Sweet Jizo

I heard about the death of a friend today. Anne-Marie, full of love and grace. She died of being sad, of begging for love. She died because her dreams were so much bigger that the life she ended up with. Her beloved husband left her, her children could not really meet her, her friends went one after the other (and I was one of them). And yet, her smile and this fire in her. This raging love. Now she is in the light everywhere, in this true beautiful heaven on earth, now she loves and is loved beyond measure. As always.

Today I went to visit my stone Jizo after zazen. Beautiful day pouring blue light on children, bikes, tarmac and grass. A butterfly was playing with my nyoi-bo. And then I sang a few sutra and burned incense. In a very unsual way, I sensed a presence behind. Somebody watching playing with a few coins she was about to drop at the feet of the stone Jizo: an old beautiful lady. As I did gassho to her before leaving she said: “Sumimasen obo sama”, thank you.

singing sutra to a stone Jizo
behind, an old lady playing with coins
sweet Jizo in the flesh

Fish and chips

greasy lines of
this newspaper
gorgeous fish and chips

minute feet
on electric wires
morning birds

together

for the one who has finally come

The sky

tossed in birds

their ease and joy

Yure ugokitaru tenkuh ni

kuh o etaru ya

kotori no anjin

揺れ動きたる天空に　　　　

空を得たるや　　　　

小鳥の安心（あんじん）

red and green field
of swaying poppies

our togertheness

akai keshi soyogu

nohara

itsu naru hutari

赤い芥子そよぐ野原　　

一なる二人

walk

mists to drink, endless hues
in the moving foliage
palms opened

shedding this skin, bones crushed
what is left?
mountains, mountains

Hone kudakareshi nakigara no

nani zo nokoran

Yama yo yama

骨砕かれし亡き骸の　　　

何ぞ残らん　　　　

山よ山

Butterflies

Sesshu Toyo, landscape

A few days ago, I came across the most beautiful piece of poetry from Issa, the Japanese Haiku poet.

窓明て蝶を見送る野原哉

mado akete chô wo mi-okuru no hara kana

window open

a butterfly pulls my eyes

across the field

As I was going through my notebook, I noticed I left a poem about a butterfly which had a similar nature to Issa’s verses but not the exquisite beauty of course. It goes as follows:

butterfly, sweet butterfly
please would you come
into my eyes

mederu ya choh no

me ni iritamoh

愛でるや蝶の　　

目に入り給う

Senju Kannon

Senju Kannon, thousand-armed Avalokiteshvara

Mineko san was telling me the other day that when she was a little girl she used to be afraid of Senju Kannon. The temple was dark and this strange statue looked like a mad insect, a strange spider. And her mother was often telling her: “Senju Kannon knows everything you are doing, she is watching you!...”. I told her that Kannon was unconditional love, accepting all things, that Kannon was living here and now, in all aspects of our life. I wrote this clumsy poem for her...

Water ablaze, so is my body
Dark gem of burning coal
Cries of despair
Voices trapped
In past and future

In the midst of this
It sits and stands

Hands, contemplation
Heart, compassion
Arms, action

Ten thousand forms
Expressed in one pearl
One pearl displaying
The ten thousand glows

Lotus on a sea of fire
The body of Kannon
Face of the faceless
Voice of the voiceless
Is but this moment
Nothing but this
Very
moment

Rain/pluie/ame

For Mineko san

let’s walk in this rain
with Kannon
children again

Ame ni arukeba

kannon-sama ga hohoemite

watashi o kodomo to

mitsuketari

雨に歩けば　　

観音様が微笑みて　

私を子供と見つけたり

Ame ni arukeba

kannon-sama to tawamurete

ware o warabe to

oboetari

　　

雨に歩けば　

観音さまと戯れて　　

我を童と覚えたり

marchons sous cette pluie
avec Kannon
redevenus enfants

Sunday morning

birds gossiping outside
do they know that
Kuma will be with her today?

The little girl's gift

One day, as I was in the playground of Kyoto French school, a little girl came to me with big eyes, empty of fears or expectations, holding a small bud, a minute flower; she held it until I asked stupidly: is it for me ? She nodded, without a word. I took it in my hands and kept it al my way back to Osaka. This peom is a clumsy attempt to convey this:

playground, a little girl
curly hair, free eyes, holds a flower out to me
the universe’s whisper

Un jour , alors que j'étais sur la cour de récréation de l'école française de Kyoto, une petite fille, les yeux vidés de toute peur ou de toute attente, vint à moi tenant une petite fleur, elle me la tendit jusqu'à ce que je demande stupidement: c'est pour moi? Ell acquiesca sans mot dire. Ce poème essaye de traduire ce moment:

cour de récréation, une petite fille

cheveux bouclés, yeux libres, me tend une fleur

murmure de l'univers

Homeless

Leaves and petals

our true

home

Feuilles et pétales

notre vraie

demeure

Ha wa nabiki Hanabira ya

koko ni makoto no

Ie ariki

葉はなびき　花びらや　　　　　

此処に真の　　　　　　　

家ありき

(translated by Sakaide san)

Footsteps

This is the latest poem written this morning on my way to the station and its translation made by a Japanese friend. The Japanese version is closer to what was originally.

for Mineko san

her footsteps

Spring has come

in Autumn

in Japanese

Kanohito Ashioto

Ukitatsu Haru ya

Aki no hi ni

彼の人　足音　　　　　　

浮き立つ春や　　　　　

秋の日に

(translated by Sakaidesan)

Le bruit de ses pas

Le printemps est venu

en automne

Kobe impressions

Fuji in the Autumn 2005

For Mineko san , light of Spring

On a boat in the port of Kobe

the three of us
watching waves
being waves

Nami nagamuru kazoku

ono ga

nami to narishi

波眺むる家族　　　　

己が　　

波となりし

the laughing child
plays with me
Autumn sun

Waraigoe taenu kodomo to

asobu

aki no hizashi

笑い声絶えぬ子供と　

遊ぶ　　

秋の日差し

the coffee shop
our eyes singing
beyond words

kuchi tsugumu-tomo

koibito no

me de uta tsumugu

kissaten

　　　　

口つぐむとも恋人の　　　　　　

目で詩紡ぐ　　　　　　　

喫茶店

She has not come
And won’t leave
the beloved

Mada konu hito no

haya wakare o oshimu

hodono koi

　　　　

まだ来ぬ人の　　　

早や別れを惜しむ　　　　　

ほどの恋

The unbearable

Native Americans slaughtered like cattle in Wounded Knee, lost children of Armenia (Turkish amnesia), Pol Pot's victims photographed before ending up in the mass-grave, Jews in Nazi camps, Chinese solution to solve differences and make sure weeds do not grow on Communist soil, American answer to terrorism...

So what is Buddhist practice? What does it have to do in the world? As Bernie Glassman would say, to bear witness, to witness the unbearable, to apply the warmth of attention to all. Realize that we are both killers and killed. We are the one behind the gun, we are the one crying and falling. That violence and crualty and racism is just here, in us. And the wish is to allow what is nurturing, flowing, life-giving too.

I cannot do much about all this horror but plough my own field. Sit, sing, live, love. And witness the unbearable in me.

This is just a reminder. A few pictures of genocides and crimes in the name ideology, economy, religion...

And this why I write poetry, and no, my blog is not sweet.

Don't you have eyes to see? Pol Pot, Staline, communist dudes, Bush, whether you are Turkish, French, German, English, Japanese...It is all about being human. It is about everyone of us.

Whether you sit or not, please bear witness.

carefreeness

The playful wind in the bamboo forest

paints space

carefreeness

heavens gate (ordinary heaven)

A few more of these useless poems. It just keeps me awake. Better than coffee.

standing at the crossing
cars, fumes and noise
the very flower

kohsaten kuruma ya noizu ga

Hana to saki

交差点　　

クルマやノイズが　　　　

花と咲き

don’t you see, don’t you understand
it is raining
everywhere

iikai? yokumite!

ima ame ga hutteiru

shiho happo ame dayo

いいかい？　良く見て！

今、雨が降っている

四方八方

雨だよ

In the street
A dancing and laughing fool
Heavens gate

Doko kashiko

waratte odoru orokamono

yominokuni wa

hirakareshi

どこかしこ　　

笑って踊る愚か者　　　

黄泉の国は　　　　

開かれし

At the back of a wonderful vegeterian Indian retaurant in Nara...

Nara, rainy day

slow morning drizzle
a sky-like heron

hasty pedestrians

Yururito mezamete kirisame ya　　　　　　

ten ni tokeyuru aosagi no　　　　　

izuko e hito no isogiashi

ゆるりと目覚めて霧雨や　　　　　　　　

天に溶けゆる青鷺の　　　　　　

何処へ人の急ぎ足