Blue Cliff Verses

by Richard von Sturmer

Sun-faced Buddha:
persimmon
pineapple
papaya.

Moon-faced Buddha:
syringe
stethoscope
scalpel.

While on the bedside table
a glass of water holds
the early-morning light.

Through the east gate
you'll find a desert.
Through the west gate
there's a field of wheat.
Through the north gate
rise jagged mountains.
Through the south gate
lies the deep blue sea.

Who knows for sure
where Joshu has gone.
In the abandoned courtyard
hens and chickens scratch the earth.

My left hand
lies beside me on the pillow.

Snowflakes drift
through the open window.

In this dream of winter
embers and cinders
intermingle.

A discarded glove
gathers dust
at the bottom of the stairs.

Ah, those old masters,
they can extract your heart
with a single phrase.

And everything appears
veiled—
cars, houses, streets,
all covered by a fine mist.

And your own heart beating
faintly
in the wing-beats of a sparrow.

While seated in zazen
small wings grow
from the tips of your elbows
lifting you high into the air,
setting you down on South Mountain
before the serpent.

A string of saliva
hangs from its jaws.
You wrap it around your finger
as if it were candy floss.

It's like a blind man and his dog,
the dog leads,
and the blind man follows.

It could also be said
that people who descend
into volcanoes
are not necessarily
vulcanologists.

One blast from the furnace
strips away
skin from flesh
and flesh from bone.

Joshu holds up his radishes
for everyone to see.
But look at the earth—
How it encrusts the white skin!
How it clings to the wispy roots!

This gritty, crumbling,
uncompromising earth.

I thought that I entered Zen
to attain the pure sky,
but each day I find myself
buried deeper underground.

Mujaku:
It's like trying to use
a dirty eraser:
the more you rub out
the more you smudge the page.

Manjusri:
It's like looking through
a diamond window:
each facet reveals
ten thousand details.

Night will turn into day.
The tin cans will gleam
in their recycling bins
and the crows
torn away from the darkness
will begin to caw.

If death were then
to make an appearance
he would be somewhat insignificant:
a piece of broken tile
a frayed doormat
the handle of a broom.

At the mud-splattered window
for less than a second
the face of a fish.

Under the swaying trees
a shifting pattern
of shadows and light.

All you can tell me
is that the midday heat
has left you exhausted.

In the distance
someone plays a violin.

In the middle of a long journey
I stand on Joshu's stone bridge
with sore legs and an aching back.

The points of light overhead
are almost too faint to be called stars.
And you would have difficulty
describing the water below.
Is it sluggish or simply meandering?
Is it tar-black, or does it retain
a trace of purple?

Near the opposite bank
where the reeds are brushed together
a pair of ducks glides downstream.

I won't say
if the sperm fertilizes the egg
although the moon is above
and the earth is below.

I won't say
where the crow sleeps at night
although the wind is cold
and the snow is wet.

I won't say
tenderness.
I won't say
forgetfulness.
I won't say.

Ummon's staff
is no less than
a magic wand.

With a single tap
a toaster
turns into a toaster
and a teacup
becomes a teacup.

Through the power of the staff
you can see
in broad daylight
and receive the sounds
of insects
and small birds.

The Eiffel Tower
bounces on a trampoline.
The Sphinx comes inside
for her bowl of milk.

Ummon says,
"Take the temple gate
and place it on the lamp."

The earth trembles,
the sky vibrates...

And on the washing-line
it's still Saturday
with the clothes hanging
good-naturedly
from their wooden pegs.

Leaves fall
– the bell is rung –
more leaves fall.

Some are ashamed
when they eat the rice.
Others just eat the rice.
Others eat the bowl as well.

Leaves fall
– the bell is rung –
more leaves fall.

Right down
"full fathoms five"
a deep joy resides
with crustaceans
and anemones
and rocks collected
from early childhood.

Water bodhisattvas.
Aquasattvas.

On the bath-mat
a wet footprint
slowly evaporates.

The shortest day:
dark in the morning
dark in the afternoon.

Outside some skeletons
are playing in the snow.
Their bones must be cold,
so very cold – and yet
they're eager for us
to join their game.

"Come out of the shadows!
Come down to the gate!
Everyone is welcome here.
Everyone has his own light."

The eye smells the incense.
The eye tastes the persimmon.
The eye hears the voices
of children in a courtyard
and the barking of a dog.

Overhead geese are flying
in the late autumn sky.
The hand touches
their soft feathers, feels
the beating of their hearts.

And when a film of ice
covers the bare branches
the one who has been attending
adjusts the weight of her pack
and descends into the valley.

A clay Buddha
cannot pass through water.
Clouds of mud
and inside the clouds
atoms of mud.

A wooden Buddha
cannot pass through fire.
The hiss of resin
a red crevasse—
everything splits apart.

A metal Buddha
cannot pass through a furnace.
Dented moonlight
melting down
to the last sliver.

In this dream world
of trucks and pigeons
and income tax,
reality becomes
the beeping of a horn
the fluttering of wings
the adding up of figures.

In this dream world
of endless desires
we drift through the stillness
of a vast ocean
among swords and sponges
starfish and feathers.

Contents | Mudlark No. 11