Monday, March 14, 2016

Jeremy Seligson writes



18.

C
O
L
D

R
O
C
K

T
E
M
P
L
E



Water
                        fog
                                                            stone
                                                                                    bridge
                                                                                                                        wooden
                                                                                                                   gate


Shoes
            on
                        worn~
                                    out
                                                steps

            A
                        gnarled
                                                pine

Sounds
                   of
                             fish
                                      chimes


Lotus
            has
                        gone

            ~ Iris
                        and
                                    Lily

Only
          Goldy
                        waits
                                    below


You
            ask
                        the
                                    gold
                                                fish,

            “Where
                   has
                             Froggie
                                      gone?’


 
Goldy
            shivers

                        under
            your
                        shoes

You
            ask,

                        “Where
                             has
                   Buddha
                             gone?”



Ice
            on
                        lotus
                                    pots

            ~ there
                        goes
                                    a
                                      cold
                                                            carp

            “What’s
this
            feeling …?”

                                    “Lonely”


          “You’re
                        drowning

                                                in
                                                a
                             lotus
                                      pot ...”


                                                         x
                                                 x   X  x
                  
                                                            old
                                                silver
                                                            beard

                                                                        golden
                                                            scales
                                                                        x x x
                                                x x
                                      X X
                                      x



                             Blue
                    lotus
                             cup ~

            from
                        bottom

            a
                        bubble

                                    spills
                                                over
                                                            side


          L o t u s
                   f r a y s

            u n d e r~
                         w a t e r
           
                                    “It’s
                                                how                                                    
                        a
                                    good
                                                monk
                                                            dies”

                                   


Silly
          nun

                        basket
                                    in
                                                hand
                        for
                                    scraps ~

No
            wonder
                                    cats


                                                black
                                    and
                        white

                                    calico
                        and     

                                     a
                        gray
                                    kitten

                                                follow
                                    down
                                                lane


                                    “Once
                        I
            only
                        fed
                                    my~
                                                self,”

                                    she
                                                chuckles

                        “Now,
          it’s
                    every
                             cat!”


          Young
                        monks

                                    grip
                                                straw
                                                            hats

                        Old
                             One

                        sits
                                    down


As
            you
                        bow,

            each
                        monk
                                    bows
                                               
            (O’
                        so
                                    cordially)                    
to
          the
                    Buddha
                             inside


            Through
                        rain~
                                    bow
                                                lattices,

                        you
                                    spy

                                                      G o l d
                                        B u d d h a’s
                                      m o u s t a c h e


Under
            a
                        jade
                                    roof

          Gold
          Buddha
          smiles

                        from
                                    his
                        lotus
                                    chair
           


                                    Alone,
                        a
            cave
                       
Buddha’s
            3rd
                   Eye
                                                                                                                                                           


                                                     Slow
                                                around
                        Buddha’s
            Hall

old
          hunch~
                   back

                                    snuffs
                                      out

                             each
                   candle’s
          light


                                      Our   
                             fat
                                      baby
                                                            snores                                               
                                                                       
                                                in
                                    “the
                                                Hall
                                                            of
                                                                        10,000
                                                                                    Buddhas”



                                    Old
                                      monk
                                                            pats
                                      your
                                                hand

                                                hugs
                                    your
                                                baby
                                                            daughter

                                    accepts
                        your
                                    wife’s
                                                gift
                                    of
                                                plum
                                                            vinegar

                                                ~ following
                                                          day,
                                                dies


                             Choco
                                                leaf,

                                                            bug~
                                                eaten
                                                            beauty

                                    “Thank
                   you,
                             sire,

            for
                        falling
                                     in
                        my
                                    hand”


                   Leaf
            b u s t s

                        to
                                    b i t s

            of
                   b u g s

                                    ~ your
                                                life
                                                            was


                        With
            a
                        zillion
                                    leaves

                                                ~ the
                             hole

                                                sinking
                                                            into


                                    Grab
                                                stick ~

                        pole
                             on
                                      through

            the
                        Sea
                                    of
                                                Leaves


Climb
            up
                        to
                             the
                                      moon

            ~ sit
                        in
                                    Buddha’s
                                                Paradise


            Up
                        high

                                    Mother
                                                calls
                                                            us,
                                                                   “Tea …!”


          By
                        the
                                    temple
                                                bell,
                        a
                                    boy
                                                kneels
offers
            you
                        leaves
                                   
            counts
                        the
                             drum~
                                      beats

                             of
                                      your
                                                heart


                        Forty~
                             nine
                                       days ~

                                    a
                                                snowy 
                                                            white
                                                          beard ~

                        wife,
                                    children,

                                                grand~
                                                            kids,
                                                                        too


                                    Old
                                      monks
                                                            chant

                                                                                    kazoos
                                                                                                blare
            cymbals
                        clang

                                                drums
                                                            bang

                        Young
                             nuns
                                   
                                                crane
                                                            dance

                                                                        by
                                                                                    the
                                                                                                stream


         
                                                            100                                                                                                                                 years
                                                                                                                                                                                   
                                                ~ the
                                                            mourning
                                                                                    of
                                                                       
           
                                                            a
                                                                        single
                                                                                    day
           


Daughter
shouts, oh so
gladly ~ “Daddy’s
done!!!”


                                               



1 comment:

  1. Although I never quite understand that reason behind the form, I'm quite mesmerized by it and forced to read the whole. Are the spaces, layout - are they breaths, the seconds between thoughts? Is the whole a Joyce -in stream of observation-cum-thought expression?
    I'm fascinated by the difference in poetic temperaments that make people write the way they write.

    ReplyDelete

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