Thoughts I've thunk while sippin' at a cup of tea and reading something provoking, often get dropped here for the benefit of humanity and my own hubris.
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An interesting poem from Ryokan (eighteen century Zen poet):
A quiet night behind my grass hut.
Alone, I play a stringless lute.
Its melody drifts to the wind-blown clounds and fades.
Its sound deepens with the running stream,
expanding till it fills a deep ravine,
and echoes through the vast woods.
Who, other than a deaf person,
can hear this faint song?
I found this poem in an article by Thomas Moore in Tricycle (Summer 2002), page 71. This poem was taken from Between the Floating Mist and translated by Dennis Maloney and Hide Oshiro, Springhouse Editions.
Thought originally posted on Tuesday, 30 July 2002
© 2002-2005, Howard Abrams • Except where otherwise noted, all original content is licensed under a Creative Commons License (see details).
© 2002-2005, Howard Abrams • Except where otherwise noted, all original content is licensed under a Creative Commons License (see details).
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