The Matrix Of Ideas…

“Love sometimes wants to do us a great favor: hold us upside down and shake all the nonsense out.” – Hafiz
Hamsa – The Hand Of Fatima – A new design from for clothing and bags

Delicious Laughter…
Up until last week I had spent my last minutes at night for a couple of weeks reading “Delicious Laughter” (Rambunctious Teaching Stories from the Mathnawi) from Rumi, versions by Coleman Barks. This is a most delightful book, I recommend it highly. For those who find parables and stories easier to read than poetry, this is an excellent transition read. I really appreciate Coleman’s translation efforts. Of any of the modern translators, he is almost always spot on as far as I can tell. As I said, a delightful read, and a wonderful introduction to Rumi’s teachings and ideas.

I was quite sad to lay it down, but here I find it in my book pile next to my desk. You will find it a delightful companion book, and one that you’ll return to time and again. It really gave me clarity on some of the processes I have been in as of late…

Anyway, it has been a very busy week for us here in Portland. The weather went from the sublime to the foul, and it is like being in winter again. It is absolutely bucketing rain at this point, and will continue to do so for days. We had glorious sunshine though, and we were walking through drifting flower petals from all of the trees. I can’t believe how beautiful it gets here at times, truly amazing. As I write, it is dropping 2 feet of snow up in the Cascades. Winter still has it grips in the heights, and will continue so for awhile.

The burst of creativity that I experienced before the last art exhibit is continuing, which is a good thing. (read below in “The Matrix Of Ideas”) Hopefully after all the prep work on other projects I can get back to writing. So much on the plate.

Rowan is working on his film, out with his friend Gen looking for costumes for “Amour Sincère”… He achieved his funding goals with the help of many a good person! Thanks so much for that! Rowan and I visited with his mentor, Tom Beckett and his family yesterday. Tom just finished playing as “Kent” in King Lear. He is sporting a rather fashionable shaved head as of late because of it as well.

This edition is as eclectic as any as of late, from Progressive Electronica from Germany (Ulf Lohmann), an article by Antonin Artaud, to a very old translation from the Mathnawi (not Coleman’s), to quotes from Hafiz… with info on new projects and a request from yours truly. I hope you enjoy it all.

Well, that is it for now. More coming this week, I have a back log of 2-3 other post just waiting to come out.

May this find you and yours in good health.

On The Menu:
The Matrix Of Ideas (
Prayer & Meditation Request
Ulf Lohmann – My Pazifik
Hafiz Quotes
The Theater and Culture – by Antonin Artaud
The Poetry Of Rumi: The Mathnawai (an excerpt)
Ulf Lohmann – Because
The Matrix Of Ideas:

So I have been coding, designing and upgrading images for, my art site. I have a bunch new T-shirt designs for women and men (including “The Hand of Fatima” above!), as well as a new line of Tote Bag designs!. I’ve brought back designs that were very popular a while back, and will continue bringing out new items as we go along.. We will be expanding our clothing line as the seasons change with hoodies, long sleeved shirts as well as other items, and expanding on the varieties of bags also.

So keep tuned, and please pay a visit to, lots of stuff to look at! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Prayer & Meditation Request

For my long time friend Rik, The Wizard Of Upper Cascadia.
The Wizard has been diagnosed with Leukemia, and is going in tomorrow to find out the results of test to determine what type.
We have known The Wiz for many a year, and have often enjoyed his company both here, and in his aerie up against the western slopes to the north.
Our thoughts and prayers are with him at this time. I hope you join us in meditation and prayer for his recovery, and for a positive change in his health.
He is an original, one of a kind being, that we hold dear to our hearts. I salute you with a glass of that beautiful green essence that you brought back into my life!

Ulf Lohmann – My Pazifik

Hafiz Quotes:
“Stay close to any sounds that make you glad you are alive.”
“Time is a factory where everyone slaves away earning enough love to break their own chains.”
“There is no pleasure without a tincture of bitterness.”
“Never refuse any advance of friendship, for if nine out of ten bring you nothing, one alone may repay you.”
“Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living In better conditions.”

Preface to The Theater and its Double: The Theater and Culture – by Antonin Artaud (1938)

Never before, when it is life that is in question, has there been so much talk of civilization and culture. And there is a curious parallel between this generalized collapse of life at the root of our present demoralization and our concern for a culture which has never been coincident with life, which in fact has been devised to tyrannize life.

Before speaking further about culture, I must remark that the world is hungry and not concerned with culture, and that the attempt to orient toward culture thoughts turned only toward hunger is a purely artificial expedient.

What is more important, it seems to me, is not so much to defend a culture whose existence has never kept a man from going hungry, as to extract, from what is called culture, ideas whose compelling force is identical with that of hunger.

We need to live first of all: to believe in what makes us live and that something makes us live – to believe that whatever is produced from the mysterious depths of ourselves need not forever haunt us as an exclusively digestive concern.

I mean that if it is important for us to eat first of all, it is even more important for us for us not to waste in the sole concern for eating our simple power of being hungry.

If confusion is the sign of the times, I see at the root of this confusion a rupture between things and words, between things and ideas and signs that are their representation.

Not, of course, for lack of philosophical systems: their number and contradictions characterize our old French and European culture: but where can it be shown that life, our life, has ever been affected by these systems? I will not say that philosophical systems must be applied directly and immediately: but of the following alternatives, one must be true:

Either these systems are within us and permeate our being to the point of supporting life itself (and this is the case, what use are books?), or they do not permeate us and therefore do not have the capacity to support life (and in this case what does their disappearance matter?).

We must insist upon the idea of culture-in-action, of culture growing within us like a new organ, a sort of second breath: and on civilization as an applied culture controlling even our subtlest actions, a presence of mind; the distinction between culture and civilization is an artificial one, providing two words to signify an identical function.

A civilized man judges and is judged according to his behavior, but even the term “civilized” leads to confusion: a cultivated “civilized” man is regarded as a person instructed in systems, a person who thinks in forms, signs, representations – a monster whose faculty of deriving thoughts from acts, instead of identifying acts with thoughts, is developed to an absurdity.

If our life lacks brimstone, i.e., a constant magic, it is because we choose to observe our acts and lose ourselves in consideration of their imagined form instead of being impelled by their force.

And this faculty is an exclusively human one. I would even say that is this infection of the human which contaminates ideas that should have remained divine” for far from believing that man invented the supernatural and the divine, I think it is man’s age old intervention which has ultimately corrupted the divine within him.

All our ideas about life must be revised in a period when nothing any longer adheres to life; it is this painful cleavage which is responsible for the revenge of things; the poetry which is no longer within us and which we no longer succeed in finding in things suddenly appears on their wrong side: consider the unprecedented number of crimes whose perverse gratuitousness is explained only by our powerlessness to take complete possession of life.

If the theater has been created as an outlet for our repressions, the agonized poetry expressed in its bizarre corruptions of the facts of life demonstrates that life’s intensity is still intact and asks only to be better directed.

But not matter how loudly we clamor for magic in our lives, we are really afraid of pursuing an existence entirely under its influence and sign.

Hence our confirmed lack of culture is astonished by certain grandiose anomalies: for example, on an island without any contact with modern civilization, the mere passage of a ship carrying only healthy passengers may provoke the sudden outbreak of diseases unknown on that island but a specialty of nations like our own: shingles, influenza, grippe, rheumatism, sinusitis, polyneuritis, etc…

Similarly, if we think Negroes smell bad, we are ignorant of the fact that anywhere but in Europe it is we whites who “smell bad”. And I would even say that we give off an odor as white as the gathering of pus in an infected wound.

As iron can be heated until it turns white, so it can be said that everything that is excessive is white; for Asiatics white has become the mark of extreme decomposition.

This said, we can begin to form an idea of culture, an idea which is first of all a protest.

A pretext against the senseless constraint imposed upon the idea of culture by reducing it to a sort of inconceivable Pantheon, producing an idolatry no different from the image-worship of those religions which relegate their gods to Pantheons.

A protest against the idea of culture as distinct from life – as if there were culture on one side and life on the other, as if true culture where not a refined means of understanding and exercising life.

The library at Alexandria can be burnt down. There are forces above and beyond papyrus: we may temporarily be deprived of our ability to discover these forces, but their energy will not be suppressed. It is good that our excessive facilities are no longer available, that forms fall into oblivion: a culture without space or time, restrained only by the capacity of our own nerves, will reappear with all the more energy. It is right that from time to time cataclysms occur which compel us to return to nature, i.e. to rediscover life. The old totemism of animals, stone, objects capable of discharging thunderbolts, costumes impregnated with bestial essences – everything, in short, that might determine, disclose, and direct the secret forces of the universe – is for us a dead thing, from which we derive nothing but static and aesthetic profit, the profit of an audience, not of an actor.

Yet totemism is an actor, for it moves, and has been crated in behalf of actors; all true culture relies upon the barbarism and primitive means of totemism whose savage, i.e., entirely spontaneous, life I wish to worship.

What has lost us culture is our Occidental idea of art and the profits we see to derive from it. Art and culture cannot be considered together, contrary to the treatment universally accorded them!

True culture operates by exaltation and force, while the European ideal of art attempts to cast the mind into an attitude distinct from force but addicted to exaltation. It is a lazy, unserviceable notion which engenders an imminent death. If the Serpent Quetzalcoatl’s multiple twists and turns are harmonious, it is because they express the equilibrium and fluctuations of a sleeping force; the intensity of the forms is there only to seduce and direct a force which, in music, would produce an unsupportable range of sound.

The gods that sleep in museums: the god of fire with his incense burner that resembles an Inquisition tripod; Tlaloc, one of the manifold Gods of the Waters, on his wall of green granite; the Mother Goddess of Waters, the Mother Goddess of Flowers; the immutable expression, echoing from beneath many layers of water, of the Goddess robed in green jade; the enraptured blissful expression, features crackling with incense, where atoms of sunlight circle – the countenance of the Mother Goddess of Flowers; this world of obligatory servitude in which a stone comes alive when it has been properly carved, the world of organically civilized men whose vital organs too awaken from their slumber, this human world enters into us, participating in the dance of the gods, without turning round or looking back, on pain of becoming, like ourselves, crumbled pillars of salt.

In Mexico, since we are speaking of Mexico, there is no art: things are made for use. And the world is in perpertual exaltation.

To our disinterested and inert idea of art an authentic culture opposes a violently egoistic and magical, i.e. interested idea. The Mexicans seek contact with the Manas, forces latent in every form, unreleased by contemplation of the forms for themselves, but springing to life by magic identification with these forms. And the old Totems are there to hasten the communication.

How hard it is, when everything encourages us to sleep, though we may look about us with conscious, clinging eyes, to wake and yet look about us as in a dream, with eyes that no longer know their function and whose gaze is turned inward.

This is how our strange idea of disinterested action originated, though it is action nonetheless, and all the more violent for skirting the temptation of repose.

Every real effigy has a shadow which is its double; and art must falter and fail from the moment the sculptor believes he has liberated the kind of shadow whose very existence will destroy his repose.

Like all magic cultures expressed by appropriate hieroglyphs, the true theater has its shadows too, and of all languages and all arts, the theater is the only one left whose shadows have shattered their limitations. From the beginning, on might say its shadows did not tolerate limitations.

Our petrified idea of the theater is connected with our petrified idea of a culture without shadows, where, no matter which way it turns, our mind (esprit) encounters only emptiness, though space is full.

But the true theater, because is moves and makes use of living instruments, continues to stir up shadows where life has never ceased to grope its way. The actor does not make the same gesture twice, but he makes gestures, he moves; and although he brutalizes forms, nevertheless behind them and through their destruction he rejoins that which outlives forms and produces their continuation.

The theater, which is in no thing, but makes use of everything – gestures, sounds, words, screams, light, darkness – rediscovers itself at precisely the point where the mind requires a language to express its manifestations.

And the fixation of the theater in one language – written words, music, lights, noises – betokens its imminent ruin, the choice of any one language betraying a taste for the special effects of that language; and the desiccation of the language accompanies its limitation.

For the theater as for culture, it remains a question of naming and directing shadows: and the theater, not confined to a fixed language and form, not only destroys false shadows but prepares the way for a new generation of shadows, around which assembles the true spectacle of life.

To break through language in order to touch life is to create or recreate the theater; the essential thing is not to believe that this act must remain sacred, i.e., set apart the essential thing is to believe that not just anyone can create it, and that there must be a preparation.

This leads to the rejection of the usual limitations of man and man’s powers, and infinitely extends the frontiers of what is called reality.

We must believe in a sense of life renewed by the theater, a sense of life in which man makes himself master of what does not yet exist, and brings it into being. And everything that has not been born can still be brought to life if we are not satisfied to remain mere recording organisms.

Furthermore, when we speak the word “life”, it must be understood we are not referring to life as we know it from the surface of fact, but to that fragile, fluctuating center which forms never reach. And if there is one hellish, truly accursed thing in our time, it is our artistic dallying with forms, instead of being like victims burnt at the stake, signaling through the flames.

Ulf Lohmann – Burning Bright

The Poetry Of Rumi: The Mathnawai:

STORY XII. The Visions seen by the Saint Daquqi

To illustrate the exalted state of identification of the will with the Divine will just described, the poet tells the story of the visions and mighty works of the holy Daquqi. Daquqi was journeying in pious fervor, and in hope to see the splendour of “The Friend” in human shape, the Ocean in a drop of water, and the Sun in an atom, when late one evening he arrived at the seashore. Turning his eyes to heaven, he saw seven great lights never before seen of men, for “God directs whom He will.” 1 Overwhelmed with awe, he watched these lights, and while he still watched them they united into one light. Still more amazed, he watched on, and the single light shortly assumed the likeness of seven men. Afterwards these seven men changed into seven trees; but, strange to say, although crowds of people were passing by, none of them could see these trees, so that Daquqi shared the feelings of the apostles “who lost all hope” (of convincing the world), “and deemed that, they were reckoned as liars.” 2 Possessing his soul in patience, Daquqi still watched on, and saw the seven trees bowing down in prayer, and was reminded of the text, “Plants and trees bend in adoration.” 3 Presently the seven trees again changed into seven men, and Daquqi was appointed to conduct their devotions. While he was yet acting as Imam in front of them, and they were following the prayers he recited, a ship was seen in great distress and all but lost. At Daquqi’s earnest prayer the crew were saved, but straightway vanished from sight; and this led his followers to doubt the reality of the miracle which had just been performed before their eyes.
Description of a saint whose will was identified with God’s will.

That Daquqi possessed a sweet aspect,
As a lover of God and a worker of miracles.
He resembled the moon of heaven come down on earth,
He was as a light to them that walked in darkness.
He rarely tarried in one place,
And seldom stayed two days in one village.
He said, “If I tarry in one house two days,
Attachment to that house becomes a passion with me.
I guard myself from being deceived into loving a home;
Up! Soul, and travel in search of eternal wealth.
My heart’s inclination is not satisfied by houses,
So that they should be places of temptation for me.”
Thus by day he traveled, and by night prayed,
His eyes were always gazing on the King as a falcon’s;
Cut off from mankind, though not for any fault,
Severed from men and women, though not for baseness;
Having compassion on mankind, and wholesome as water,
A kind intercessor, and one whose prayers were heard.
Benevolent to the good and the bad, and a firm ally,
Better than a mother, and kinder than a father.
The Prophet said, “To you, O blessed ones,
I am as a father, affectionate and indulgent;
For this cause, that you are all portions of me.”
Wherefore should you tear away the parts from the whole?
If the part be severed from its whole it is useless;
If a limb be rent from the body it dies.
Till it is again joined to its whole,
‘Tis a dead thing, and a stranger to life.
Thus Daquqi, in devotions and praises and prayers,
Was ever seeking the particular favorites of God.
Throughout his long journeys his object was this,
To interchange a word with the favorites of God.
He cried continually as he went his way,
“O Lord, let me draw near to Thy chosen ones!”
So Daquqi (the mercy of God be upon him!)
Said, “I journeyed long time to East and to West,
I journeyed years and months for love of that Moon,
Heedless of the way, absorbed in God.
With bare feet I trod upon thorns and flints,
Seeing I was bewildered, and beside myself, and senseless.
Think not my feet touched the earth,
For the lover verily travels with the heart.
What knows the heart of road and stages?
What of distant and near, while it is drunk with love?
Distance and nearness are attributes of bodies,
The journeys of spirits are after another sort.
You journeyed from the embryo state to rationality
Without footsteps or stages or change of place,
The journey of the soul involves not time and place.
And my body learnt from the soul its mode of journeying,
Now my body has renounced the bodily mode of journeying;
It journeys secretly and without form, though under a form.”
He added, “One day I was thus filled with longing
To behold in human form the splendours of ‘The Friend,’
To witness the Ocean gathered up into a drop,
The Sun compressed into a single atom;
And when I drew near to the shore of the sea
The day was drawing to a close.”
All religions are in substance one and the same.
In the adorations and benedictions of righteous men
The praises of all the prophets are kneaded together.
All their praises are mingled into one stream,
All the vessels are emptied into one ewer.
Because He that is praised is, in fact, only One,
In this respect all religions are only one religion.
Because all praises are directed towards God’s light,
Their various forms and figures are borrowed from it.
Men never address praises but to One deemed worthy,
They err only through mistaken opinions of Him.
So, when a light falls upon a wall,
That wall is a connecting-link between all its beams;
Yet when it casts that reflection back to its source,
It wrongly shows great as small, and halts in its praises.
Or if the moon be reflected in a well,
And one looks down the well, and mistakenly praises it,
In reality he is intending to praise the moon,
Although, through ignorance, he is looking down the well.
The object of his praises is the moon, not its reflection;
His infidelity arises from mistake of the circumstances.
That well-meaning man goes wrong through his mistake;
The moon is in heaven, and he fancies it in the well.
By these false idols mankind are perplexed,
And driven by vain lusts to their sorrow.
The Man in the time of the Prophet David who prayed
to be fed without having to work for his food.

After the petitioner had slain and eaten the cow, the owner of the cow came up and accused him of theft, and seizing him by the collar, dragged him before the judgment-seat of the prophet David. When he had stated his case, David ordered the accused to make restitution, telling him that he must not break the law. At this order the accused redoubled his cries, telling David that he was siding with an oppressor. David was staggered at the man’s assurance, and finally resolved to take further time for consideration before deciding the case. After private meditation he re-versed his former sentence, and directed the plaintiff to relinquish his claim. On the plaintiff refusing to do this, and stoutly protesting against David’s injustice. David further ordered that all the plaintiff’s goods should be given to the accused. The reason for this decision was, that David discovered the plaintiff had formerly slain the grandfather of the accused, and stolen all his goods. David then led all the Mosalmans to a tree in the desert where the murder had been perpetrated, and there put the murderer to death.

The hands and feet of criminals betray
their crimes even in this world.
He of himself lifted the veil that hid his crime;
Had he not done so, God would have kept it hidden.
Criminals and sinners, even in the course of sinning,
Themselves rend the coverings of their crimes.
Their sins are veiled among the heart’s secrets,
Yet the criminal himself exposes them to view,
Saying, “Behold me wearing a pair of horns,
A cow of hell in sight of all men.”
Thus, even here, in the midst of thy sin, thy hand and foot
Bear witness of the secrets of thy heart.
Thy secret thought is as a governor who says to thee,
“Tell forth thy convictions, withhold them not;”
Especially in seasons of passion and angry talk
It betrays thy secrets one by one.
Thy secret sins and crimes govern hand and foot,
Saying, “Disclose us to men, O hand and foot!”
And since these witnesses take the bit in their mouths,
Especially in times of passion and wrath and revenge,
Therefore the same God who appointed this governor
To blazen forth thy secret sins to the world
Is also able to create many more governors
To divulge thy secret sins on the day of judgment. 4
O man whose only handiwork is crime and sin;
Thy secret sins are manifest; no divulging is needed.
There is no need to proclaim thy sins,
All men are cognizant of thy sin-burnt heart.
Thy soul every moment casts up sparks of fire,
Which say, “See me a man destined to the fire;
I am a part of the fire, and go to join my whole;
Not a light, so that I should join the Source of light.”
Comparison of lust to the murderer in the story.
Kill thine own lust and give life to the world;
It has killed its lord, reduce it to servitude.
That claimant of the cow is thy lust; Beware!
It has made itself lord and master.
That slayer of the cow is thy reason; Go!
Be not obdurate to the prayers of him that kills the cow.
Reason is a poor captive, and ever cries to God
For meat on its dish without laboring and toiling.
On what depends its getting meat without toiling?
On its killing the cow of the body, the source of evil.
Lust says, “Why hast thou killed my cow?”
It says, “Because lust’s cow is the form of the body.” 5
Reason, the Lord’s child, has become a pauper,
Lust, the murderer, has become a lord and chief.
Know’st thou what is meat untoiled for?
‘Tis the food of spirits and the aliment of the Prophet.
But it is attainable only by slaying the cow;
Treasure is gained by digging, O digger of treasure!
1. Koran lv. 5.
2. Koran xii. 110.
3. Koran ii. 136.
4. “On that day shall their hands speak unto us, and their feet shall bear witness of that which they have done” (Koran xxxvi. 65).
5. Bahau-’d-Din Amili, in his Nan wa Halwa, chap. iv., compares lust to a cow, referring to Koran ii. 63.

Ulf Lohmann – Because

Reboot The Universe

“Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
“We spread no snare;

“Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.

“Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be.”
– Christina Rossetti, Spring Quiet

Rebooting The Universe…
Greetings Friends,

It has been awhile since the last posting, and as I type we are now stepping into another Universe. The South East Art Walk went pretty well, Paul sold a bunch, and I did moderately well. It seems that people were looking for more functional than decorative, you should of seen the cups and bowls fly out of here! What the Art Walk did do was make me rethink things, and to set a new course with a greater emphasis on my art.

One of the results of the Art Walk was this commission below: “Richard M. Nixon”. I really enjoyed painting this, odd to say. It seems a bit perverse but hey, the customer loved it, and that is what is important. Actually the client is younger, and fascinated with the said villainous R.M. Nixon, and is in no way a supporter of such demagogues in the least.
Art Commission:

Spring Equinox has arrived, and as I walked through the clouds of pollen and flowers I felt like I was absolutely floating through beauty. (I am sure the allergy meds added something to this ;o] ) Spring in the North West is most amazing; the amount of flowers bursting forth, the trees heavy with buds and flowers as well. The squirrels are chasing each other, and the robins have returned, dividing up the neighborhood as they every year.

I will be publishing (soonish) some of the new projects I am involved with. It seems that the pressure from the universe is pushing me/us to new ways of thinking and doing.

I would posit that we are being rebooted as opposed to the universe, but at this point I can’t really tell, to close to it, in the middle of it, dazzled by the energy of it all.


Rowan got his funding for his film! I want to thank all who have been involved with helping him with this! He got in last night at 2:30 from working on another film, he is off editing another film he is doing for classes today, and then onto another shoot tonight. I see him it seems like every other day for a little bit. I helped out being chauffeur yesterday, moving people, equipment etc from morning to 9:30 last night off and on.

We are saying good bye to our land lines, old phone numbers, ISP/emails etc. this coming week. Upgrading(?) to a new way of doing things here.

I have been painting and doing other art as well like crazy. I have to say that my work is changing now, faster than at anytime in the last 20 years. As I work, I am seeing a new event horizon. This is all a bit scary, but very exciting. I hope to be able to start sharing all this in the next week or so. I have gone from someone who dwelt upon the minutiae of details, to a new form of minimalism on my part. (see the Nixon painting for an idea of this) I feel like I did when I moved from pointillism to airbrush. I am relearning again, and I think I may survive.

Enough about me… I hope life finds you happy, and enjoying the seasonal change, be it Spring or Autumn depending on where you are on the globe.

A big thanks to Gordon Kelley for turning me on to the musical content, and a big thank you to all who visit Turfing. More on the way, with joy I have to say.

Bright Blessings, Gwyllm

On The Menu:
Quotes For The Spring Equinox
Pelican – Strung up from the sky
Celtic Tales: The Golden Fly
Poetry Of Michael Hartnett
Maserati – Inventions

Quotes For The Spring Equinox:

– We need spring. We need it desperately and, usually, we need it before God is willing to give it to us. – Peter Gzowski, Spring Tonic

– If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. – Anne Bradstreet, Meditations Divine and Moral, 1655

– Winter is long in this climate
and spring–a matter of a few days
only,–a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws. – William Carlos Williams, March

-”Come, gentle Spring! Ethereal Mildness! Come.” – James Thomson

-Each leaf,
each blade of grass
vies for attention.
Even weeds
carry tiny blossoms
to astonish us. – Marianne Poloskey, Sunday in Spring

-The sun is brilliant in the sky but its warmth does not reach my face.
The breeze stirs the trees but leaves my hair unmoved.
The cooling rain will feed the grass but will not slake my thirst.
It is all inches away but further from me than my dreams. – M. Romeo LaFlamme, The First of March

-Botanists say that trees need the powerful March winds to flex
their trunks and main branches, so the sap is drawn up to
nourish the budding leaves. Perhaps we need the gales of life
in the same way, though we dislike enduring them. – Jane Truax

Tip of the hat to Gordon Kelley for turning me onto these guys…..

Pelican – Strung up from the sky

The Golden Fly

Ethuan, Angus, Fuamach, and Midyir lived in the World of the Gods. Ethaun said to Angus:

“I am weary of everything that I see; let me go into the other worlds with you.”

Angus said:

“When I go into the other worlds I wander from place to place and people do not know that I am a god. In the earth they think I am a juggler or a wandering minstrel or a beggar-man. If you come with me you will seem a poor singing woman or a strolling player.”

Then Ethaun said:

“I will ask Midyir to make a world for myself–all the worlds are full of weariness.”

She went to find Midyir, and as she went she saw below her the World of the Bright Shadow that is called Ildathach, and the World of the Dark Shadow that is called Earth. Midyir was looking down at the Earth, and a brightness grew on it as he looked. Ethaun was angry because Midyir cared to make a brightness on the Earth, and she turned away from him, and said:

“I wish the worlds would clash together and disappear! I am weary of everything I can see.”

Then Fuamach said:

“You have the heart of a fly, that is never contented; take the body of a fly, and wander till your heart is changed and you get back your own shape again.”

Ethaun became a little golden fly, and she was afraid to leave the World of the Gods and wished she could get back her shape again. She flew to Midyir and buzzed round him, but he was making a brightness on the Earth and did not hear her; when she lit on his hand he brushed her away.

She went to Angus, and he was making music on the strings of his tiompan; when she buzzed about him he said: “You have a sweet song, little fly,” and he made the tiompan buzz like a fly. She lit on his hand, and he said: “You are very beautiful, little golden fly, and because you are beautiful I will give you a gift. Now speak and ask for the gift that will please you best.” Then Ethaun was able to speak, and she said:

“O Angus, give me back my shape again. I am Ethaun, and Fuamach has changed me into a fly and bidden me wander till I get back my shape.”

Angus looked sadly at the little golden fly, and said:

“It is only in Ildathach that I am a Shape-Changer. Come with me to that land and I will

make a palace for you and while you are in it you will have the shape of Ethaun.”

“I will go with you,” said Ethaun, “and live in your palace.”

She went with him, and he brought her into a beautiful palace that had all the colours of the rainbow. It had four windows to it, and when she looked out of the window to the West she saw a great wood of pine trees and oak trees and trees that had golden apples; when she looked out of the window to the North she saw a great mountain shaped like a spear, and white like flame; and when she looked to the South she saw a far-stretching plain with many little gleaming lakes; but the window to the East was fast closed, and Angus said she must never unbar it.

Ethaun was happy for a long time in the rainbow-palace and Angus came and played to her and told her tales of all the worlds; but at last the old longing came to her and she grew weary of everything she could see.

“I wish the walls of the palace would fall and the trees wither,” she said, “for they are always the same!”

She went to the window in the East and unbarred it. She saw the sea outside it, wind-driven and white with foam, and a great wind blew the window open and caught Ethaun and whirled her out of the palace, and she became again a little golden fly. She wandered and wandered through the World of the Bright Shadow that is called Ildathach till she came to the World of the Dark Shadow that is Earth, and she wandered there for a long time, scorched by the sun and beaten by the rain, till she came to a beautiful house where a king and queen were standing together. The king had a golden cup full of mead and he was giving it to the queen. Ethaun lit on the edge of the cup, but the queen never saw the little golden fly, and she did not know that it slipped into the mead, and she drank it with the mead.

Afterwards there was a child born to the queen–a strange beautiful child, and the queen called her Ethaun. Every one in the palace loved the child and tried to please her but nothing pleased her for long and as she grew older and more beautiful they tried harder to please her but she was never contented. The queen was sad at heart because of this, and the sadness grew on her day by day and she began to think her child was of the Deathless Ones that bring with them too much joy or too much sorrow for mortals.

One day Ethaun said the Queen’s singer had no songs worth listening to and she began to sing one of her own songs; as she sang, the queen looked into her eyes and knew that Ethaun was no child of hers, and when she knew it she bowed herself in her seat and died. The king said Ethaun brought ill-luck and he sent her away to live in a little hut of woven branches in a forest where only shepherds and simple people came to her and brought her food.

She grew every day more beautiful and walked under the great trees in the forest and sang her own songs. One day the king of all Ireland came riding by. His name was Eochy, and he was young and beautiful and strong. When he saw Ethaun he said:

“No woman in the world is beautiful after this one!” and he got down from his horse and came to Ethaun. She was sitting outside the little hut and combing her hair in the sunshine, and her hair was like fine gold and very long.

“What is your name? ” said the king, “and what man is your father? ”

“Ethaun is my name,” said she, “and a king is my father.”

“It is wrong,” said Eochy, “that your beauty should be shut in this forest, come with me and you shall be the High Queen of Ireland.”

Then Ethaun looked at Eochy, and it seemed to her that she had known him always. She said:

“I have waited here for you and no other. Take me into your house, High King.”

Eochy took her with him and made her his queen, and all the country that he ruled was glad because the High Queen was so beautiful. Eochy made a wonderful house for her. It had nine doors of carved red yew, and precious stones were in the walls of it. Ethaun and the king lived in it, and the harpers sang to them, and the noblest warriors in Erin stood about their doors. The king was happy, but there was always in the mind of Ethaun a beauty that made the rich hangings seem poor and the jewels dull and she had a song in her heart that took the music out of all other songs. The harpers of the Five Provinces of Ireland came into the feast hall of Eochy at Samhain, but there was weariness on the face of Ethaun while they played, and though the High King gave them gold rings and jewels and high seats of honour they had no joy in coming to his house.

The warriors clashed their swords when the High Queen passed but any one who looked into her eyes dreamed of strange countries and had in him the longing to go over seas, and Eochy was grieved because the noblest of his chiefs became like the lonely bird of the waves that never builds a nest.

One day Ethaun leaned against the carved yew door of her sunny-palace and watched the sea-gulls wheeling in the blueness of the sky. Inside, the Fool was strewing green rushes and scented leaves and buds before her chair. The Fool was always in the palace because his wits had gone from him, and people say that fools have the dark wisdom of the, gods. Ethaun could hear him singing:

“I had a black hound and a white.
The Day is long, and long the Night.

A great wave swallowed up the sea,
And still the hounds were following me.

The white hound had a crown of gold,
But no one saw it, young or old.

The black hound’s feet were swift as fire–
‘Tis he that was my heart’s desire.

The Sun and Moon leaned from the sky
When I and my two hounds went by.”

Ethaun turned from the door and went into the room where the Fool was. Her dress swept the young green leaves but she had no thought of them or of the little flowers the Fool had put with the rushes.

“Go on singing!” she said. “I wish my heart were as lightsome as yours.”

“How could your heart be lightsome, Queen,” said the Fool, “when you will not give the flower a chance to blossom, or the hound a chance to catch his prey, or the bird a clear sky to sing in? If you were of the Deathless Ones you would burn the world to warm your hands!”

The redness of shame spread itself in Ethaun’s face. She stooped and lifted a little bud from the. floor.

“I think the Deathless Ones could make this bud blossom,” she said, “but all the buds that I break off wither in my hands. I will break no more buds, Fool.”

While she spoke there was a noise outside, and Ethaun asked her women what it was.

“Only a beggar-man they are driving away. He says he is a juggler and can do tricks.”

“Let him stay,” said Ethaun, “and I will see his tricks.”

“O Queen,” said the women, “he is a starveling and ignorant; how could he please you when Incar, the King’s juggler, did not please you?”

“Let the man stay,” said Ethaun; “if he has the will to please me he will please–and tonight Incar will please me too.”

She stepped out through the carved yew door and bade the beggar-man do his tricks. He was clumsy and his tricks were not worth looking at, but the Queen gave him a ring from her finger and the little bud she had in her hand, and said:

“Stay here to-night and the King’s juggler will teach you good feats.”

The beggar-man put the ring in his bosom but he kept the bud in his hands and suddenly it blossomed into a rose and he plucked the petals apart and flung them into the air and they became beautiful white birds and they sang till every one forgot the sky above them and the earth beneath them with gladness, but Ethaun put her hands before her eyes and the tears came through her fingers.

The birds circled away into the air, singing, and when the people looked for the beggar-man he was gone. Ethaun called after him: “Angus Angus! Come back!” but no one answered, and there was only the far-off singing of the birds.

That night the King’s juggler did feats with golden balls and with whirling swords and Ethaun praised him so that for gladness he thought of new feats, and while the people were shouting with delight a tall dark man in the robes of a foreigner came into the hall. Now the king loved to speak with men from far countries and he called the stranger to him, and said:

“What knowledge have you, and what skill is in your fingers?”

“I know,” said the stranger, “‘where the sun goes when the earth does not see it, and I have skill in the playing of chess.”

Gladness was on the king when he heard of the chess-playing, for he himself had such skill that no one could beat him.

I will play a game with you,” he said. “Let the chess-board be brought.”

“O King,” said the attendants, “there is only the Queen’s chess-board, and it is locked away because she said it was not beautiful.”

“I will go myself for the board,” said the king, and he rose up to get it.

The stranger brought out a chess-board that had the squares made of precious stones brighter than any stones of the earth and he set the men on it. They were of gold and ivory, but the ivory was whiter than the whiteness of a cloud and the gold brighter than the sunset.

“I will give you this board in exchange for yours,” he said to the queen.

“No,” said Ethaun, “the board that Eochy made for me I will keep.”

“I will make something for you, too,” said the stranger. “I will make worlds for you.”

Ethaun looked into his eyes, and she remembered the World of the Gods, and Midyir, and Angus, and Fuamach, and how she had been a little golden fly.

“O Midyir,” she said, “in all the worlds I would be nothing but a little fly. I have wandered far, but I have learned wisdom at last from a Fool. I am going to make a world for myself.”

As she was speaking Eochy came back with the board.

“The first games on my board,” said Midyir, “the last on yours.”

“Be it so,” said Eochy. Midyir began to set out the men. “What are we playing for?” said Fochy.

“Let the winner decide,” said Midyir.

Eochy won the first game, and he asked for fifty horses out of fairyland.

“I will get them,” said Midyir, and they played again. Eochy won, and he said:

“I will ask for four hard things. Make a road over Mom Lamraide; clear Mide of stones; cover the district of Tethra with rushes; and the district of Darbrech with trees.”

“When you rise in the morning stand on the little hill near your house and you will see all these things done,” said Midyir. They played again, and Midyir won.

“What do you ask?” said Eochy.

“I ask Ethaun,” said Midyir.

“I will never give her!” said Eochy.

“The horses of fairyland are trampling outside your door, O King,” said Midyir, “give me my asking.” And he said to Ethaun: “Will you come into your own world again?”

Ethaun said:

“There is no world of all the worlds my own, for I have never made a place for myself, but Eochy has made a place for me and all the people have brought me gifts, and for the space of a year I will stay with them and bring them gladness.”

I will come at the year’s end,” said Midyir, and he left the hall, but no man saw him go.

After that there was never such a year in Ireland. The three crowns were on the land–a crown of plenty, a crown of victory, and a crown of song. Ethaun gave gifts to all the High King’s people, and to Eochy she gave a gladness beyond the dream of a man’s heart when it is fullest; and at Samhain time Eochy made a great feast and the kings of Ireland and the poets and the druids were there, and gladness was in the heart of every one.

Suddenly there was a light in the hall that made the torches and the great candles that are lit only for kings’ feasts burn dim, and Midyir the Red-Maned, stood in the hall. Then the ollavs and the poets and the druids and chiefs bowed themselves, and the king bowed himself, because Midyir had come. Midyir turned his eyes to where Ethaun sat in a seat of carved silver by the king. He had a small cruit such as musicians carry and he made a sweet music on it and sang:

Come with me! Come with me! Ethaun,
Leave the weary portals of life, leave the doon, leave the bawn.
Come! Come! Com e! Ethaun.
Lo! the white-maned untamable horses, out-racing the wind,
Scatter the embers of day as they pass, and the riders who bind
The suns to their chariot wheels and exult are calling your name,
Are calling your name through the night, Ethaun, and the night is a-flame,
Ethaun! Ethaun! Ethaun!
Come with us, Ethaun, to Moy-Mell where the star-flocks are straying
Like troops of immortal birds for ever delaying, delaying
The moment of flight that would take them away from the honey-sweet plain.
Surely you long for waves that break into starry rain
And are fain of flowers that need not die to blossom again.
Why have you turned away from me your only lover?
What lure have you seen in the eyes of a mortal that clay must cover?
Come back to me! come back, Ethaun! The high-built heavenly places
Mourn for you, and the lights are quenched, and for you immortal faces
Grow wan as faces that die. O Flame-Fair Swan of Delight,
Come with me, leave the weary portals of sleep-heavy Night;
The hosts are waiting, their horses trample the ashes of day;
Come, Light of a World that is Deathless, come away! Come away!

Midyir stretched his hands to Ethaun, and she turned to Eochy and kissed him.

“I have put into a year the gladness of a long life,” she said, ” and to-night you have heard the music of Faery, and echoes of it will be in the harp-strings of the men of Ireland for ever, and you will be remembered as long as wind blows and water runs, because Ethaun–whom Midyir loved–loved you.”

She put her hand in Midyir’s and they rose together as flame rises or as the white light rises in the sky when it is morning; and in the World of the Gods Angus waited for them, and Fuamach; and they walked together again as they had walked from the beginning of time.


Roberto, Mary, Leslie & Yours Truly at Caer Llwydd in February


Poetry Of Michael Hartnett


I saw magic on a green country road –
That old woman, a bag of sticks her load,

Blackly down to her thin feet a fringed shawl,
A rosary of bone on her horned hand,
A flight of curlews scribing by her head,
And ashtrees combing with their frills her hair.

Her eyes, wet sunken holes pierced by an awl,
Must have deciphered her adoring land:
And curlews, no longer lean birds, instead
Become ten scarlet comets in the air.

Some incantation from her canyoned mouth,
Irish, English, blew frost along the ground,
And even though the wind was from the South
The ashleaves froze without an ashleaf sound.

Excerpt from ‘A Farewell to English’

This road is not new.
I am not a maker of new things.
I cannot hew
out of the vacuum-cleaner minds
the sense of serving dead kings.

I am nothing new.
I am not a lonely mouth
trying to chew
a niche for culture
in the clergy-cluttered south.

But I will not see
great men go down
who walked in rags
from town to town
finding English a necessary sin,
the perfect language to sell pigs in.

I have made my choice
and leave with little weeping.
I have come with meagre voice
to court the language of my people.
That Actor Kiss

I kissed my father as he lay in bed
in the ward. Nurses walked on soles of sleep
and old men argued with themselves all day.
The seven decades locked inside his head
congealed into a timeless leaking heap,
the painter lost his sense of all but grey.
That actor kiss fell down a shaft too deep
to send back echoes that I would have prized—
‘29 was’ 41 was ‘84,
all one in his kaleidoscopic eyes
(he willed to me his bitterness and thirst,
his cold ability to close a door).
Later, over a drink, I realised
that was our last kiss and, alas, our first.
The Poet as Black Sheep for Paul Durcan

I have seen him dine
in middle-class surroundings,
his manners refined,
as his family around him
talk about nothing,
one of their favourite theses.

I have seen him lying
between the street and the pavement,
atoning, dying
for their sins, the fittest payment
he can make for them,
to get drunk and go to pieces.

On his father’s face
in sparse lines etched out by ice,
the puritan race
has come to its zenith of grey spite,
its climax of hate,
its essence of frigidity.

Let the bourgeoisie beware,
who could not control his head
and kept it in their care
until the brain bled:
this head is a poet’s head,
this head holds a galaxy.

Death of an Irish Woman
Ignorant, in the sense she ate monotonous food and thought the world was flat, and pagan, in the sense she knew the things that moved all night were neither dogs or cats but pucas and darkfaced men she nevertheless had fierce pride.
But sentenced in the end to eat thin diminishing porridge in a stone-cold kitchen she clenched her brittle hands around a world she could not understand. I loved her from the day she died.
She was a summer dance at the crossroads. She was a cardgame where a nose was broken. She was a song that nobody sings. She was a house ransacked by soldiers. She was a language seldom spoken. She was a child’s purse, full of useless things.

Another one from Gordon…

Maserati – Inventions


South East Art Walk

Going to See the Taoist Elder Zhenying at Mount Emei

Freed by his virtue, this old friend of mine
Trusts in the Way and delights in woods and streams.

While sitting in meditation
He journeys to the land of no more doubts.
While living in the discipline of poverty
He attains everything valuable under heaven.

He breathes and dissolves the barriers between distance and time.
He writes and his brush penetrates clouds and smoke.

With an impulsive laugh he dismisses doctrinal conundrums.
With habitual failure to distinguish shallow from deep

He achieves Chan. – Master Hsu Yun
Work in progress: Contemplating Buddha

From a series I am doing on the Buddha. This was the first one; there are others I am working on. I find it kinda funny that the meditative state is much like the fugue that I enter into when I am painting.
Painting like a mad man for the last week or so. I have been working with some new concepts (at least for me) and I find it all a bit liberating. When you check out the section on the South East Art Walk, you’ll see a couple of more pictures… Anyway, I have been having fun with it, and I really enjoy breaking out of my boundaries. It has inspired me to explore print making again, on fabric and paper as well. We will see.

I believe there is a masterpiece of sorts dwelling within everyone, whether it be poetry, art, a building of the future for the commons, or a singular blazing act of love. I have often thought the we are all parts of something greater, a spirit the entwines over generations, striving for the great act, the union fulfilled. I look back across the waves of time, and what survives? At first I see the stories, tales, and the remnants of our ancestors endeavors. Yet, there is something deeper. Each person that is alive today, was given a gift of life, through acts of love and kindness from untold waves of generation. Each child is a masterwork; crafted by DNA, circumstance, environment, and dreams.

The world we are birthing will be our part of the masterpiece; what we do here and now for others in our lives, for the community, and generations yet to be born.

Can we add clarity to this work of art for our passing through time?

Bright Blessings,

On The Menu:
South East Art Walk!
Music Composed With Windows 98 & XP Sounds
The Tiger, The Brahman & The Jackal
The Poetry of Master Hsu Yun
Music Composed With XP & Vista System Sounds
South East Art Walk

Info on the whole event here: South East Art Walk

So, we are doing it again this year. Paul Hoagland our friend is joining us with his pottery this Saturday & Sunday the 5th & 6th between 10am-5pm at Caer Llwydd (email me for the address if you don’t know it contact me at: llwydd at symbol

I have some 20 new paintings, affordably priced, as well as art encrusted furniture, prints and more! Paul’s pottery is very cool, and well done. He will have a very nice selection of his work.. and we will be introducing our new line of Poetry Post for installation at your house, business or communal space.
Come by just to say hello!

Some Examples of Paul’s Work:

I love his gourd work; his glazes are truly wonderful…

Paul does lots of work that is Japanese influenced….

Some of my new Work:

Dharma-2010 Playing on a long going theme that I come back to again and again…

Mister Gandhi I Presume… I have been reading his works again.

Music Composed With Windows 98 & XP Sounds


The Tiger, The Brahman & The Jackal

Once upon a time, a tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed.

By chance a poor Brahman came by.

“Let me out of this cage, oh pious one!” cried the tiger.

“Nay, my friend,” replied the Brahman mildly, “you would probably eat me if I did.”

“Not at all!” swore the tiger with many oaths; “on the contrary, I should be for ever grateful, and serve you as a slave!”

Now when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept and swore, the pious Brahman’s heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage. Out popped the tiger, and, seizing the poor man, cried, “What a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now, for after being cooped up so long I am just terribly hungry!”

In vain the Brahman pleaded for his life; the most he could gain was a promise to abide by the decision of the first three things he chose to question as to the justice of the tiger’s action.

So the Brahman first asked a papal- tree what it thought of the matter, but the papal-tree replied coldly, “What have you to complain about? Don’t I give shade and shelter to every one who passes by, and don’t they in return tear down my branches to feed their cattle? Don’t whimper–be a man!”

Then the Brahman, sad at heart, went further afield till he saw a buffalo turning a well-wheel; but he fared no better from it, for it answered, “You are a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! Whilst I gave milk they fed me on cotton-seed and oil-cake, but now I am dry they yoke me here, and give me refuse as fodder!”

The Brahman, still more sad, asked the road to give him its opinion.

“My dear sir,” said the road, “how foolish you are to expect anything else! Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of their pipes and the husks of their grain!”

On this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully, and on the way he met a jackal, who called out, “Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look as miserable as a fish out of water!”

The Brahman told him all that had occurred. “How very confusing!” said the jackal, when the recital was ended; “would you mind telling me over again, for everything has got so mixed up?”

The Brahman told it all over again, but the jackal shook his head in a distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.

“It’s very odd,” said he, sadly, “but it all seems to go in at one ear and out at the other! I will go to the place where it all happened, and then perhaps I shall be able to give a judgment.”

So they returned to the cage, by which the tiger was waiting for the Brahman, and sharpening his teeth and claws;

“You’ve been away a long time!” growled the savage beast, “but now let us begin our dinner.”

“Our dinner!” thought the wretched Brahman, as his knees knocked together with fright; “what a remarkably delicate way of putting it!”

“Give me five minutes, my lord!” he pleaded, “in order that I may explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits.”

The tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again, not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.

“Oh, my poor brain! oh, my poor brain!” cried the jackal, wringing its paws. “Let me see! how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the tiger came walking by–”

“Pooh!” interrupted the tiger, “what a fool you are! I was in the cage.”

“Of course! ” cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright; “yes! I was in the cage–no I wasn’t–dear! dear! where are my wits? Let me see–the tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by–no, that’s not it, either! Well, don’t mind me, but begin your dinner, for I shall never understand!”

“Yes, you shall!” returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal’s stupidity; “I’ll make you understand! Look here–I am the tiger–”

“Yes, my lord! ”

“And that is the Brahman–”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And that is the cage–”

“Yes, my lord!”

“And I was in the cage–do you understand?”

“Yes–no – Please, my lord–”

“Well? ” cried the tiger impatiently.

“Please, my lord!–how did you get in?”

“How!–why in the usual way, of course!”

“Oh, dear me!–my head is beginning to whirl again! Please don’t be angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?”

At this the tiger lost patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried, “This way! Now do you understand how it was?”

“Perfectly! ” grinned the jackal, as he dexterously shut the door, “and if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they were!”

The Poetry of Master Hsu Yun

Going Beyond Desire
Striving to leave the wilderness
You become part of what’s wild.
Striving to cease grasping
Is, itself, grasping.
So how do you gain control and get beyond desire?
Open those eyes… the ones that were born in your own skull.

An Exquisite Truth
This is an exquisite truth:
Saints and ordinary folks are the same from the start.
Inquiring about a difference
Is like asking to borrow string when you’ve got a good strong rope.
Every Dharma is known in the heart.
After a rain, the mountain colors intensify.
Once you become familiar with the design of fate’s illusions
Your ink-well will contain all of life and death.

Searching For The Dharma
You’ve traveled up ten thousand steps in search of the Dharma.
So many long days in the archives, copying, copying.
The gravity of the Tang and the profundity of the Sung make heavy baggage.
Here! I’ve picked you a bunch of wildflowers.
Their meaning is the same
but they’re much easier to carry.

The Barking Dog
We went up across the ridge for the fun of it.
Didn’t need to pack any more wine.
On the precipice, flowers opened, smiling.
By the river, willows grew bright.
In the drizzling rain the village smoke congealed, concealed.
The wind was slight and the grass was cool.
There in the woods’ underbrush, startled,
We suddenly heard a dog bark.
It wanted us to know the Master was aware.

Feelings on Remembering the Day I first Produced the Mind

Drawn some sixty years ago by karma
I turned life upside down
And climbed straight on to lofty summits.
Between my eyes a hanging sword,
The Triple World is pure.
Empty-handed, I hold a hoe, clearing a galaxy.

As the ‘Ocean of the Knowing-mind’ dries up,
Pearls shine forth by themselves;
Space smashed to dust, a moon hangs independent.
I threw my net through Heaven,
Caught the dragon and the phoenix;
Alone I walk through the cosmos,
Connecting the past and its people.

Ten Thousand Buddha Mountain – Red Flower Grotto

This place used to be called Red Flower Grotto.
Now it’s called Ten Thousand Buddha Mountain.
Visitors come here to play chess
And listen to the pouring rain safe inside their plaited huts.

The beauty of a thousand peaks still fills this grotto.
Streams flow into it and pools turn nine times as they form.
In the countryside nearby, tigers prowl.
Above, the pines jut into the sky just as they did in the days of Han.

The Spirit Dragon flies around through the dark rain.
But only white ghostly visions dance through the Chan gate of Awakening.
The Sangha gather beyond the boundary of the blue sky.
The Sangha spend their leisure with the white clouds.

Writing a Chant Poem on Fu Guo Dreaming of the Ocean

Poems express a person’s feelings
And this can cause both profit or loss.
A teacher uses allegory to convey meaning.
And metaphor makes it easier to speak his truth.
So this moldy old man uses pen and ink for his explanations.

All my life I’ve been foolish and dull.
Sometimes I look at something and I think it’s so wonderful.
And then I realize I was pointing out a fact
That was as obvious as the moon.

Music Composed With XP & Vista System Sounds