Snow Leopard and Black Panther (for H.)

The musky incense of nag champa, was what led
the snow leopard to the black panther:
her lustrous smoothness, the scent and warmth
of her fur and skin – an uncharted territory.
The turquoise half-hidden behind his long eyelashes, lingering shadow of long eyelashes,
was what led the black panther to the snow leopard: his quiet prowess
and elegant strength – disarming, surreptitious beauty,
the most arresting stillness.
The snow leopard softly cocoons the black panther
with ripples of golden kisses: she did not know the reason why; nor
did the stars in her pantherine night sky.

Pacing in passionate vexation, behind the invisible bars in her eyes,
the black panther lays her gaze upon the snow leopard.
With such agitation, a prayer and a plea encircle
the black diamonds scattering amidst her dangerously soft leaps.
Those sun-embroidered lines of the snow leopard’s timeless form
embrace and penetrate like a metallic thread, glowing, illuminating:
A frozen motion, thoughtlessness in sehnsucht;
a mind within, a mind without. A mind of no mind.

What melts the black panther’s restlessness
is the motionlessness in the snow leopard’s glance beyond
(but is what she perceives as beyond
truly looking backward, or rather looking inward?) –

As they flow together and walk together in the ceaseless waves
of Mo Chhu’s deep sapphire, Po Chhu’s avalanche white,
they meet, without intention of direction.


The quiescence and mutuality of infinity.

*     *     *

Sehnsucht
(n.) “the inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what”; a yearning for a far, familiar, non-earthly land one can identify as one’s home. See also here.

~23^rd/July/2012

*English translation of the lyrics:

With every word,
with every smile,
with every look,
with every caress...

I approach the water
drinking your kiss,
the light of your face,
the light of your form.

To love you is a plea;
it's the song of a mute;
the look of a blind man;
a naked secret.

I surrender myself to your arms,
with fear and with calm;
a plea on my lips,
a plea in my soul.

With every word,
with every smile,
with every look,
with every caress...

I approach the fire,
and all that it burns;
the light of your face,
the light of your form.

To love you is a plea;
it's the song of a mute;
the look of a blind man;
a secret exposed.

I give myself to your arms,
with fear and with calm;
a plea on my lips,
a plea in my soul...

海市蜃樓: a short impression on Dubai

This mirage city built on sand and sea is quite indescribably bizarre. My initial romanticised exotic impression on arrival at the airport – subtle wafts in the air of what resembles the scent of my favourite Nag Champa incense – quickly turned sour after spending forever at immigration and on the way to the hotel. An unusually tiring journey by air for seven (plus two) hours. The port-side hotel’s friendly staff then quickly restored my good impression (I’m such an easy mark) with their wonderful professionalism, lovely attentiveness, and beautiful little canapés (吃, what else?). So much sand in the air that the view from the cab looked almost dreamlike, the strange, cachophanous mixture of architectural styles, and those incredibly elegant men dressed in impeccable “veneer white” from head to toe (and stay white!)… Perhaps tomorrow morning my mood will be lifted more by admiring all those beautifully glassy blue and green eyes, and olive skin glistening under the sunlight (reminding me of my SOAS days).

*          *          *

The smell of frankincense permeating in the air, stronger and stronger; the intoxicating Middle Eastern music, and the calls to prayers filling the dome... All of this is making me seriously light-headed and "I just want to go to sleep..." Then, a few hours later I woke up to face the bitter and cruel realities, of airport security, argh~~~ And those people in a hurry to friggin' go nowhere... don't they ever find themselves just a tad moronic? (Pardon my semi-French here...) Changi, at times like this how I do love coming back to you...!

*          *          *

The sweet nightingale
sings like a lyre
the flower-filled meadows
are laughing for joy;
a flight of birds soars up
from the enchanted forest;
the maidens’ chorus
promises a thousand delights.

~Carmina Burana; cantiones profanae.
(Alys Clare translation in the author’s book “The Enchanter’s Forest.”)

*Words written and images taken by me in late April, 2012.

That which speaks to me these days...

視之不見，名曰微；聽之不聞，名曰希；搏之不得，名曰夷。此三者，不可 致詰，故混而為一。其上不皎，其下不昧，繩繩兮不可名，複歸于物。是謂無狀之狀，無物之象，是謂惚恍。迎之不見其首，隨之不見其后。執古之道，以御今 之有。能知古始，是謂道紀。

---《道德經：十四章》

"Look, and it can’t be seen. Listen, and it can’t be heard. Reach, and it can’t be grasped. Above, it isn’t bright. Below, it isn’t dark. Seamless, unnamable, it returns to the realm of nothing. Form that includes all forms, image without an image, subtle, beyond all conception. Approach it and there is no beginning; follow it and there is no end. You can’t know it, but you can be it, at ease in your own life. Just realize where you come from: this is the essence of wisdom." 

---Tao Te Ching, Chapter xiv


故常無欲，以觀其妙；常有欲，以觀其徼。此兩者同出而異名，同謂之玄。玄 之又玄，眾妙之門。

---《道德經：一章》

Very Advaita Vedanta...
"One experiences without Self to sense the World,
And experiences with Self to understand the World.
The two experiences are the same within Tao;
They are distinct only within the World.
Neither experience conveys Tao
Which is infinitely greater and more subtle than the World."

---Tao Te Ching, Chapter i

*          *          *

"... So what happens? I am clinging not to you, but to the idea, to something which will help me to escape from myself. You may be attached to an experience, to an incident, which has given you great excitement, a great sense of elation, a sense of power, a sense of safety and you are clinging to that. That experience, which you have had, what is it? That experience is registered in the mind and you hold it. That something you are holding on to is dead and you also are becoming dead. If you see all this, without any direction, without any motive, just observe it, then you will see that insight shows the whole thing as on a map. When once there is that insight the thing disappears completely, you are not attached."

---Jiddu Krishnamurti, On Attachment

Some thoughts...
D: What a remarkable insight. The mind creates the illusion of existence which creates the 'grasping'. The mind is the trickster that deludes one from knowing that the one collective self is that which is infinite - that which alone exists. Everything else is noise.
Poesis: The more I get into Krishnamurti the more profoundly I "feel" his words - it's really remarkable.
Time is ceaselessly passing, like a running brook, as T.S. Eliot's poem "but that which is only living can only die" - after the mind's illusion of dead/dying experience "having shed its bright load, the relieved leaf unbent." (Nabakov) But then according to D time does not exist!
"...the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now."
They were always there, and never there. Since 'all is always now', the need of grasping ceases to be. Everything else is noise. Hooray.

"It is astonishingly beautiful and interesting, how thought is absent when you have an insight. ... It is only when the mind is not operating mechanically in the structure of thought that you have an insight."

---Jiddu Krishnamurti

"You know, to love is to be free; both parties are free. Where there is the possibility of pain, where there is the possibility of suffering in love, it is not love, it is merely a subtle form of possession, of acquisitiveness. [...] So each struggle for comfort, for encouragement, really but betrays the lack of inward richness; and therefore an action separate, apart from the other individual naturally creates disturbance, pain and suffering; and one individual has to suppress what he really feels in order to adjust himself to the other. In other words, this constant repression, brought about by so-called love, destroys the two individuals. In that love there is no freedom; it is merely a subtle bondage." An enlightened ideal, perhaps?

---Jiddu Krishnamurti, The Book of Life

‎"So the 'me' is the creator of that emptiness. The 'me' is the empty; the 'me' is a self-enclosing process in which we are aware of that extraordinary loneliness. So being aware of that, we are trying to run away through various forms of identification. These identifications we call fulfillments. Actually, there is no fulfillment because mind, the 'me', can never fulfill; it is the very nature of the 'me' to be self-enclosing. [...] this ache of emptiness is extraordinarily strong. We do anything to escape from it. Any illusion is sufficient, and that is the source of illusion. Mind has the power to create illusion. And as long as we do not understand that aloneness, that state of self-enclosing emptiness - do what you will, seek whatever fulfillment you will - there is always that barrier which divides, which knows no completeness."
"That intelligent, integrated state is aloneness. When the observer is the observed, then it is the integrated state. And in that aloneness, in that state of being completely alone, full, when the mind is not seeking anything, neither seeking reward nor avoiding punishment, when the mind is truly still, not seeking, not groping, only then, that which is not measured by the mind comes into being."

---On Sorrow and Aloneness, Jiddu Krishnamurti talk, February 3, 1952
(See the full article of Krishnamurti's talk on fulfillment and aloneness here.)

*          *          *

"The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality. Perhaps the facts most astounding and most real are never communicated by man to man. The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched."

---Walden, by Henry David Thoreau

Poesis: 雖然眼睛看不見風，但風卻是存在的：聽得見，感受得著，在雲的舞姿裡觀察得到，當它吹在髮梢與樹葉的瞬間，亦能得見。

*          *          *

I broke your heart.
Now barefoot I tread
on shards.
---------------------------------------------
If there is something to desire,
there will be something to regret.
If there is something to regret,
there will be something to recall.
If there is something to recall,
there was nothing to regret.
If there was nothing to regret,
there was nothing to desire.

— both poems by Vera Pavlova, (translated by Steven Seymour)

“Remembering is only a new form of suffering.” — Charles Baudelaire

Some response...
Poesis: But then suffering is no different in its essence from absence of suffering, and pleasure no different from absence of it. Following this logic, remembering is no different from forgetting, hence 'forgetting is also only a new form of suffering.' Love is the greatest illusion in the apparent world of individuation. (What random streams of consciousness at midnight...)

*          *          *

Whatever is dependently co-arisen
That is explained to be emptiness.
That, being a dependent designation,
Is itself the middle way.

—Nagarjuna, Mūlamadhyamakakārikā 24:18

Whatever is impermanent is subject to change. 
Whatever is subject to change is subject to suffering.

—The Buddha

Poesis: All of this is nothingness. "There is no difference between samsara and nirvana." Nagarjuna my hero!

*          *          *

"The suffering in these poems remains intact; it is neither resolved nor negated. What happens for the most part is, the poems dissolve, finally, into the cream of the physical world. If negative capability works at all, it works in reverse, a kind of negative negative capability—which would make it positive—where very real anxiety and irritability over mystery and doubt enable the poet—no, propel him—into the world of the eye, the pure perceptual habit that checks all cognitive drives, not before they’ve begun but after they’ve begun, and done their damage. [...] —until it seems that perpetual fear is a propellant into the innocent, fearless, and vulnerable world of the senses. So that the poet paralyzed with fear lying in a hammock on a beautiful day—unhappy man in a happy world—does not suffer any less when he looks around him; he does not cease to suffer, he only ceases to try to understand."

(Read Mary Ruefle's full essay 'On Fear' here.)

*          *          *

「荼蘼—韶華勝極」「開到荼蘼花事了，塵煙過，知多少？」
～《紅樓夢》＜壽怡紅群芳開夜宴＞
「一從梅粉褪殘妝，塗抹新紅上海棠；開到荼蘼花事了，絲絲天棘出莓牆。」～宋, 王淇春 ＜暮遊小園＞
佛說:「一切有為法，儘是因緣合和，緣起時起，緣盡還無，不外如是。」

Self Portrait by Francesca Woodman

Woodman’s interest in self-presentation—and self-preservation—emerges even in a note written around the time of her first suicide attempt. “I finally managed,” she explains, “to try to do away with myself, as neatly and concisely as possible…. I would rather die young leaving various accomplishments, some work, my friendship with you, and some other artifacts intact, instead of pell-mell erasing all of these delicate things.” Woodman reverses the traditional terms of the arrangement: death, like photography, is simply a series of chemical reactions. Living is “erasing”; dying a way of ensuring that what was will continue to be, of fixing certain things in place. [...] ...her long exposures as a portrait of “legs—and time.” Her wording recalls a statement issued by early photographer William H. Fox Talbot in the 1830s, when he praised the infant medium’s ability to document “the injuries of time.” 

 ---by Elizabeth Gumport, via New York Review of Books

Indian religious philosopher, thinker and spiritual teacher, Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1985)

"There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery." ---Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim

(*image: Nakazora n°983, by 山本昌男 Masao Yamamoto, 2004.)

瑰寶：淨白月牙

Tear stains of the feather-light ivory glaze
And two faintest lotuses etched by the sharpest
From the farthest melodies of the Silk Road
Echoed the most lingering fragrance, that left me
With ancient music, and 
Everlasting time in asphyxia

【北宋 定窯 白瓷劃花蓮紋長頸瓶】 

功能為盛裝器、花器，全器施牙白色釉，釉薄而明亮。器面留有流淌的「淚痕」，腹的下緣和足圈壁及器底均有露胎處，胎骨輕薄，胎土呈白色。器腹斜刀淺劃兩組蓮花。 (台灣國立故宮博物院 ， 陳列室：207) 

Ding Ware, Northern Song Dynasty, 

National Palace Museum, Taipei, Taiwan.

a poem written for my grandfather in '97

To be translated someday, perchance...

《水的蓄意》


我乾涸著。

枯槁的雙目因長年的凝望而龜裂
遊走沉痾的夢境
低垂的墨色眼睫在你
柔和低迴的天籟下緘默欲雨

而我仍卑屈地相信著因
過度狂傲顯得瘖啞疲累的靈魂
因你
而沈重且蒙塵  而
不止下墜

注滿了長久恐懼而停滯的悲思
在你決堤似的哭泣下我已
成河沒你顫抖的足踝
死亡與生命起伏一如泡沫
紛擾凝滯我已欲沈澱的心志

因疲憊而溶蝕了尊嚴與最後的禁抑
信仰齟齬的美麗
你布滿深刻皺紋的黑洞吸進我祈禱的聲音
莊嚴的啜泣孤伶伶地哽咽
著廣袤的思念

而我仍乾涸著。

10.21.’97

Sāṃdhyābhāṣā (to be developed...)

I dream of writing poetry
in the Twilight Language sāṃdhyābhāṣā,
a faraway land redolent of imageries and metaphors,
with immediacy irrecusably abstract yet perceptual;
indecipherable to others, and
perhaps even to myself,
for it will be, in the end, 
unnecessary.

(... a "poetique-onirique" thought that just arrived ...)

Vanité, by Aelbert van der Schoor
(*image via Luxe et Vanités )

"Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus, singula dum capti circumvectamur amore."
(But meanwhile it flees: time flees irretrievably, while we wander around, prisoners of our love of detail.)

--- Giorgics, by Virgil


*See also Vanitas and the notion of Memento Mori.

I want to be with those who know secret things, or else alone.

I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough
to make every minute holy.
I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough
just to lie before you like a thing,
shrewd and secretive.
I want my own will,
and I want simply to be with my will,
as it goes toward action,
and in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times
when something is coming near,
I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone.
I want to be a mirror for your whole body,
and I never want to be blind, or to be too old
to hold up your heavy and swaying picture.
I want to unfold.
I don't want to stay folded anywhere,
because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
And I want my grasp of things
true before you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I looked at
closely for a long time,
like a saying that I finally understood,
like the pitcher I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that took me safely
through the wildest storm of all.

---Rainer Maria Rilke (Translated by Robert Bly)

Five Poems and a Beloved's Gaze

Krishna and Radha, painting by Jitendra Ramchandra Sharma

In Vain   — by Emily Dickinson

I cannot live with you,
It would be life,
And life is over there
Behind the shelf

The sexton keeps the key to,
Putting up
Our life, his porcelain,
Like a cup

Discarded of the housewife,
Quaint or broken;
A newer Sevres pleases,
Old ones crack.

I could not die with you,
For one must wait
To shut the other's gaze down,
You could not.

And I, could I stand by
And see you freeze,
Without my right of frost,
Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise with you,
Because your face
Would put out Jesus',
That new grace

Glow plain and foreign
On my homesick eye,
Except that you, than he
Shone closer by.

They'd judge us-how?
For you served Heaven, you know,
Or sought to;
I could not,

Because you saturated sight,
And I had no more eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise.

And were you lost, I would be,
Though my name
Rang loudest
On the heavenly fame.

And were you saved,
And I condemned to be
Where you were not,
That self were hell to me.

So we must keep apart,
You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are,
And prayer,
And that pale sustenance,
Despair!


Toward The Piræus   — by H. D. (Hilda Dolittle)

  Slay with your eyes, Greek,
  men over the face of the earth,
  slay with your eyes, the host,
  puny, passionless, weak.

  Break, as the ranks of steel
  broke of the Persian host:
  craven, we hated them then:
  now we would count them Gods
  beside these, spawn of the earth.

  Grant us your mantle, Greek;
  grant us but one
  to fright (as your eyes) with a sword,
  men, craven and weak,
  grant us but one to strike
  one blow for you, passionate Greek.

        I

  You would have broken my wings,
  but the very fact that you knew
  I had wings, set some seal
  on my bitter heart, my heart
  broke and fluttered and sang.

  You would have snared me,
  and scattered the strands of my nest;
  but the very fact that you saw,
  sheltered me, claimed me,
  set me apart from the rest.

  Of men—of men made you a god,
  and me, claimed me, set me apart
  and the song in my breast, yours, yours forever—
  if I escape your evil heart.

        II

  I loved you:
  men have writ and women have said
  they loved,
  but as the Pythoness stands by the altar,
  intense and may not move;
  till the fumes pass over;
  and may not falter nor break,
  till the priest has caught the words
  that mar or make
  a deme or a ravaged town;
  so I, though my knees tremble,
  my heart break,
  must note the rumbling,
  heed only the shuddering
  down in the fissure beneath the rock
  of the temple floor;
  must wait and watch
  and may not turn nor move,
  nor break from my trance to speak
  so slight, so sweet,
  so simple a word as love.

        III

  What had you done
  had you been true,
  I can not think,
  I may not know.
  What could we do
  were I not wise,
  what play invent,
  what joy devise?
  What could we do
  if you were great?
  (Yet were you lost,
  who were there, then,
  to circumvent
  the tricks of men?)
  What can we do,
  for curious lies
  have filled your heart,
  and in my eyes
  sorrow has writ
  that I am wise.

        IV

  If I had been a boy,
  I would have worshiped your grace,
  I would have flung my worship
  before your feet,
  I would have followed apart,
  glad, rent with an ecstasy
  to watch you turn
  your great head, set on the throat,
  thick, dark with its sinews,
  burned and wrought
  like the olive stalk,
  and the noble chin
  and the throat.

  I would have stood,
  and watched and watched
  and burned,
  and when in the night,
  from the many hosts, your slaves,
  and warriors and serving men
  you had turned
  to the purple couch and the flame
  of the woman, tall like cypress tree
  that flames sudden and swift and free
  as with crackle of golden resin
  and cones and the locks flung free
  like the cypress limbs,
  bound, caught and shaken and loosed,
  bound, caught and riven and bound
  and loosened again,
  as in rain of a kingly storm
  or wind full from a desert plain.

  So, when you had risen
  from all the lethargy of love and its heat,
  you would have summoned me, me alone,
  and found my hands,
  beyond all the hands in the world,
  cold, cold, cold,
  intolerably cold and sweet.

        V

  It was not chastity that made me cold nor fear,
  only I knew that you, like myself, were sick
  of the puny race that crawls and quibbles and lisps
  of love and love and lovers and love’s deceit.

  It was not chastity that made me wild but fear
  that my weapon, tempered in different heat,
  was over-matched by yours, and your hand
  skilled to yield death-blows, might break.

  With the slightest turn—no ill-will meant—
  my own lesser, yet still somewhat fine-wrought

  fiery-tempered, delicate, over-passionate steel.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Four Quartets   — by T.S. Eliot

Burnt Norton

V

Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

      The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always-
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.



*"Beloved," says Anoushka, "was my first experience writing lyrics from scratch and fitting it to a melody. It was flute-focused and I thought it would be nice to have it be about Krishna because he's always associated with the flute. The lyrics are from the viewpoint of Radha, who's his eternal lover. She's searching for him everywhere and then she understands that the reason she hasn't been able to find him is because she's not looking within herself."

SHYAM (श्याम): Hindi name derived from the Sanskrit element syama, meaning "black, blue." In mythology, this is a name belonging to Krishna.

Beloved - lyrics Anoushka Shankar/ vocals: Swarnima Gusain
Shyam re
(O Dark one*)
Shyam re
Shyam re
Daras dikha jaa, shyam re
(Let me see you, dark one)
Daras dikha jaa, shyam re
Saawre, saawre
( "beautiful one, beautiful one")
Daras dikha jaa, shyam re
Saawre, saawre
Daras dikha jaa, shyam re
Chavvi torey nainon ki, taan teri bansi ki
( "the sight of your eyes, the sound of your flute")
Chavvi torey nainon ki, taan teri bansi ki
Satoan na tum aisay piya
(Do not torture me thus, my love)
Main hu teri bas teri
(I am yours, just yours)
Satoan na tum aisay piya
Main hu teri bas teri
Saason mein basa tera naam re
(It dwells in my breath, your name)
Shyam re, saawre
( "dark one, beautiful one")
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re
Shyam re, saawre
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re
Itt ud khoju piya
(Here and there I look for you, my love)
Jaadu tuney aisa kiya
(Such a spell you have a cast on me)
Itt ud khoju piya
Jaadu tuney aisa kiya
Samjhi ab lila tori
(Now I understand your game)
Basey morey man mein piya
(You live in my heart, my love)
Samjhi ab lila tori
Basey morey man mein piya
Saason mein basa tera naam re
(It dwells in my breath, your name)
Shyam re, saawre
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re
Shyam re, saawre
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re
Shyam re, saawre
Daras dihka jaa, shyam re

some notes on my poetry translations...

奔馬

夢先於現實。
而純粹
似花，似血，似詩
，似枯腐前消逝的生。


Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity)  

Dreams, a priori, then reality.
And purity
Resembles a flower, resembles blood, resembles poetry,
Resembles life, a priori, disappearing before decay.


Notes on Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity)

The main inspiration behind my poem “Runaway Horses” was Mishima Yukio’s 奔馬 Runaway Horses, the second book in his tetralogy豊饒の海 The Sea of Fertility, Mishima’s final work before his ritual suicide (seppuku) on November 25, 1970, which he planned meticulously for at least a year with no one outside the group of hand-picked members of Tatenokai (楯の会, or Shield Society, a private militia in Japan dedicated to traditional Japanese values and veneration of the Emperor, founded and led by Mishima himself) having any indication of what he was attempting. Mishima discussed and wrote about seppuku extensively and in great details in Runaway Horses (but surely it was received, and intended to be, a work of fiction when published). The alternative translated title “Realistically Synaesthetic Purity” was given when I first translated this poem from the Chinese it was originally written in. Synaesthesia, meaning “a sensation experienced in a part of the body other than the part stimulated (in physiology)” or “the subjective sensation of a sense other than the one being stimulated. For example, a sound may evoke sensations of colour (in psychology),” is not something one usually experiences in daily life (our ordinary consciousness), but rather, is more likely to occur in an aesthetic experience (an extraordinary consciousness which distinguishes itself from ordinary consciousness in many of its metaphysical and epistemological characters).

Mishima’s Runaway Horses was the book which I enjoyed the least whilst reading his tetralogy – the most politically and socially oriented, and also the most scholastic and ‘academically complex’ style of writing. This book was almost too dry at times for me to recognise the literary giant and his artistic beauty which I fell so hopelessly in love with and has influenced me so much for so long. In this novel, Mishima left me no breathing space (something I crave and adore and need in literature). Nevertheless, the poem came to me a while after I finished all four books of The Sea of Fertility tetralogy, in a way that could not have been purer, simpler, like a flower blossoming at night with a faint, subtle and lingering scent. The feeling I had when naming my poem "Realistically Synaesthetic Purity" is that, I was overwhelmed from being over-stimulated in my eyes and my brain whilst reading Runaway Horses, but the sensation and purity I felt in my heart, from his heart, was realistic and not ‘transcendental’ or ‘idealistic’ (ideal, as opposed to ‘real’). Runaway Horses, albeit being a book on an area which I am not all that interested in, with its difficult words, with Mishima’s complicated, meticulous and formidable system of thoughts, the social and political notions and history discussed, was able to get through to me and make me feel its purity, simplicity and beauty in the end. I saw its heart. Its essence.

A priori: 先驗性, ‘determining something priori to their being given,’ ‘existing in the mind prior to and independent of experience,’ (antonym: a posteriori). I dedicate this poem, and in particular this line, to Mishima Yukio and his book Runaway Horses:
“And purity… Resembles life, a priori, disappearing before decay.”


*                    *                    *                    *


曉寺

(薰息，我執，唯識)

緣起於鏡花水月的無常
存活涅槃之花瓣間的阿賴耶識，似
剔透的純藍火焰蘊蓄
鏤花之詩

桃花心木質的鏤空雕花
在蒼白哀傷的殘月撫觸下
散發似水晶斷面般清明露華
濕漉而冷冽的香氛


Temple in Vijñaptimātra

(…incense, Ātma-grāha, Vijñānavāda)

Dependant arising, from the impermanence
Of mirrored flowers, of moon water
Exists ālayavijñāna between petals of nirvana, as if
Transparency of pure blue flames, and
Within which a filigree of poetry

Rosewood reliefs under caresses
Of pale sorrowful moonlight
Scent of dewdrops at dawn permeates, like
A crystal facet; the soaking, penetratingly
Icy perfume

Notes on Temple in Vijñaptimātra

Inspired by Mishima Yukio’s 曉寺 Temple of Dawn, my favourite book in The Sea of Fertility tetralogy, and perhaps my favourite of all his books and writings I have read, my poem “Temple in Vijñaptimātra” was also written originally in Chinese and translated into English quite some time later. Unlike “Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity),” which I consider a rather abstract poem of mine, “Temple in Vijñaptimātra” appeared/arrived with imageries, sounds, smells, and words which alone might not mean much but present themselves as gemstones, paint colours and musical notes for me to create jewellery, paintings and songs. Independent and individual images to be made into a ‘moving and flowing’ film. That is how I usually write poetry. Having been influenced by Buddhist concepts since primary school when I first came across a writer whose prose is deeply inspired by Chan Buddhism, and given my love of words and ideograms (specifically Chinese), I fell in love with Buddhist terminologies in Chinese (and later in their original Sanskrit) for their sounds, their appearances, and the ways words are arranged. For me, they are in and of themselves, poetry, and always provide many inspirations.

Vijñaptimātra (唯識論): ‘Mere representation;’ the Yogācāra theory that the contents of everyday, unenlightened experience are merely a false superimposition upon actuality of dualistic concepts generated by the mind that prevent direct experience of reality as it truly is (yathā-bhūta). Some later forms of Yogācāra lend themselves to an idealistic interpretation of this theory but such a view is absent from the works of the early Yogācārins such as Asaṇga and Vasubandhu.
Ātma-grāha (我執): attachment to self
Vijñānavāda (विज्ञानवाद): 唯識宗, the Vijñaptimātra school of thought
Aālayavijñāna (阿賴耶識): The ālaya-vijñāna forms the "base-consciousness" (mūla-vijñāna) or "causal consciousness". According to the traditional interpretation, the other seven consciousnesses are "evolving" or "transforming" consciousnesses originating in this base-consciousness.
The store-house consciousness accumulates all potential energy for the mental (nama) and physical (rupa) manifestation of one's existence (namarupa). It is the storehouse-consciousness which induces transmigration or rebirth, causing the origination of a new existence.


*                    *                    *                    *


Decayed

birds fluttering feathers beasts secretly cringing
as if musk spreading in the mists astray, fading
then never a sound in Death/ nor breath/ not even heart
Death seals and stagnates the pale wax of light
in her mouth
as if a tooth-filing ceremony as if anaemia as if bleeding


One little footnote on Decayed…

*Tooth-filing Ceremony: The Balinese Ceremonies of Tooth-filing

The second part of human ceremonies for the Balinese Hindu life is tooth-filing. The ceremony is held when a child reaches adulthood, the purpose of which is to minimise sins – Anger, Envy, Greed, Arrogance, Drunkenness and so on. This ceremony must be performed prior to a child’s marriage or after the girl’s first menstrual period starts. Only 6 teeth should be filed for this ceremony – 2 eye teeth and 4 incisors of the top teeth. Tooth-filing is a very important ceremony for Balinese life, as it is believed that should the ceremony not be performed on a person, that person’s soul will be restless and never in peace when s/he dies. Those in tooth-filing ceremonies should dress in mostly golden yellow and white colours, symbolism of holiness. In Bali, Balinese Hindus believe in thousands of gods, and every single thing in the house has a spirit. They believe that there is a god watching over the place, and offerings are also essential to bad spirits. This is to give gratitude to the gods, and to the bad spirits for not disturbing their peace. Beautiful and exquisitely colourful ephemeral offerings seen everywhere on the island of Bali are made every single day as small offerings to thousands of deities and evil spirits, one of Bali’s sights that have always had my heart.



*Beautiful ephemeral offerings! One of the topics I enjoyed the most when I studied Southeast Asian art history/archaeology/material cultures in university. (More photographs from my travel to Ubud, Bali...)

Second Poem for Xiao-Tsao: 小草詩箋其二

板胡歌唱著花梆子　
遠處朦朧樂音　裊裊如烟飄盪 
蒂安．阿柏絲*眼中黑衣白領的雙胞胎　
神遊福爾摩沙兩美 
指尖與臂彎圈出了一抹心　
細膩綾羅下對稱著蹻工儿 
「相片是關於一個秘密的秘密。
它告訴你愈多，你知道得愈少。」 

 ("A photograph is a secret about a secret. 
 The more it tells you the less you know." ~*Diane Arbus) 

 ─ 黃亭禎

I feel very proud and privileged to announce that the second poem I wrote for Mr. Chin's wonderful Xiao-Tsao (Young Grass) Academy of Art 小草藝術學院 postcard publication has been printed and produced. The image is, again, a precious old photograph from the bygone era, tinted with beautifully and subtly faded colours, which represents something perhaps more than merely a distant dream. This image of two Formosan beauties, much like the first one I wrote a poem for (see here), gave me much inspiration and I felt its narrative potential instantaneously when I laid my eyes on it.

Below I have quoted Mr. Chin's blog entry on this publication - it is, as always, beautifully written in Chinese (but I might translate it into English for my beloved readers at some point!). I would like to thank him again for giving me the opportunities to poetically interpret these captivating old photographs (something very dear to my own heart) and imagine the many stories which my mind and heart conjure up with such visual fascination. I truly look forward to writing many more poems to accompany Mr. Chin's Xiao-Tsao, a labour of love  from a true artist whom I respect and admire.

*     *     *

(See original post here...)

"小草明信片的編號超過四百號後，開始試著以小草的觀點，挑選並覆刻印製世界的經典圖像。但持續整理複製臺灣的老視覺，始終是小草永遠都不會忘記的初衷。這張迷人又數量稀少的《福爾摩沙雙美人》手彩明信片，老早便想覆刻為小草明信片，以讓更多人看到、擁有及書寄，但一直卡在沒有相對應的文案。因此這回得以一償宿願，必須萬分感謝黃亭禎小姐，繼小草418《上海時裝雙美人》手彩明信後，再次為小草明信片書寫文案。這則文案十分特別的是黃小姐還為「相片是關於一個秘密的秘密。它告訴你愈多，你知道得愈少。」一句附上了英文原典，這在小草過往的文案中是前所未有，若非因為由學貫中西的黃小姐操刀文案，小草明信片大概不會有如此的文案呈現吧！期盼這般的試驗，不僅可以活化小草明信片的單一生命力，更重要的是讓百年前的《福爾摩沙雙美人》手彩明信片，因為與這則文案相遇交會，從而激盪出以島嶼為中心，卻跨越了時代及區域的全新詩意漣漪‧‧‧ 最後依然要再次由衷感謝黃亭禎小姐熱心的無償精彩文案書寫！"

This really made my day like nothing else... Another wonderfully handmade gift from Mr. Chin (look at his beautiful calligraphy!) and *loads* of Xiao-Tsao (Young Grass) Academy postcards featuring precious images, including the two with my poetry. I am continuing to write poems for Xiao-Tsao and will do it forever!! Mr. Chin's unique and rare collection of images re-ignited my passion for poetry writing in Chinese, something I had a lengthy respiro of way over ten years, but still now love it so. The wood box, with his calligraphy "亭禎詩文案" (a Pandora's Box for Ting-Jen's poetry) was what he created for me to collect all my future poem-postcards, a poetry-image collaboration between us which I hope will continue for a very, very long time. Indeed it is a Pandora's Box -- once I (re)started writing poetry in Chinese, I cannot stop (nor do I want to!!).
再次由衷感謝秦政德大哥如此費心的美好禮物，您真是太客氣了！能為小草寫詩是我的福氣。

Look, look, look...! How gorgeous it is inside too! There is even calligraphy on the side (where the box closes) in very special seal script 隸書體... ♥♥♥ I am so deliriously happy about this gift (and the previous one of course!) I'm going to cry...

*          *          *

And here is Mr. Chin's heartfelt and wonderfully written response (with great humour!): *via

儘管小草明信片一開始就非常清楚定位在「覆刻」老圖像，不過卻始終努力嘗試著讓「覆刻」不只是單純「覆刻」。換句話說，總希望在「覆刻」老圖像之餘，可以多一些帶點積極意義的新創造。正因為這樣小小的想法與期許，才會有每款小草明信片背後都不一樣的搭配文案。哪怕只有一行短短的書寫文案，小草明信片大概就不單只是照著印老圖像，反而擁有了與昔日對話的現在時代性吧！但剛搞小草明信片時，包括資源、人脈等什麼都沒有，在完全找不到人書寫小草明信片的情況下，只好硬著頭皮自己絞盡腦汁帶筆上陣了！所以小草明信片早期的文案品質如何？便可想而知了！儘管如此，仍然十分阿Q地想：「關於文案，不管寫多爛，有總比沒有好」。於是學畫畫的我，縱然很悲情地不停榨乾自己、以一絲絲搔首猛冒的白髮，換取小草明信片的一字字難產的文案，小草明信片的文案啊！依舊只是在「有總比沒有好」的水準邊緣浮浮沉沉‧‧‧ 

所以為了小草明信片的整體品質，當然想找精於文字的人書寫，但時時面臨生存大關的小草明信片，依然還是沒有多餘資源可以提供相對應的酬勞。即使終於厚著臉皮、鼓起勇氣尋求周遭人際友情的書寫贊助，可以在大家都辛辛苦苦忙於生計的情況之下，多半都遭到婉拒或不了了之‧‧‧ 

因此當我頗為冒昧地抱著姑且一試的誠懇態度，以臉書訊息詢問黃亭禎小姐是否願為小草明信片書寫文案，沒料到居然獲得極為明快的善意回應並隨即收到文字時，心底盡是滿滿激動的感恩之意。畢竟在小草目前尚無法支付相應稿酬的情形下，以黃小姐優異特出的家世、學歷及才情‧‧‧願意不多計較地替小草寫著無償文案，小草藝術學院除了感激，還是不停地由衷感激！ 

這回小草明信片新品419《福爾摩沙雙美人》手彩明信片，背後文案就是黃亭禎小姐第二次為小草量身書寫的詩，為了表達謝意，另一方面，哈哈！也希望精於文字的黃小姐，能繼續為小草書寫高優質的詩文案，所以特地選了個專放套裝小草明信片的梧桐木盒，恭敬研墨握筆、認認真真題上《亭禎詩文案》。 

由於黃小姐長期隨外籍夫婿旅居全球，不久前才回到臺灣，我方能把新品明信片與《亭禎詩文案》木盒寄出，昨天在臉書上便看到黃小姐貼出《亭禎詩文案》的照片與大半英文的介紹。顯然，黃小姐還蠻接受小草表達謝意的《亭禎詩文案》套裝木盒，如果黃小姐不棄嫌的話，真希望小草藝術學院有榮幸與福氣能繼續與黃小姐合作，為《亭禎詩文案》再放進一張張、一首首，以新時代語言喚醒並吟詠老靈魂的生命明信片‧‧‧

The Third Poem: The Room In Between

Water lilies, float on diagonals, tumbling
down the rustic fragile ladder
(those spaces in-between, those hollows of dreams)
into, a pond of flickering candlelights.
They lure you to sing (to sing), they lure you to jump (to jump).
Tears of white wax whirling, and slowly, slowly gliding
(until they embrace each other, to the point of 
agony, and drop) 
into, what seems to be 
a cloud -- warm, soft, and then void
of softness and warmth.
(Is that a cloud I am seeing?)

Do words give two different scents such
untranslatable longings, such 
inexplicable wounds?

There is nothing spoken, no sounds, and yet voices are
everywhere, filling and choking the disquiet air. 
There is no silence in the night.

Let me have your fingers from which the music flows,
those book pages dancing like scattering petals,
those blank canvases where moonlight weeps.
Allow me your thoughts where all poems are born.
Allow me your heart where the irises grow.

Is that the light in Paris, or the lamp softly leaning
against your cognac-hued wall?

Dust in the morning, 
drowning noises on the streets,
settling a painting undone, unfinished, uncomposed, uncompromised.

Until I see it no longer.

The Second Poem: Darshan

Nothing is rewarded, nothing is taken away.
Nothing given, and nothing received.
Nothing is gained, nothing is required.
Nothing broken, and nothing healed.
Nothing is dissolved, nothing is resolved.
Nothing heard, and nothing sung.
Nothing wasted, because nothing appears.
Nothing born, and nothing disappears.
Nothing blossoms, nothing evanesces.
Nothing endured, and nothing relieved.
Nothing ever lost, nothing ever is.
Nothing separated, non-union in the non-exist.
Unchanging. Distancing. Be.

It mirrors you, not your intrinsic being.
A reflected truth that is
the greatest lie.
A clear eye that sees, this apparent world, the water moon, the river snow,
sees nothing
but the inner imaginings of your mind,
the inner workings of your head,
the inner strivings.
Not the essence. Merely a vision.
The day eyes are removed, heart opens.

Internalisation. Realisation. Materialisation. Etherealisation.
No reflection. No shadows. No mirror. No flames.
No eloquence. No poetry. No words. No speech. No sounds.
No hurt. Nothing locked. No window. Nothing to see. No release. None retrieved.
No cacophony. No harmony.
No flourishing. No withering.
No waste land. No pure land.
No courage. No heart and no mind. Bones are
no more than bones.
No permanence. No disappearance.
No transience. No constancy.

Noiselessness. Statelessness. Formlessness. Truthlessness.
Fleeting.

The drunken morning eats away its languid afternoon into an apathetic dusk,
witnessing the unconcern of a dying night.
Not a thunderstorm but a snowflake
Not a symphony but a whispered sigh

Lie down on the ground, and let the fallen leaves cover you.
Let your arms drop. Let the rain fall.
Hush your eyes.

This quiet.
This unshining.


… The eye is on fire; forms are on fire; eye-consciousness is on fire; impressions received by the eye are on fire.

– Prince Gautama Siddharta, 563-483 B.C.

*For reference... Darśana was an inspiration behind this piece, something I have loved since the day I was introduced to the concept, but not immediately related to the content (of how this poem turned out to be). 

‎"Darshan is ultimately difficult to define since it is an event in consciousness ... which focuses and calls out the consciousness of the devotee ... a heightening of consciousness or spirituality is the intended effect."

On self, integrity, and acharya

Visualise a wooden stick (self) that is used to stir up the fire and eventually is consumed entirely and disappears in the Great Fire (Self)...

To study Buddhism is to study the self 
to study the self is to forget the self
to forget the self is to become enlightened by all things
to be enlightened by all things is to destroy the barrier between one's self and others.

-- Dogen Zenji

*From the comment on Peony's article 'under a flame tree (with you & confucius)' - thank you!


It is wonderfully attractive (and admirable) to be a fully-enlightened being, one who has "realised" and unafraid of leaving this world of sam sara behind. But what I find truly precious and rare, is to have realised and transcended, whilst still be able to surrender to this world and play whatever role on earth that you are ordained to play -- one's responsibility, in the truest form of "trust."

And to be an acharya: one who practises what one preaches -- there is truth in life, and it is the light and clarity of life, it is integrity, which cannot be further away from an intoxicated, pompous view of one's self. To have enough courage -- a Bodhisattva, effectively. One who has already been lifted but chooses to remain, with compassion, wisdom, and kindness (this reminds me of Su Dongpo in a way). But then, with no struggling, no striving, no conflicts, like all that melts and disappears in the fire. In the end even the fire itself will remain no longer. With full knowledge of this, and still walk the path. With full knowledge that you will be betrayed, and still love (thinking of Jesus, and Odette from Swan Lake).

There is, in the end, nothing to fill the empty cup with anymore, for the cup has already been smashed.


To look at the world with a smile.

The First Poem: For David

(For my husband, whose lullaby is my breathing every night.)

All the secrets I do not share,
and all the secrets I tell no one;
all the secrets absent in my poems,
and all the secrets I do not sing, even in the silent song
of solitude permeating my veins
like the warmth and gentle scent of your amber,
these secrets are buried deep inside, within
the dreams of your belly.
They melt, and are reborn.
They grow wings, and they fly.

In the blueness of your eyes
is the light of a deep ocean that has lived
a thousand years, a thousand years of
meditative loneliness. In your hair, the golden amber grows
into a transparent flower, fragrance of the night.
The amber flower that connects your mind
with your heart.

One day you discovered a pale feather
of an anonymous bird, colour of a pale rose.
A rare feather,
exquisite and fragile, shining under
an old tree of glittering green leaves.
It was nighttime, but the sun was out.
Your one tender kiss awoke the feather, and turned it
into the bird she once was, in a past life she had already forgotten.
The rare and exquisite and fragile bird.
And she has lived with your heart, in your heart, ever since.

Your surrender to nothingness is expansive, and
the warmest embrace there ever is, ever will be.
Your refined detachment of the closest, dearest attachment of tenderness
It gives meaning to what seems to be void of meanings at all,
resembling a delicately and beautifully
cracked porcelain vase,
its slender neck holding all the secrets which are not remembered.
The unbreaking of a broken egg, in the most perfect shade
of pearlescent ivory, with
not even the faintest lines on a rainbow-hued seashell.
I realise in this moment we are regal.
We are angels.
Your elegance is the reddest of all the red peonies
blooming between our bodies and souls.
Us.

You say I can neither understand nor imagine. I close
my eyes and think of
the most beautiful desert moon, or the saddest
love poem, or our daughter
in your arms, in the farthest and nearest yesterday
of our tomorrow.

You spoke to my philosophy professor as if
he was one of your oldest friends.
You talked about Heidegger, and game theory,
and all the dilemmas of life, in a beautiful manner which transcended them all,
as if they were lines from an old poem you had written long ago.
You say the whole life is in The Little Prince, and that you
cannot admire someone who is not an acharya,
however brilliant his thoughts,
however great his legacy.
I look at this perfect man before me, with his
bluest blue eyes and think to myself, "I married
the one rare acharya I know."

I am your heart, as you are my poetry,
mirror of my aloneness
the soundlessness of my melodies,
the attachment of my detachment,
the meaningfulness of my meaninglessness,
the nothingness of my very own self,

my undefined/undefinable otherness.


You taught me I am myself and I am enough,
in need of no more, like Cocteau's Trinity
that binds my heart in the truest way it longs to be bound.

And so I write, different from how I have ever written poetry,
in the state of being and the state of breathing,
without striving and crafting,
without effort,

as if I was writing
for the very first and the very last time.

Here, Now. *Photography by Juan Jose Olavarrieta Gomez 

思緒 stream of consciousness...

The choleric ochreous Svetlana, the sanguine ruby Natalia, the electrical violet Yekaterina, and the longing in the lines of her voice, and the arresting agitation in the disquiet curves of the violin's singing... leading to a resolution of all that is unresolved in the angelic white of (again) Svetlana - a soft sign of 'hush.'

If everything has already been done, why do we even bother to play our roles in this world, following the plot that has already been written, and already been known? Such is the greatest mystery, and the question asked millions of times (and perhaps answered) in the Gita.
Arjuna: "I do not wish to lead this fight. I do not want to kill all these people."
Lord Krishna: "What do you mean you do not wish to kill all these people? They are already dead. I have already killed them all."

So why do we go through this all over again?
(Too profound for a jet-lagged night in London...)


The Bolshoi Ballet in the premiere of Alexei Ratmansky's Russian Seasons, 15.11.2008. 
Cast ---
Couple in Orange (then in White): Svetlana Zakharova and Andrei Merkuriev 
Couple in Red: Natalia Osipova and Denis Savin 
Couple in Green: Yekaterina Shipulina and Pavel Dmitrichenko 
Couple in Violet: Yekaterina Krysanova and Igor Tsvirko 
Couple in Blue: Anna Rebetskaya and Vladislav Lantratov 
Couple in Claret Red: Anna Nikulina and Vyacheslav Lopatin

Trees, light, green, sun, leaves, life -- a dreamland absent of questions and answers; a hypnotised land of silent truth. One does not even have to realise that one has already realised.

*          *          *

dew evaporates 
and all our world 
is dew ... so dear, 
so fresh, so fleeting 

 (kobayashi issa)

... if only the world could be more fleeting than what we are experiencing...

*          *          *

Enter the kingdom of words as if you were deaf.
Poems are there that want to be written.
They are dormant, but don't be let down,
their virginal surfaces are fresh and serene.
They are alone and mute, in dictionary condition.
Live with your poems before you write them.
If they're vague, be patient. If they offend, be calm.
Wait until each one comes into its own and demolishes
with its command of words
and its command of silence.
Don't force poems to let go of limbo.
Don't pick up lost poems from the ground.
Don't fawn over poems. Accept them
as you would their final and definitive form,
distilled in space.
[...]
Take note:
words hide in the night
in caves of music and image.
Still humid and pregnant with sleep
they turn in a winding river and by neglect are transformed.

-- "Looking for Poetry" by Carlos Drummond de Andrade, trans. into English by Mark Strand.