Poetic Freedom

"The Poem Rising By Its Own Weight"

The poet is at the disposal of his own night.
                                                 Jean Cocteau

The singing robes fly onto your body and cling there silkily,
you step out on the rope and move unfalteringly across it,

and seize the fiery knives unscathed and
keep them spinning above you, a fountain
of rhythmic rising, falling, rising
flames,

and proudly let the chains
be wound about you, ready
to shed them, link by steel link, padlock by padlock —

                            but when your graceful
confident shrug and twist drives the metal
into your flesh and the python grip of it tightens
and you see rust on the chains and blood in your pores
and you roll
over and down a steepness into a dark hole
and there is not even the sound of mockery in the distant air
somewhere above you where the sky was,
no sound but your own breath panting:
then it is that the miracle
walks in, on his swift feet,
down the precipice straight into the cave,
opens the locks,
knots of chain fall open,
twists of chain unwind themselves,
links fall asunder, in seconds there is a heap of scrap-
metal at your ankles, you step free and at once
he turns to go —
but as you catch at him with a cry,
clasping his knees, sobbing your gratitude,
with what radiant joy he turns to you,
and raises you to your feet,
and strokes your disheveled hair,
and holds you,
                     holds you,
                                    holds you
close and tenderly before he vanishes.

— Denise Levertov, The Freeing of the Dust, pp. 92-93.


                 Shutaku (1308-1388, Rinzai)

For all these years, my certain Zen:
Neither I nor the world exist.
The sutras neat within the box,
My cane hooked upon the wall,
I lie at peace in moonlight
Or, hearing water plashing on the rock,
Sit up: none can purchase pleasure such as this:
Spangled across the step-moss, a million coins!

Mind set free in the Dharma-realm,
I sit at the moon-filled window
Watching the mountains with my ears,
Hearing the stream with open eyes.
Each moment chants true sutra:
The most fleeting thought is timeless,
A single hair's enough to stir the sea.
— In Zen: Poems, Prayers, Sermons, Anecdotes, Interviews, Lucien Stryk/Takashi Ikemoto (eds.), p. 7.

Hakuin (1685-1788, Rinzai)

You no sooner attain the great void
Than body and mind are lost together.
Heaven and Hell — a straw.
The Buddha-realm, Pandemonium — shambles.
Listen: a nightingale strains her voice, serenading the snow.
Look: a tortoise wearing a sword climbs the lampstand.
Should you desire the great tranquillity,
Prepare to sweat white beads.
— Ibid., p. 17.


Kando (1825-1904, Rinzai)

It's as if our heads were on fire, the way
We apply ourselves to perfection of That.
The future but a twinkle, beat yourself,
Persist: the greatest effort's not enough.
— Ibid., p. 19.