I saw a tree with a million mirrors
standing at the edge of a precipice
roots firm amongst the rocks
branches up in supplication
leaves scattering in teardrops.
Kenza.
—
Inspiration: one week of near total silence.
Tag: Poetry
Herbe folle / Wild grass
Elle s’incline
l’herbe folle — en prière.
—
She leans
wild grass — in prayer.
The poet
The poet sees the light
that seeps through
the breaches of the heart.
With only letters at his disposal,
he strings them together
to express what is silent.
He then sets them free
becoming the morning breeze
that embraces the broken.
Kenza.
—
Inspiration: reading Hafez in the early morning.
Ryōkan’s hut
Often, I think I am in Ryōkan’s hut.
The sky is framed by the window,
birds come on the window sill chirping away
enthralled by the morning glory overflowing its small pot.
Cars pass intermittently in a muffled sound.
Rain falls gently on the roof
and I pretend it is thatched.
I sit like he did.
I push aside the woes of the world,
my mind at peace.
You may understand, you may not,
and that is fine.
As Ryōkan wrote,
“Who can indeed content himself with this manner of life,
Unless he has seen himself altogether lost in the world.”
Kenza.
—
– Quote from one of Ryōkan’s (Japan, 1758-1831) Chinese poems.
Art: self-portrait by Ryōkan.
The moon last night
The moon last night
a red bowl
traveling in the western sky,
filled with offerings
and empty all the while
ready to receive
— like my heart.
Kenza.
—
Inspiration: the moon last night.
Open window
Open window.
The afternoon wind lifts
the corner of the paper.
The brush dances.
The ink sings my solitude.
For a brief moment,
I escape the rigidity of appearances.
Kenza.
—
Inspiration: Shodō (Japanese calligraphy)
The words of the poet
The words of the poet save our hearts from mediocrity and putrefaction.
With a dash of ink and plenty of elegance, he knows that each word is as ephemeral as what it says; and herein lies his gift.
Kenza.
—
Inspiration: reading the poetry of Ryōkan in the early morning.
