Even Pretty Buddhas' - Han Shan of Old Speaks In a Dream
How strange is life in old age.
Overwrought by too much thinking
all is not yet lost but merely tossed,
scrambled in this ramble where etymology
is everything. And good boots.
I'm to poetry then and books a-sundry,
the old scrolls and tints an attempt to
keep a horizon, above it, not under but
the dip is soon enough. The worms can
correct my spelling and punctuation
when I go beneath the willow tips slowly
teasing the grasses into laughter.
White hair nearer now to Yellow Spring,
my humor with others is still intact.
Even alone I manage to laugh out loud,
a victory over enemies and frivolous,
ill-tempered gods, all my youth wasted
given over to their sly manipulations.
Useless now to demand these years
back but suffice it now to presently
live more boldly, blood hot, with fear
of no god yet with respect for all men
for both good and bad suffer alike.
And I am one to fight with gods, not men
like me longing to roam without explanation,
excuse, without rebuke. After so much divine
frivolity I am an emptied out fool, but a wise
one, I think. I cry out in the night dream
remaindered to Silence. I laugh through tears
avenging daylight from hostile heaven's
envious thieves.
Still, a habit now, I shall sit at the
Buddhas' feet. Their faces are convincing
enough. I shall ignore much evidence to
the contrary. Undergarments, even of
Buddhas, reveal truth which does not flinch
but perhaps may pinch its nose in disgust
even of holy stench.
Even so, in spite of meditations long, I am
flung further into life's fray though I sway
with chants up to the 8 Celestial Flights,
my steps light. Long in exile dizzy with
the Path, human beauty, brokenness there
beside, in all fields shy flowers want
[...] Read more
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
