Michizane Composes a Poem by Moonlight
—Sugawara no Michizane (845-903)
After his death, he became the god of music, literature, calligraphy--
titles an emperor may confer. But tonight, he is only eleven,
composing a poem by moonlight. Moon of bright snow,
moon of plum blossoms, moon of the golden mirror.
Perhaps every young boy is a god. Every young heart a plum.
Court life, accolades, love—all come later. For now,
he is a poem: the curve of his slender arm the brush,
his dark eyes the ink, his body caught somewhere
between moonlight and dirt.
Koan 1 Joshu’s “Mu”
A monk asked Joshu, “Has a dog Buddha Nature or not?” Joshu answered, “Mu”!
Joshu's Dog Speaks
No, is all I hear, all day long
because the poor monk won’t shut up.
Some Zen master too. He knows
I’m more Buddha than this ornery student
will ever be: smells too clean, never looks at me directly.
But my master keeps trying, gotta love him for that…
Mu, Mu, Mu, to every question the asshole asks.
Don’t get me wrong, I love assholes—they are
my main way of finding out what’s going on
in the world, around the corner, on the next
block. But isn’t it obvious, I mean my master’s
answer? It’s just his way of barking, like
Shut the fuck up, it’s not even a question, man!
There’s only one nature, it’s not hard to follow.
Just stick your nose to the ground, follow the scent,
spray your own to accent the fragrance
of the other’s spot, keep going.
Lick your privates now and then.
It’s called The Way, man.
Koan 43 Shuzan and a Staff
Master Shuzan held up his staff, and showing it to the assembled disciples said,
“You monks, if you call this a staff, you are committed to the name.
If you call it not-a-staff, you negate the fact. Tell me, you monks, what do you call it?”
A Rose By Any Another Name
The shippei is made from a split piece of bamboo,
half a meter long, bound with wisteria vine
then lacquered. The symbol of a Zen master’s
authority, it may be decorated with a silk cord,
elaborate carvings—is sometimes used
to rouse sleeping monks awake. It is also
a rose—yellow, pink, blood red, sometimes
orange or peach. A thorn is also its name,
dagger to open your calloused thumb,
your impenetrable heart. The sound it makes
winging towards slouching shoulder is like
the wind of dragons, its touch soft as
the lover who has waited several moons
for your return. Such a staff is the spine
rooting tailbone to skull, the Milky Way
whirling through the dark enigma of the void.
Call it by name, or let your lips fall silent,
it does not matter. Only that you grasp
what cannot be held with your whole body.
Whisper in its nameless ear something
of love—your original name,
when the womb was a temple,
and you rushed through its doors
shouting.
Complex
Freud had no idea what he was doing,
brushing laboratory-grade cocaine into his nostrils
while incubating psychoanalytic theory.
A scientist begins with flagrant hypotheses,
accumulates dead-ends. Who knew
that treating his friend’s morphine addiction
with the white powder through frenetic
all-night talk sessions, would result in disaster.
Still, Freud felt he was destined
for greatness. He’d scour animal magnetism,
Victorian sexology, Romantic vitalism,
the Lamarckian doctrine of heredity,
Charcot’s precepts on hysteria
for keys to the mind.
For fifteen years his medicinal euphoria
fueled this visionary inquiry
into the psyche’s cavernous Id,
finding all manner of complexes:
libidinal, phallic, Oedipal.
Though he confessed to his fiancée
I would give all my cocaine
for one hour in Wandsbek
with you. He was on a journey
that later could be seen
as inevitable genius.
But along the way,
he was as unsure as you and I:
peering into the dream of mind,
recoiling at its complexity,
staggering to the mute couch
for a nap.
Dane Cervine’s forthcoming book is entitled, Kung Fu of the Dark Father. Previous books include How Therapists Dance (2013), and, The Jeweled Net of Indra (2007)—all from Plain View Press. His poems have won or been finalists for awards from Adrienne Rich, Tony Hoagland, the Atlanta Review, Caesura, and been nominated for a Pushcart. His work appears in a diverse range of publications, including The SUN, the Hudson Review, Poetry Flash, Catamaran, Sycamore Review, Pedestal Magazine, anthologies, short film, animation, newspapers, including a fine press broadside of his poem Clay Feet from Sam Amico’s Middle Earth press. Visit his website at: www.DaneCervine.typepad.com or drop him a line at:[email protected]
—Sugawara no Michizane (845-903)
After his death, he became the god of music, literature, calligraphy--
titles an emperor may confer. But tonight, he is only eleven,
composing a poem by moonlight. Moon of bright snow,
moon of plum blossoms, moon of the golden mirror.
Perhaps every young boy is a god. Every young heart a plum.
Court life, accolades, love—all come later. For now,
he is a poem: the curve of his slender arm the brush,
his dark eyes the ink, his body caught somewhere
between moonlight and dirt.
Koan 1 Joshu’s “Mu”
A monk asked Joshu, “Has a dog Buddha Nature or not?” Joshu answered, “Mu”!
Joshu's Dog Speaks
No, is all I hear, all day long
because the poor monk won’t shut up.
Some Zen master too. He knows
I’m more Buddha than this ornery student
will ever be: smells too clean, never looks at me directly.
But my master keeps trying, gotta love him for that…
Mu, Mu, Mu, to every question the asshole asks.
Don’t get me wrong, I love assholes—they are
my main way of finding out what’s going on
in the world, around the corner, on the next
block. But isn’t it obvious, I mean my master’s
answer? It’s just his way of barking, like
Shut the fuck up, it’s not even a question, man!
There’s only one nature, it’s not hard to follow.
Just stick your nose to the ground, follow the scent,
spray your own to accent the fragrance
of the other’s spot, keep going.
Lick your privates now and then.
It’s called The Way, man.
Koan 43 Shuzan and a Staff
Master Shuzan held up his staff, and showing it to the assembled disciples said,
“You monks, if you call this a staff, you are committed to the name.
If you call it not-a-staff, you negate the fact. Tell me, you monks, what do you call it?”
A Rose By Any Another Name
The shippei is made from a split piece of bamboo,
half a meter long, bound with wisteria vine
then lacquered. The symbol of a Zen master’s
authority, it may be decorated with a silk cord,
elaborate carvings—is sometimes used
to rouse sleeping monks awake. It is also
a rose—yellow, pink, blood red, sometimes
orange or peach. A thorn is also its name,
dagger to open your calloused thumb,
your impenetrable heart. The sound it makes
winging towards slouching shoulder is like
the wind of dragons, its touch soft as
the lover who has waited several moons
for your return. Such a staff is the spine
rooting tailbone to skull, the Milky Way
whirling through the dark enigma of the void.
Call it by name, or let your lips fall silent,
it does not matter. Only that you grasp
what cannot be held with your whole body.
Whisper in its nameless ear something
of love—your original name,
when the womb was a temple,
and you rushed through its doors
shouting.
Complex
Freud had no idea what he was doing,
brushing laboratory-grade cocaine into his nostrils
while incubating psychoanalytic theory.
A scientist begins with flagrant hypotheses,
accumulates dead-ends. Who knew
that treating his friend’s morphine addiction
with the white powder through frenetic
all-night talk sessions, would result in disaster.
Still, Freud felt he was destined
for greatness. He’d scour animal magnetism,
Victorian sexology, Romantic vitalism,
the Lamarckian doctrine of heredity,
Charcot’s precepts on hysteria
for keys to the mind.
For fifteen years his medicinal euphoria
fueled this visionary inquiry
into the psyche’s cavernous Id,
finding all manner of complexes:
libidinal, phallic, Oedipal.
Though he confessed to his fiancée
I would give all my cocaine
for one hour in Wandsbek
with you. He was on a journey
that later could be seen
as inevitable genius.
But along the way,
he was as unsure as you and I:
peering into the dream of mind,
recoiling at its complexity,
staggering to the mute couch
for a nap.
Dane Cervine’s forthcoming book is entitled, Kung Fu of the Dark Father. Previous books include How Therapists Dance (2013), and, The Jeweled Net of Indra (2007)—all from Plain View Press. His poems have won or been finalists for awards from Adrienne Rich, Tony Hoagland, the Atlanta Review, Caesura, and been nominated for a Pushcart. His work appears in a diverse range of publications, including The SUN, the Hudson Review, Poetry Flash, Catamaran, Sycamore Review, Pedestal Magazine, anthologies, short film, animation, newspapers, including a fine press broadside of his poem Clay Feet from Sam Amico’s Middle Earth press. Visit his website at: www.DaneCervine.typepad.com or drop him a line at:[email protected]