The Moon Pool

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The Moon Pool Page 8

by Alexander Goldstein

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

  All the seven seas. And all this

  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

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