Clear After Rain

Autumn, cloud blades on the horizon.
The west wind blows from ten thousand miles.
Dawn, in the clear morning air,
Farmers busy after long rain.
The desert trees shed their few green leaves.
The mountain pears are tiny but ripe.
A Tartar flute plays by the city Gate.
A single wild goose climbs into the void.

Tu Fu (713-779), translated by Kenneth Rexroth

 

Late October Camping in the Sawtooths

Sunlight climbs the snowpeak
glowing pale red
Cold sinks into the gorge
shadows merge.
Building a fire of pine twigs
at the foot of a cliff,
Drinking hot tea from a tin cup
in the chill air –
Pull on a sweater and roll a smoke.
A leaf
beyond fire
Sparkles with nightfall frost.

Gary Synder (1930 -)

 

Dusk in My Backyard

The long black night
moves over my walls:
inside a candle is lighted
by one of my daughters.

Even from here I can see
the illuminated eyes, bright
face of the child before flame.

It’s nearly time to go in.
The wind is cooler now,
pecans drop, rattle down –

the tin roof of our house
rivers to platinum in the early moon.
Dogs bark & in the house, wine, laughter.

Keith Wilson (1927 -)

 

Enlightened teachers exhort us to be “present in the moment,” to let go of the past as well as the future and be here now. But being present isn’t something that only happens to enlightened people, and those moments aren’t necessarily accompanied by lightning and thunder. Ordinary people living ordinary lives can be as present as any Zen master or guru. In these three poems we hear three poets, Tu Fu from 8^th century China and Snyder and Wilson from 20^th America all offering us one of the moments they were present.

We have all had them – those seemingly miraculous instants when time stands still and what is before us is seen pure and pristine. Those are the golden moments that we carry in our heart, which we on occasion hold up like precious jewels and remember. Perhaps it is a beloved face of a child as Wilson saw, or a moment at twilight as Synder describes, or perhaps it is the sight of a wild goose climbing into the sky as Tu Fu relates. Those moments make up the rosaries of our life, each bead an instant of holiness.

I vaguely remember an anecdote I read several years ago. While he was dying a Zen Master reviewed his life for the benefit of his pupils. After he was gone, one student said, “Imagine, our Master was present for three whole hours in his life. How fortunate!” Three hours – 180 moments. How many holy instants reside in our hearts?