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[Poetry Chaikhana] Ikkyu (Ikkyu Sojun) - Every day, priests minutely examine the Law

Here's your Daily Poem from the Poetry Chaikhana --

 

Every day, priests minutely examine the Law

By Ikkyu (Ikkyu Sojun)
(1394 - 1481)

English version by Sonya Arutzen

 

Every day, priests minutely examine the Law
And endlessly chant complicated sutras.
Before doing that, though, they should learn
How to read the love letters sent by the wind
and rain, the snow and moon.

 

-- from Ikkyu and the Crazy Cloud Anthology: A Zen Poet of Medieval Japan, by Ikkyu / Translated by Sonya Arutzen

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/ Photo by pellaea /

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Thought for the Day:

Unedited memory.
Undistracted mind.
Unbound identity.
Unlimited awareness.

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On Ensemble

Dust and Sand

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Hi Omss -

So short and sweet, we almost don't notice its deep cut into our pretenses.

If we want to be learned, then we can read the scriptures, memorize them, chant them. But if we want true knowledge, then we must do something much harder -- step outside and fall silent. When we can do that, and recognize the hidden touch behind it all, only then have we really understood what we've been studying all that time.

--

Ikkyu Sojun's poetry is irreverent and iconoclastic, bitingly critical of false piety, hypocrisy, and formalistic religion. His poetry is often frankly erotic, sometimes humorously so. Yet his poetry manages to reach an immediacy and insight that is the essence of Zen practice.

Ikkyu Sojun was appointed to be the head priest of the great temple at Kyoto, but he renounced the position after just nine days, denouncing the hypocrisy he saw among the monks around him. In a famous line from one of his poems, he told his fellow monks they could find him in the local brothel instead.

Though clearly not of an ascetic temperament, Ikkyu was a poet, calligrapher, and musician who viewed the world with a deep insight that permitted no pretense, favoring direct truth over religious and social facades.

He founded what became known as the Red Thread (or erotic) school of Zen.

--

Have a beautiful day!


Ivan

 

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DarkPoetry Poem of the Day: .box girl.

let's, if you take it
shove the problem in
a problem box

we're artistic
you and eye
it's why you're boxes
all look like they've
been drowning in paper
machete and glitter
green and black and bitter
brushing bruises on like
tomorrow you can take
them off.

crawling on pipe cleaners
walking high on dice
skinny legged little girl
break dancing to the form
of the word, like pistol
shooting step for step
revolver clicking ballerina
in her pretty little
box

turning toward her better half
the photogenic side
in circles ever going
on the lies that if she
turns the other cheek
she'll get better

except two-faced face-offs
are only profile apparent
and you never speak
to yourself head on
so instead you dance
without thinking
head locked in a box
hands working hard to
open the right ones
for closing
never knowing
every box props open
plain and unfashioned
unfastened and waiting
jaws open for swallowing
[the memory pills
that go boom in your liver
instead of your heart]
neglected while you
paint the illusion of
pain inside
from with-out
to steer away
from it with-in

never knowing
all her eggs are
hatching in one box
always working
never thinking
only dancing
always working
with your hands
never knowing
you've been stitching
closed the wrong lids
with your own eye lashes
shoving pills down
your own throat

wondering why your walls
are blowing up like alice
on shrooms
and then tumbling down
as badly painted cards
when you begin revolving
around yourself, dancing
as if you know the other side
will be sunrise

wondering with your blind
eyes and never mind
from inside your mind's
colored sweet box
in a room of boxes
all on tables with chairs
pulled like files

why the lights don't work
when you're pin-balling
the routine chair to musical
chair
turn table touch and
landing somehow
in the same shoes
the same chair
at the same table
with the same box
to the same night
all latched to you

you're expressive
and you create
as if you're working
with yourself and feeling
better

but you're talking to
yourself-creations
working on yourself
only feeling better
when the other senses
died all wrapped up
in paint and pretty

i see you now
mugshot double taken
stripped sideways and jerking
caught on your own strings
still trying to turn away
a ballerina in a box
...she killed the dance
and saved the lies

a tangled mess
closed always
in her
self

http://www.darkpoetry.com/node/work/101240
---


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Your Poem for August 11, 2010

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