naked haiku

I don’t have anything to say today, so I give you a journal entry of Zen master Soen Nakagawa Roshi, from his book of poetry and prose, Endless Vow:

Summer 1938
(Another trip to Manchuria)

Deep at night I had a dip in a hot spring, surrounded by the vast plains. I looked up at the constellations; the stars were dancing in the field of the sky. I was totally absorbed in “this Matter” and vowed to settle in a hut on Mount Dai Bosatsu.

Distant thunder
various races naked
in the stone tub

one robe, one bowl

Here is a short poem by the hermit-monk Ryokan, a Soto Zen master who lived in Japan from about 1758-1831:

After spending the day begging in town,
I now sit peacefully under a cliff in the evening cool,
Alone, with one robe and one bowl-
The life of a Zen monk is truly the best!

I love that little exclamation point at the end. You can hear the joy in his words.

coffee and snow

Coffee and snow.
Men driving cars, men waiting in cars.
Styrofoam coffee cups and wet winter gloves.
Unshaved faces, watery eyes.
An old sportscaster on the radio
Reminds you of your father. What was that
Pitcher’s name from Cherryfield?
Men waiting in parking lots for wives to
Come out of shops. Snow and
Ice scrapers. Pickups with plows. All these
Lonely men, retired, laid off, getting out of the house,
Away from the old lady, rumbling around town
Playing Bob the Builder. Running errands,
Hardware store parts. The teenagers in black
Shuffling their way to the skatepark.
And you, waiting for opening day, parked
On a sidestreet in the snow, drinking
Cold coffee, yawning.
Through the trees, the New England wild landscapes.
Indians lived here once, surviving in winter caves and
Force-marching their prisoners through narrow
Mountain passes, swimming naked in lakes, wet deerhide.
No roads, no buildings. What did they do then?
With no snowplows to clear their driveways, no jobs, no coffee.

brilliant orange

Driving through the streets
of Amsterdam drinking coffee
listening to New Order
that old, metallic disco
slaloming around those pretty
orange traffic cones
those visitors from another galaxy
who make us feel chrome-plated
and safe. Blowing off the coffee steam
one hand on the wheel of my rented car
I taste the cream and sweet sugar, thinking
Anything can be beautiful.