More middle of the night rambling,

More middle of the night rambling, this time with Eihei, Tiantong (Dogen's teacher in China, Rujing) and our other friends hovering and guiding.  I even bumped into Vasubandhu and Asanga, brothers literally and dharmically. 

Painting in

The eyes

Of the Buddha

I see.

Raising a whisk

Or tossing it down

This last breath

Lets go.

Rising In spirals

Warm air gyres

Over the peak

This wild bird.

Standing here, now…or lying down

There is nothing

That is somewhere

Else.

John Bailes, Kotatsu Roko

Prospect Hill

Middle of the Night, Wednesday, 6 October 2010

The Sense of Smell

The Sense of Smell


each of us is going to die

        the scent of blueberries
                      warm oatmeal
                                coffee

       that girl or boy in my dream

       a crisp autumn morning

what is this one thing?


having never really accomplished anything
i’ve followed the scent
of this one pulsing heart
the Sweet taste of Saliva
in this mouth
OpenS.


Kotatsu Roko
Prospect Hill
Early morning, Wednesday, 27:X:2010

Roses Everywhere with Robyn

                              Robyn Ellenbogen: Looking Up at Roses Everywhere

                      Roses everywhere: 
                      Who says reflections are not true love?
                      I fall for countless petals wherever they may occur.
                      Red, gold, and blue apparitions;
                      Thighs, hips and eyes
                      All in a dew drop.

John Bailes, Kotatsu Roko

A response to David Schneider

08 October, 2010

Robyn Ellenbogen Art a response to this poem.

There Is Nothing in the World

 



There Is Nothing in the World

Few understand
How vital
This relationship
Is

Many would prefer
To do something else
When there is nothing else
To do

Entering the sound
Of one word
The steam radiator
In winter.



Blue Cliff Record Case #37: P’an Shan’s, There is Nothing in the World:

“There is nothing in the triple world; where can mind be found?
The elements are basically empty; how can a Buddha abide?
The polar star does not move; quiet and still, without traces
Once presented face to face, there is no longer anything else.”


John Bailes/Kotatsu Roko
11 February, 2011
Prospect Hill

Riding the Red Eye

Riding the Red Eye

I have no space in broken trees grown awry.
Chaotic aura, determines, resplendent; bird, blossom, branch.
Limited requirements kiss hours goodbye.
Later, streams wear rocks down.
Whole starfish crush them to dust particles, river bed sludge.
Quiescent storms single out more shoulders, knees, ice cream.
Sofas resemble old wilderness rides of plumed white condor flights.
Still the blind girl, or was it a boy, remains enigmatic.
The grass, the wind, the joining: mother of…
Born right here both are GONE.

John Bailes, Kotatsu Roko
Middle of the Night, 1 March 2011

Fleeting Life

 Painting: Fleeting Life by Robyn Ellenbogen

Fleeting Life:

As though it were to go by

     [BLUE]

before my eyes

see it is

     [GREEN]

gone.

It is not like something

goes.

     [LOWER LEFT QUADRANT]

My eyes, my ears, my nose

are.

     [FLOATING]

Is all

John Bailes, Kotatsu Roko

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Prospect Hill   

And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name by John Ashbery

Sometimes there is nothing more to say.  I particularly love his last seven lines beginning, "You when you write poetry..." but then I imagine most of this is about this "seesaw".   

 

And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name

by John Ashbery

You can’t say it that way any more.   

Bothered about beauty you have to   

Come out into the open, into a clearing,

And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you

Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange

Of you, you who have so many lovers,   

People who look up to you and are willing   

To do things for you, but you think

It’s not right, that if they really knew you . . .

So much for self-analysis. Now,

About what to put in your poem-painting:   

Flowers are always nice, particularly delphinium.   

Names of boys you once knew and their sleds,   

Skyrockets are good—do they still exist?

There are a lot of other things of the same quality   

As those I’ve mentioned. Now one must

Find a few important words, and a lot of low-keyed,

Dull-sounding ones. She approached me

About buying her desk. Suddenly the street was   

Bananas and the clangor of Japanese instruments.   

Humdrum testaments were scattered around. His head

Locked into mine. We were a seesaw. Something   

Ought to be written about how this affects   

You when you write poetry:

The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind

Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate   

Something between breaths, if only for the sake   

Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you

For other centers of communication, so that understanding

May begin, and in doing so be undone.

John Ashbery, “And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name” from Houseboat Days. Copyright © 1987, 1979 by John Ashbery.