Wild Waters and the Tao

Wild Waters and the Tao

by

Roderick W. MacIver

Spring water is pure in an emerald stream
moonlight is white on Cold Mountain
silence thoughts and the spirit becomes clear
focus on emptiness and the world grows still
     - Han Shan (aka Cold Mountain), 9th Century T'ang Dynasty, as interpreted by Red Pine, The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain

. . . . .

     Silence thoughts, invite emptiness
     The universe beckons.
          - Journal Note

Introduction

This work is inspired by the poetry of ancient Zen and Taoist hermits, many of them monks, who lived hundreds and thousands of years ago in remote mountains in China. They wrote about acceptance, silence, solitude and living close to the beauty and mystery of nature. They tried to put into words that which can't be put into words. They wrote about "soundless music."

Within the tradition of ancient Chinese hermit poetry there exists a genre of "harmony poems," or poems inspired by the work of earlier poets. Wild Waters and the Tao is a derivative work – my poems are reflections on selected ancient works. Harmonies tend to follow in the same structural format and meter as the original, admired poems, but my work in this book only loosely adheres to that principle. I've taken this liberty after noticing that different translators have interpreted the same work in dramatically different ways, including meter and format. I've approached this as creative work, more like jazz than classical music.

Heron Dance has been a fringe endeavor from the start. It has existed, sometimes thrived, sometimes struggled, on the edges of different realities, between realities – wild nature and modern culture to name two. It has existed, deliberately, outside the traditional sources of support for artistic and literary efforts – academia, book publishers, art dealers and institutions of all types.

‍ ‍In the Night We Changed Too

     At night the river flows
     Between, around our homes
     Forests and pastures
     Rivers of life, rivers of time
     The past now lives only in memory
     The future only in imagination.

     The river, in the night rises, falls
     At dawn birds that weren't here yesterday
     And flowers, fish born, others gone
     Osprey, merganser, kingfisher and barred owl.

     We changed too in the night
     Moment by moment, like the river.
          - Journal poem

. . . . .

Erase the lines: I pray you not to love classifications:
The thing is like a river, from source to sea-mouth
One flowing life.
     - Robinson Jeffers, from the poem "Monument"

In Sync with the River

     Good to be on the river again
     Alone, floating backward
     Watching pebbles, shades of red, brown and white
     Slip by underneath
     Birds staking out territory, singing along the banks
     Bird drama, like a Verdi opera
     The struggle for territory in which to create new life
     Good territory attracts a mate.
     A heron I didn't notice
     Lifted off the left bank and flew downriver
     Then a hawk, an immature red-tail
     Landing in a tree at a bend in the river
     Where it could watch me until I got too close, then
     Shrieking, it too flew off down the river.

     Ice water cold, clear
     The banks of the river still lined with snow
     Fingers freezing despite neoprene gloves
     Every few minutes I stop to rest them on my black spray skirt
     And warm the numbness off.
     An early April day, the sun not yet able to chase the cold off
     But almost, soon.

     Clumsily paddling between rocks in the rapids
     Hitting some I shouldn't hit
     I tell myself, "I'll get better as things warm up
     I'll get in better sync with the river
     Soon."
          - Journal Note

South Wind

The days grow long, the mountains
Beautiful. The south wind blows
Over blossoming meadows.
Newly arrived swallows dart
Over the steaming marshes.
Ducks in pairs drowse on the warm sand.
     - Tu Fu, as interpreted by Kenneth Rexroth, One Hundred Poems From The Chinese

Tu Fu (713-770) was a scholar in the court of Hsuan Tsung, or Ming Huang, "the Bright Emperor." He criticized the morals and foreign policy of the court and was banished, and spent much of the rest of his life wandering up and down the Hsiang and Yangtze Rivers. He died an unknown poet living on a houseboat.

Shortly before his death at the age of 59 he wrote of disillusionment and failure.

Heading South

Spring returns to Peach Blossom River
and my sail is a cloud through maple forests.
Exiled, I lived for years in secret, moving on
farther from home with tear-stains on my sleeves.
Now old and sick, at last I'm headed south.
Remembering old friends, I look back north a final time.
A hundred years I sang my bitter song,
but not a soul remembers those old rhymes.
     - Tu Fu, as interpreted by Sam Hamill, Crossing the Yellow River: Three Hundred Poems from the Chinese

Now many consider Tu Fu the greatest poet in Chinese history, perhaps because of the emotion – both joy and sorrow – that his poems capture.

Spring Travel

Keeping on and on,
a traveler gets farther, farther away; dust without cease
follows a horse through the world.

A traveler's feelings
after the sun's rays slant -- colors of spring
in the morning mist.

The river's flow heard
at the empty inn -- flowers just blooming at the old palace.

I think of home
a thousand li away; green-willow wind stirs on the pond.
     - Han-shan Te-ch'ing (1546-1623), as interpreted by Red Pine, The Clouds Should Know Me By Now, Buddhist Poet Monks of China

. . . . .

     I think of home
     A thousand miles away
     A horse, a river's flow, an empty inn
     Flowers bloom
     I go on, but still think of home.
          - Journal Note

At Night, Dreams of Rivers

     Ospreys shrieking through early morning mist
     Loons on wilderness lakes at sunset
     Wild rivers, wild waters inhabit dreamworlds
     Lakes that empty into rivers that empty into other rivers
     That empty into lakes.

     Camped by a river, canoe pulled up
     Turned over and tied to a tree
     Sitting on shore, sipping tea, listening to loons
     Peace sneaks up and enters your heart
     And at night, dreams of rivers.

     Grasses on the river bottom
     Sway gently in the current, pointing downstream
     Easy to get lost on this river
     A maze of marshes, beaver ponds and islands
     Between rapids
     Only river grasses point the way.

     My travels down this river take me on a linear path
     Surrounded though, and aware of the cycles around me
     Cycles of wind and rain and sun
     Cycles of birth, life, and death.
     I'm just passing through
     Only temporarily a part of this wild world
     An imposter in a sense, here for a vacation
     Life out here is too hard for full-time
     It's either too hot, too cold, or bugs, or bears
     Trying to eat your stuff.

     Water, substance of mystery
     Wild water especially so
     Life nurturing, it attracts life
     Wild rivers carry you along through their world.
     A sensory smorgasbord
     Sight – colors of blue, green, white
     Sound – bird songs, and the roar of rapids ahead
     Smells – wildflowers, new life, decaying life
     Touch – the cold water, the wind,
     The spray (or crashing waves) of rapids.

     The water in us
     Connects with the river, its wilder cousin.
     Capable of great force
     Capable of gentleness, softness.
     Agents of change
     Rivers were here before us, and will be long after us.

     Rivers on a journey
     In search of the sea, the great waters beyond
     Like all life, but you can't take them for granted
     Conduits of energy
     They take the over-confident, careless river traveler down
     Even the wary, experienced river paddler
     Sometimes meets misfortune on the river
     Unpredictable and overwhelming in its force.

     A world of contrasts, of boundaries
     The river surface a separation between the underwater world
     And us, our world
     Rivers are easy to ignore as they travel through the peripheries of our lives, unobtrusive
     But if you embrace them, they open themselves to you
     And bring peace.
          - Journal Note

Rivers, Places of Sacred Beauty

     The woods changing, early spring sun
     Robins hunt for worms between patches of snow
     Red-winged blackbirds soon but not yet
     One more winter storm first.

     The rivers swollen
     Big chunks of ice plunge over waterfalls.
     Soon, very soon, the ice will be gone
     I can drift down, backward, forward
     And reintroduce myself to that quiet place
     The sweet-smelling river
     And listen to birds sing of winter survived
     And of new life to come
     Sing to that place of sacred beauty.
          - Journal Note

Zazen on Ching-t'ing Mountain

The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.
     - Li Po (701-762), as interpreted by Sam Hamill, Crossing the Yellow River: Three Hundred Poems from the Chinese

The Great Masters of Ancient Times

The great masters of ancient times
Focused on the indiscernible
and penetrated the dark
you would never know them
and because you wouldn't know them
I describe them with reluctance
they were careful as if crossing a river in winter
cautious as if worried about neighbors
reserved like a guest
ephemeral like melting ice
simple like uncarved wood
open like a valley
and murky like a puddle
but those who can be like a puddle
become clear when they're still
and those who can be at rest
become alive when they're roused
those who treasure this Way
don't try to be seen
not trying to be seen
they can hide and stay hidden

Ts'ao Tao-Ch'ung (Taoist nun, Sung Dynasty, 960-1278) comments:

Although the ancient masters lived in the world, no one thought they were special.
     - Chapter 15 from Lao-tsu's Taoteching, Red Pine translation

. . . . .

     Them that knows, doesn't tell
     Them that tells, doesn't know
     What they know they know from years of solitude, of quiet
     It can't be put into words.
     No attachment to being perceived as enlightened
     No attachment to being perceived as a Zen or Taoist master.
          - Journal Note