In Kimora, Hiroshima prefecture
seek shodo brushes
tanuki, sheep, goat, the tail of a horse
there you will feather brushes to flush ink
turkey, ptarmigan. the sparrow's tail
the paint out
write what's within
man whose hands
m u s i c (bokaro, wagakki)
a koto's sound is bigger
end blown shakuhachi
E N O S H I M A I S L A N D
there is here a training centre for esoteric Buddhism
(who perhaps remains suspended between life and death)
waiting for Maitreya
led by Master Ekan
who "accomplished previously untrodden
the Goma in which 1 million wooden sticks were burned"
by Master Gosen
his leading disciple
known as the "completer of
the incantation method of Kokomo Jumonji-ho"
1 million times over 100 days.
Ekan and Gosen conduct the Goma-ritual
"the desperate act"
or so called
by ordinary monks.
During the Goma-ritual,
one challenges the body and soul
in front of a flame over 3 meters high.
The Masters always hope that all peoples of the world
rest in peace
have wishes granted.
If it's a night sleep cannot find you,
lay awake in a room
of stones and water.
At four, a door opens upstairs.
Footsteps clod across that floor, which will lift you up to dawn.
Note the wet garden, near.
Follow the first bird,
I worked through midday exhaustion and came out into evening with them - words.
One following another.
Kurosawa cautioned work, work, word. Not to be afraid of something....what? Does it matter?
work, work, write.
they are at the window, our friends
with a message
behind a curtain I am changing
I ask you to answer
but you are playing music
I can hear it through your headphones
I ask again and again for you to help me
to listen to their message
you glare at me
those blue eyes
I, frantically pulling on clothes,
motion to the window
I can't hear you
I can't hear you
I try to turn off the machine and topple the player
A flower falls, even though we love it; and a weed grows, even though we do not love it.
In the darkness before an April dawn, a male robin sings first one note, then another - descant, diminuendo, ascent. The sound so clearly signals light. It is a sound of light.
Thrush is the birdsong familiar. It is also the common infection of throat and mouth, white over rosy-fingered, a yeasty crust. Cries! The subject sound is introduced by one to the other, a linked awareness of lift and pain. Joy and suffering met will be met, made as we are, endlessly.
What else endlessly to end and begin? How many languages, species, stars?
Death suffers life and life suffers death. What seems particular is hardly so. Mother Seen running after headless dinner in the garden. Grandfather Swore in bed, bumped his head, and didn’t get up in the morning. Grandmother Asphyxia left a twin snail trail of bloodied knees. The comatose dims into the vegetative, even the strongest bodies are twigged and broken.
I once found a motorcyclist’s foot, severed at ankle like an oxtail, still in its boot.
We all fall down the chimney. Children know it so well.
Duck, duck, goose. Ring around the rosy.
We fuel the liminal fire, inexhaustible.
You, left in light filled rooms, are next, will always be next.
Mysteries ineffable. Why do friends we love leave, or we them?
Suffering. Stay with it, listen. Kindness is strength, and faultless.
Can we grow a life and readily dig into it?
Or baptised return to water, residual powder?
Under the earth is more earth, every sea a boneyard.
gáudii discámus et miseria learn to love joy more than misery lære at elske fryd mere end elendighed aprender a amar la alegría más de la miseria apprendre à aimer la joie plus que la misère a fhoghlaim chun grá áthas níos mó ná brón daha Fazla sevinç Öğrenmek değil sefalet
ない悲惨より多くの喜びを学びます Nai hisan Yori ōku no yorokobi o manabimasu 고통보다 기쁨이 더 사랑을 gotongboda gippeum-i deo salang-eul The more love, joy than pain Kaṣṭālanu kādu Prēma svīkarin̄ci కష్టాలను కాదు ప్రేమ స్వీకరించి To the people of Lahore - this is a call of defiance.