Hermits tend to go to bed when the sun goes down, but not on moonlit nights.
from The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse
translated by Red Pine
That’s not a line from one of the poems. Rather it’s from a commentary by Red Pine. I think it’s an evocative poem all by itself.
Books are carefully folded forests.
Read a few of his poems yesterday. So good.
In Los Angeles, browsing Chinatown one summer, I discovered — in a dim sandalwood-scented shop full of painted vases and antique scrolls — a book by D. T. Suzuki: Zen and Japanese Culture. It was a substantial hardback, printed on milky paper with a hefty scattering of illustrations: insects on withered leafs, brush-painted tigers, peach blossoms in snow, monkeys peering from bamboo, cloud-hidden huts of meditation masters. In the shop, a few joss sticks burned in a ray of light. A cat napped under a red and gold altar with antique photos over it. Tangerines glowed in their porcelain bowl on a carved mahogany table. The world seemed suddenly very old — and very new. In awe of the book’s content and illustrations, I purchased it (probably the most I’d ever spent on the printed word) and eagerly devoured every page.
Trigger of Light | Kyoto Journal
Article by John Brandi in Kyoto Journal.
Among the grasses
an unknown flower
—Masaoka Shiki (1869—1902)
are we lost
when we gaze at the moon
or lovers eyes
or are we lost
when we hustle to fill a quota
or run after the bus
Found on this post from 2010.
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine sent me a Derek Walcott poem (shared below). Since she sent it, I’ve been reading it almost daily.
It’s a gorgeous piece of writing, a reminder to embrace the alone-ness, when the time comes.
Walcott – un. deux.. trois…
Follow the link to the poem, entitled Love After Love.
From Rainer Maria Rilke’s July 1903 Letter to a Young Poet.
Perhaps then, some day far into the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
I love, love, love that: Live your way into the answer.
Here is the original German version:
Vielleicht leben sie dann allmählich, ohne es zu merken, eines fernen Tages in die Antwort hinein.