems

Uninhabited

As if I'm the last man

On the face of the earth