Category Archives: Death

BOOKS: “Essential Zen” ed. by Kazuaki Tanahashi & David Schneider

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Essential ZenEssential Zen by Kazuaki Tanahashi
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Google Books Page

This is a collection of short writings (poems, koans, and prose excerpts) on Zen Buddhism arranged into loosely themed sections. The writings tend toward the artistic, creative, and metaphorical, with relatively few straightforward descriptions of technique or philosophy. The writings range from those of Chinese and Japanese monks who lived hundreds of years ago to present-day poets and Zen practitioners. Among the more frequently drawn from sources are: Hanshan, Ikkyu, Dogen, Ryokan, Hakuin, Gary Snyder, Robert Aitken, Seung Sahn, John Daido Loori, Thich Nhat Hanh, and Peter Levitt. But there are many others, including some who have only a single piece included.

There’s a substantial “Notes” section that gives source, translation, and — in some cases — background information. Most of the translations (both Japanese and Chinese) are by the editors, Kazuaki Tanahashi and David Schneider. There are illustrations, but they are all ensō (circular brush paintings) and related forms.

This is a highly readable and insightful collection of short writings, and I’d highly recommend it for individuals interested in Zen or Eastern Philosophy more generally.

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Death Poem of Ikkyū [w/ Audio]

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I borrowed these one month ago, yesterday.
 I'm returning them today.
 I borrowed five and return four --
 Repaid, but for Original Emptiness.

NOTE: This is one of three Death Poems attributed to Ikkyū, supposedly the middle one.

The End [Free Verse]

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My death days --
   Strange and wondrous --
   Will come soon enough.

I can feel their thrum 
   At the edge of my mind,
   A slow and rumbling pulsation
   That signals
      The END is nigh.

I don't fear them.
   Like a rumbling freight train,
   I assume they won't plow 
   Through my front door --
   But, rather, will wait for me
   To become freight.

“The Human Seasons” by John Keats [w/ Audio]

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Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
   There are four seasons in the mind of man:
 He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
   Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
 He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
   Spring's honied cud of youthful thought
     he loves
 To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
   Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
   He furleth close; contented so to look
 On mists in idleness -- to let fair things
   Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
 Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

“Nature” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [w/ Audio]

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As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
  Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
  Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
  And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
 Still gazing at them through the open door,
  Nor wholly reassured and comforted
  By promises of others in their stead,
  Which, though more splendid, may not
     please him more;
 So Nature deals with us, and takes away
  Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
  Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
  Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
 Being too full of sleep to understand
 How far the unknown transcends the 
     what we know.

“The Debt” by Paul Laurence Dunbar [w/ Audio]

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This is the debt I pay
  Just for one riotous day,
  Years of regret and grief,
  Sorrow without relief.

Pay it I will to the end --
  Until the grave, my friend,
  Gives me a true release --
  Gives me the clasp of peace.

Slight was the thing I bought,
  Small was the debt I thought,
  Poor was the loan at best --
  God! but the interest!

“Shiloh: A Requiem” by Herman Melville [w/ Audio]

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Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
   The swallows fly low
 Over the field in clouded days,
   The forest-field of Shiloh--
 Over the field where April rain
 Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain
 Through the pause of night
 That followed the Sunday fight
   Around the church of Shiloh--
 The church so lone, the log-built one,
 That echoed to many a parting groan
     And natural prayer
   Of dying foemen mingled there--
 Foemen at morn, but friends at eve--
    Fame or country least their care:
 (What like a bullet can undeceive!)
    But now they lie low,
 While over them the swallows skim,
   And all is hushed in Shiloh.

“Grown about by Fragrant Bushes” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

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Grown about by Fragrant bushes,
 Sunken in a winding valley,
 Where the clear winds blow
 And the shadows come and go,
 And the cattle stand and low
 And the sheep bells and the linnets
 Sing and tinkle musically.
 Between the past and the future,
 Those two black infinities
 Between which our brief life
 Flashes a moment and goes out.

Early Bloomer [Haiku]

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the early blooms
 are wilted; they’ll be gone when
  the tight buds open.

“Excelsior” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [w/ Audio]

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The shades of night were falling fast,
 As though an Alpine village passed
 A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
 A banner with the strange device,
     Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
 And like a silver clarion rung
 The accents of that unknown tongue,
     Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
 And from his lips escaped the groan,
     Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;
 "Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
 And loud that clarion voice replied,
     Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
 Thy weary head upon this breast!"
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
 But still he answered, with a sigh,
     Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
 Beware the awful avalanche!"
 This was the peasant's last Good-night,
 A voice replied, far up the height,
     Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
 A voice cried through the startled air,
      Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
 Half-buried in the snow was found,
 Still grasping in his hand of ice
 That banner with the strange device,
     Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
 And from the sky, serene and far,
 A voice fell like a falling star,
     Excelsior!