3.17.08

Bir, Himachal Pradesh, India

Sitting in the green grass and dead brown leaves behind the infamous Bir Snooker Hall, where most of the less than totally wholesome, though still generally kind-hearted, members of Bir’s Tibetan rogue’s gallery spend a large portion of their time.

Despite its somewhat shady locale, this place is a wonderful one to sit, write, and contemplate. Gently sloping downwards and stretching out to what looks like infinitely cascading dark green hilly mountains, and peppered with delightful medium-sized light green trees — many of them fruit — it provides an arena where one can rest the mind in a sphere of naturalness.

Little Indian and Tibetan boys, the oldest not much more than four or five, run by playfully, shouting “hello!” and “goodbye!”. Two girls perhaps a little bit older follow suit, with “hello!” and “namaste!“. The sun sets in the east behind thousands of prayer flags spreading the blessings of the lung-ta, the Wind Horse, amongst other auspicious symbols. The sun, with its peachy rays magnetizing the world of appearances and possibilities; the flags blowing indestructible kisses to the limitless directions. Somewhere, clouds of fragrant incense must be wafting.

I had to move just before choosing this particular sitting-place on account of wandering, peaceful cows, with not-so-peaceful-looking broad pointy horns of intimidating breadth.

Another peaceful protest is happening at this very moment: truckloads of Tibetans racing their way to Baijnath packed like Himalayan sardines to proclaim the truth with the rosy cheeks, so much more rosy when they lived at 12,000 feet+ elevation. The truth that Beijing does not deserve to hold the Olympics; the truth that Tibetans have every right to protest the Chinese occupation, and that none of them deserve to be jailed or killed for doing so; and pre-eminently that Tibet must be free and always should have been.

Some energy is rising with all these events. It can be felt in this world-system’s veins. A prelude to change, a pressure that’s been worked up in the subtle channels that connect the Tibetans and Chinese — and if you reach down and touch the earth goddess, as Lord Buddha did to call witness to his complete awakening to the actualization of his mind’s utter freedom, you can feel it too: pumping, pressurizing.

And like Prince Siddhartha’s rising energy in the 49 days before his awakening, it is an energy building towards freedom, but in a different respect. To the 6 million Tibetans, and all who support their good cause, it is a freedom that is almost, and to some just as, important.

The solidarity that the Tibetans have in exile is inspiring and significant, and could serve as a noble and impressive example to all those working for justice, human rights, and equality, on all the world’s fronts.

Nearly everyone takes part.

Published in: on March 24, 2008 at 2:47 pm Comments (0)

Japan Poems 1

Composed in Iga-Ueno Shi and Kyoto, 2005.

it’s not as if
the scattered brick-chips
mind if they
trepass on the
stepping-stones

***

the moth
flies into the side of the bread bag and
turns back around, trying another way.

he hides
behind a box of Japanese hot cocoa mix
and veers once more toward the light.

the totality of moonlight
why must it be
beaming from her face?

***

a squeal of unclassified birds
alerts the rain frogs
rain is over

through one window
two
i look through three windows.

without eye glasses
the mountains could be
demons.

***

the place where i was born
has orchids
blooming with various impressions

the place where i was born
has an outstretched hand
tenderly pinching
bursting with exasperated sweat
crackling from voyages
to long destroyed forest
buildings
rough with the rubbing
of things that look like bones
veiny with death
realization
fresh with
hair of the past present
future.

the place where i was born
was demolished
by government land officials
in search of a better modality
of trans hyper national apple
transplantation

the place where i was born
was wild, swampy, stood still
amongst reptiles, boulders, 10,000 years
of land disagreements, family disputes
and moonlight interpersonal communications

the place where i was born is a prism
reflecting all the other
places i was born

the place where i was born
is truly not
the place where i was born

the place where i was born
was drenched with blood
was soaked with blood
was downright bloody
and the rivers, they say,
were like veins

the place where i was born defies all categories
the place where i was born might have
been called a hospital
the place where i was born was excellent,
reknowned, and intimidating

fierce and grassy, mildly entertaining:
worth visiting once every few years:
subtle and mysterious, humid with
childhood anxiety;
somehow present –

a brick house on a small town road.

***

raindrops keep falling on the roof
and there is a man who can’t go to sleep.

“what makes a person good or not
is how
he can
deal
with adversity.”

thousands of insects died in his room
some trampled by his feet
others just puttered out
from exhaustion. Some of them
had a lust for light
(too strong).

“thousands of mothers
are crying for their sons. Everyone

wants to get real close to the sun, steal some of its light,
bring it home
hide it under
some dry blankets, say it is
theirs.”

dewdrops keep sticking to
his bones, the rain
was going for seven hours or more, the

train was absent until
daybreak, but now it is
always sending out signals of
danger, a perverse alarm
in the rice paddies, letting the

rain frogs

know that it is
time to hide.

***

Oh travelers! oh wanderers
when you stop upon that road
remember where you came from:
no thunder in the valley.

Babies of this amusement park planet
please don’t forget the ticket
has a price:
the rain seeps through bricks.

When you look up, and if,
what do you pay attention to
and is it hard
or soft? a picnic with clouds:
no cows in the streets.

having seen the sky
you won’t have to see it again:
he walks away
stumbling
towards heaven.

Published in: on March 23, 2008 at 1:31 pm Comments (0)

more haiku composed in japanese

some more haiku poems I wrote when in Japan in 2005. In Japanese with English translations.

goko o kaite
sensei to itta
“itsutsu no ka?”

write five poems
the teacher said
“five?”

***

kokoro ni wa
taiyou nitte’ru
sonna koto

in my heartmind
it looks like the sun
– that kind of thing

***

onnanoko
niyaniya warau
nande kana

girl
with the broad grin, laughing
i wonder why

***

rafu tatami
shizuka kabe wa ne
shiroi heya

rough tatami mat!
as for the quiet wall
– white room

***

mado o mite
aozora ja nai
tsuyu, ame wa…

look through the window!
that’s not the blue sky:
rainy season, and the rain…?

(this poem was also translated into Spanish by Baxter, who produced two versions:

Mira afuera!
no es el cielo azul;
¿est Elluviendo?

Look outside!
It’s not the blue sky;
is it raining?

Mira por la ventana
Eso no es el cielo azul
estación de lluvias, y la lluvia

Look through the window
that is not the blue sky
rainy season, and the rain)

writing as re-programming

Writing is a most powerful form of programming, of spell casting. By giving inky flesh to ideas, those ideas become more real, more palpable. Their potential to manifest becomes stronger. Their potency is thickened.

If one wants to re-program oneself; if one wants to express one’s innermost thoughts, feelings, and inspiration; if one wants to imprint onself and others with certain concepts, beliefs, and reformulations of one’s experience of reality; if one want to become clear about what one’s aspirations are, and give force, self-honesty, and power to those aspirations; then writing is one of the most powerful ways to go about doing that.  

Published in: on March 1, 2008 at 11:18 am Comments (0)