BOOK REVIEW: Cold Mountain: One Hundred Poems by the T’ang Poet Han-Shan

Posted on September 23, 2020 by B Gourley

Cold Mountain: One Hundred Poems by the t’Ang Poet Han-Shan by Hanshan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This brief collection gathers one hundred poems from the T’ang Dynasty poet Han-Shan. Most of the poems included consist of a single eight-line stanza of unrhymed verse of varied meter. [With a few exceptions that had more or fewer lines (often four or twelve.)] I do like that they didn’t pad out edition that I read with a lot of inane babble [as publishers are want to do when a volume is on the thin side.] Part of the reason that they may not have done so is that there is virtually nothing known about the author. It’s not even known whether there was a Han-Shan (i.e. as opposed to a group of people whose poems were anthologized under one name.)

The poems reflect Taoism’s disdain for pretension, authority, or scholarship for scholarship’s sake. Many of the poems reflect Zen sensibilities (which became entwined with Taoist sensibilities.) That is to say, like Zen koan, they seek to interrupt the tendency to overintellectualize matters. That said, in places the poems take a bit of a mocking attitude toward Buddhism. Nature plays prominently among the poems. And some of the poems are humorous or irreverent.

There are footnotes that are helpful in explaining verse that references teachings and events that would have been known to Han-Shan’s readership back in his day, but which most individuals who aren’t experts on Chinese folklore, literature, or religious teachings wouldn’t be likely to get, otherwise.

I enjoyed these poems tremendously. While I can’t say how they related to the original text, the translations were — on their own – works that conveyed wit and wisdom. I’d highly recommend this collection for poetry readers.

View all my reviews

POEM: Painted River

Posted on September 22, 2020 by B Gourley

I walked beside that gray river;
fog blurred the trees of the far bank.

The grass and ground were wetted down
as if the clouds had crashed that night
and slathered moisture on the world
as a damp mop dragged over might.

It’s cold and wet and as subdued
as a painting in shades of gray.

Have you seen the world look painted —
as if it were more art than real?
Then you may know what I walked through —
its look rang false, but – oh – that feel.

It felt like every nerve burned bright
despite that dim, mid-winter scene.

POEM: Seeking Union

Posted on September 21, 2020 by B Gourley

The dangling vine curls at its end —
a hook in search of hold.
The breezes bounce and sway that hook —
‘t looks blindly pushed and pulled.

But that creeper ‘s not drooping free.
It’s reaching as best it can.
Awaiting opportunity —
too patient for a plan.

One day, in sway, it’ll set its hook,
and wrap its way around,
and – day-by-day – will climb its way
still farther from the ground.

‘Til it links its roots to canopy.

POEM: Rainy Day Rambling Brain

Posted on September 20, 2020 by B Gourley

Sitting on the balcony, watching the rain, I see spreading concentric rings ping into each other in the puddles below. The expanding rings of big drops swamp those of the smaller droplets. More evenly-matched pairings of waves becomes something new — not pure chaos, but much more complex than either of their parents. The analogy to the workings of my mind is intuitively felt — if not intellectually understood.

A pigeon struts along the ledge of concrete slab on a building under construction next door. The slab intends to become a balcony like the one on which I’m sitting.

I want to think that only a winged creature could walk so confidently on that ledge, but I remember reading that skyscraper construction companies in New York City hired lots of men from a certain Western tribe known for fearlessness vis-à-vis heights.

But were they fearless?

Sooner or later, fearless creatures become careless creatures — at least among humans.

The chipmunk bobbing at the twiggy, distal end of a branch seems fearless to me, but I also feel that I’d see a lot more sidewalk-splattered chipmunks if the little beast didn’t have some kind of feeling about the precariousness of its situation. Maybe, I anthropomorphize.

And one puddle reaches a tipping point, pouring into another…

Cataract Haiku

Posted on September 19, 2020 by B Gourley

I
thundering falls
sing a mind into trance —
timeless sound

II
nearing the falls,
the grand spectacle becomes
a fog wall

III
yamabushi
sit under the cascade —
nails unhammered

IV
seeking earth’s center,
the river drops as far as
land allows

V
a round boulder
sits at the precipice,
refusing to roll

POEM: An Exercise in Walking Blindly

Posted on September 17, 2020 by B Gourley

I walked up to the window — eyes closed.

The explosions of irregular shapes settled into an even sheet of orange — a warm and comforting hue. It became more yellow as I continued to stand before that unseen sunny day.

When I turned my back on the window, light blues boiled up from a dark and even metallic blue — until the inside of my eyelids settled into shifting Rorschach mosaics of dark colors, mostly purple and black.

Walking blindly,

-every step is an adventure,

-every sound matters,

-there is no wandering mind.

I wonder how long my brain would take to rewire if I kept my eyes sealed shut.

I suspect a blind person can take a mundane walk, but there is nothing mundane in my walk. There’s no mind left to wander after one piece keeps me on balance, another piece takes note of other sensory input, and yet another bit positions my hands for maximum gentleness of collisions.

I have no yearning to be blind, but it does wake up something within one what one never knew lie dormant. And in those moments I experience life anew.