I probably saw this book wonderfully reviewed in the latest Shambhala Sun, and took the bait. Don't take much does it? This true story is told by a poet named George Crane. I'm jealous of George's chance to adventure with the old monk Tsung Tsai, study Zen and write poetry.
While living
be a dead man,
be thoroughly dead –
and behave as you like,
and all’s well.
George and I share some strikingly similar struggles with the enlightenment gig, and a love for a master like Tsung Tsai, we surely do. Here’s one of George’s poems from the book:
Light the pipe.
Uncork the wine.
Imagine a beauty.
Call her forth
to dance upon my bed.
My own follows. Nice story, I’m a sucker for a poet!
Travel with a monk, a monk’s journey
Long time, far away. Return certainly unknown and uncertain Georgie.
My daughter and her mother stay to wait
and keep the house and us together, and be sensible.
One of them knows plenty about me.
It’s not just any monk.
Where is my friend?
Is there one?
Who would it be?
I don’t even know any poets around here.
We’re all so busy with all this nothing that matters
all day and all night.
All of us.
Good days and not so.
Long, hot, stinking, still, airless, airful, and shitty too.
Tender veggies cooked by love
in love’s kitchen
with a side of love
in the sight of love
or an orange will do,
or nothing but you
and me again tonite.
I hold you up
you lift me up
and up we go, and up we went, so high.
To go as friends,
to return as…
words are gonna run from this one
they can’t be expected to help out here
We returned as…
we returned without words
for neither mouths, the alphabet or this pen
can get this right
oh my friend, next time, we jump from helicopter for sure
Why not? My friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment