Category: "Announcements [B]"
The Holiness of Plants
On the island of Shikoku, near a small Shinto shrine
towers an immense pine tree. Worshipers circle its trunk
with a ring of thick rope; this is sacred ground.
In Thailand Buddhist monks conduct
tree ordinations, wrapping orange
robes around the boles. Ritually blessed water
is passed around, and foresters spare
these aboreal clergy from the axe.
In tenth century Japan, priests and monks
debate the question
“Can trees and plants be enlightened?”
Yes, says Ryogen, Abbot of Mount Hiei, who
sees the shrubs and flowers in his garden
asd yogis in meditation, sitting
silent, still, on their way to nirvana.
This morning I, too, sit in my garden,
hands folded, head bowed.
Around me nasturtiums
glow orange under leaf umbrellas.
Rose azaleas flicker scarlet
against purple aster, deep blue monkshood.
The early sun, without distinction,
burnishes us all.
Drenched in light, we glimmer and glisten
enlightened, enveloped, so tenderly
held in the mystery.
Reflections
In July the river ripples alternate
violet and green, violet and green
tree branches catch the shimmer
the whole world vibrates.
On the bank, the tall grass explodes
with the last bright sun of day,
we bathe in pure light
stroking through gold grass.
In October still water turns bare trees
upside down, reclothes them in floating leaves
our canoe slips through the water trees,
glides among branches, paddles into clouds.
In April every bush and tree is lit with pale green fire,
finches and warblers blaze and flicker.
Hushed, attuned, we become what we behold
here between earth and sky.
Zen Garden at Kokedera
In the year 1339, in the city of Kyoto
Muso Soseki built a waterfall
without a drop of water,
a dry cataract of boulders
tumbling immobile down the hill
these six centuries and more.
Approach with care
here the silence roars.
Everywhere else, moss, moist and fresh
a hundred kinds, mauve, brown,
orange, grey, shade upon shade of green
envelops the rocks, spreading gently, calmly,
to the pond below, Pure Land garden of paradise.
All around it, a path, following curves,
leads through the trees to the water
and up again, yes, up again
for the dry cascade
immutable, enigmatic,
stripped to the bare bones
is calling, shouting
wake up! wake up!
The Springs
Pressed hard against jagged craters and
sweeping lava flows of dead volcanoes
frozen to stone eons ago,
the bones of the Roman city lie exposed.
Low stone walls, delicate, orderly
delineate streets and squares, homes and shops.
Here and there fluted columns stand
as they did two thousand years ago
when this was Glanum, outpost of empire
in the wild western region of Gaul.
I stand on a ridge of cliffside, peering down
looking for something,
not stones, not fragments of carvings,
not broken figures from friezes of war.
I am looking for water.
For in this hot dry city, I have read,
there is a spring, an ancient spring
known to the indigenous people of this place.
I see them, the Ligurians, the old ones
before the Romans, before the Gauls,
before the Western Goths who sacked this city sixteen centuries ago.
They gather round their campfires in the gloom
telling of the hunt, sharpening arrows,
refining bits of wisdom in the night,
and pulling clear pure water from their spring.
Back down in the city
I search through the streets and alleys,
and come upon the spa of Valetudo
goddess of health-giving waters. There she is
carved in her niche, headless,
still presiding over her bath --
down well worn steps, a pool of
brackish water, festooned with algae,
holding the dregs of empire all these years.
Then I see them --
more steps, leading up, away
from Valetudo’s spa, straight up the mountain.
High on a pinnacle, high over the city,
there is the cleft in the rock, the orifice I seek.
I clamber closer and peer down. All is dark and dry
no sound of water.
I listen, pitch my ear for echoes
beyond the dry grass, the volcanic rocks.
When did the sacred spring last gurgle through this well?
My whole being bent to attention, I wait
but everywhere, silence.
No faint murmur, whisper of flow,
no scent of wetness coming through.
All I hear is dry grass rustling
cicadas shrilling in the heat,
and I am comfortless as I depart.
Months later, I am swimming
in the river by my home
in the river I call home.
The mist is golden in the early sun
the undulant surface green, green and amethyst.
By the bank a white water lily,
gently rocked by ripples, opens its heart.
I drift in the tranquil current dreaming
And there they are, the ancient ones, gathered
here into me, smiling, complete.
As I calmly stroke, water washes through my mouth, soft and clean.
Canticle of the Whales
The humpback whales are gathering
from northern oceans off Kodiak, off Kamchatka.
Three thousand miles -- such a journey,
to play, to mate, to bear their young.
Fluid forms turn slowly in the dappled light,
sound the depths, breech and blow
in the pale blue waters off Maui.
Hundreds here are playing the waves.
Great bodies dive low and long
then rocket thirty tons, full in the sky,
crash the water in a lather of foam.
And they sing, they sing
long elaborate melodies, low booms and rumbles,
queer high squeaks, unearthly moans.
Over and over, their songs swell through the waters.
Haunted and enchanted, we come, we listen.
For their songs, so like -- so unlike our own,
voiced here by these prodigious cousins,
branched off the family tree aeons ago,
show us our realm, show us ourselves,
larger, stranger,
more magnificent than we knew.
© Nathalie Sorensen