08-16-2020, 09:37 AM
Alright I have this strange beast; it is quintessentially religious poetry. It is written as a response to ancient writing styles, namely the works of Hongzhi a 11-12th century CE Chan (Chinese Zen) master. Some elements try to mimic his style and some element try to emulate a modern style. I have too much Zen in my head so I am not objective to someone that doesn't, and does that matter? As always what works, what doesn't? If you you have any questions as to the symbolism that's unique to the work please ask.
Jade Touzi
This last tectonic shift left red corral drying in her mountains
contrasted in turquoise marking the source
deep below an ocean
of time.
Recalcitrant adrift bone up fish-soup in the Himalayas.
On the old mountain,
Tiantong
notching oriental-time (solar-lunar retinas penetrate pearls)
a paramita a door a source and destination
dished black fields for waves of moonlight
tidal ponds for visions magnanimously wet for being.
A patched-robed monk has a thousand eyes and hands.
A patched-robed monk pierces the fabric
with gold needle and jade thread.
A patched-robed monk is always 7 days from returning,
dissolving into the quantum foam.
Hongzhi said, “Buried in the stupa are jade bones.”
The empty kalpa, then the fire, black crystallized bones.
Put on your original face!
Put in your original eyes!
Put down your hands!
Cover yourself in eyes!
(even the souls of your feet.)
Touch moments made of all time!
Recalcitrant adrift bone up fish-soup in the Chesapeake.
We found the bottom
a stickier surface
rubber-necking, a torn outer shirt,
nadir, the ribs, buckling to mark time.
Hewn in a wheel and cascading luster
crushed by its own gravity
meetings and loss of so many skins
sown in the edge of laughter
fleeing entropy
gray hair hued in pinks and purples
to compliment umber dusks
the undertows of your sensibilities
and gritty toes, embowered in cat-tails and beach-grass,
sand caught in a thousand eyes.
Jade Touzi
This last tectonic shift left red corral drying in her mountains
contrasted in turquoise marking the source
deep below an ocean
of time.
Recalcitrant adrift bone up fish-soup in the Himalayas.
On the old mountain,
Tiantong
notching oriental-time (solar-lunar retinas penetrate pearls)
a paramita a door a source and destination
dished black fields for waves of moonlight
tidal ponds for visions magnanimously wet for being.
A patched-robed monk has a thousand eyes and hands.
A patched-robed monk pierces the fabric
with gold needle and jade thread.
A patched-robed monk is always 7 days from returning,
dissolving into the quantum foam.
Hongzhi said, “Buried in the stupa are jade bones.”
The empty kalpa, then the fire, black crystallized bones.
Put on your original face!
Put in your original eyes!
Put down your hands!
Cover yourself in eyes!
(even the souls of your feet.)
Touch moments made of all time!
Recalcitrant adrift bone up fish-soup in the Chesapeake.
We found the bottom
a stickier surface
rubber-necking, a torn outer shirt,
nadir, the ribs, buckling to mark time.
Hewn in a wheel and cascading luster
crushed by its own gravity
meetings and loss of so many skins
sown in the edge of laughter
fleeing entropy
gray hair hued in pinks and purples
to compliment umber dusks
the undertows of your sensibilities
and gritty toes, embowered in cat-tails and beach-grass,
sand caught in a thousand eyes.