The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume Seven (52 page)

Profound as American patriotism

Protector of the free world

Praiseworthy

Questionable

Dignity is the object

God save America, our karmic sweet home.

May 1972

Dö-me sem (Primordial Mind)
.

First Thought

First thought is best

Then you compose

Composition’s what you compose—

In terms of what?

What is
what

And
what
might not be the best

That what
could be best

That
what-was
was the only best

Why didn’t you?

The first thought was the first what

That what was the best what

What might not be is heartbroken

Heart is your only security

What shall we do?

What shouldn’t we do?

What did you say?

I forgot what I was just about to say

I was just about getting interested

In what you have to say

I’m glad that you want to tell me

What you want to say

What was it that you wanted to tell me?

Is
that
so

That you want to tell me what he’d like to tell me

That wouldn’t be difficult

But she might hesitate

It is problematic

In my honesty to tell you

What I would like to tell you

Who do you think is kidding who?

I have no kids

You are the star of the world

I didn’t take part in starving

Moon is good enough

So is the earth

And the water

I take refuge in the Buddha as an example

I take refuge in the dharma as the path

I take refuge in the sangha as the companionship

I am that which I I I I

And so forth.

May 1972

Samsara and Nirvana

A crow is black

Because the lotus is white.

Ants run fast

Because the elephant is slow.

Buddha was profound;

Sentient beings are confused.

May 22, 1972

Gain and Loss

He who has not experienced death

Is like an inexperienced father.

He who has not come to life after death

Is like a man suddenly struck dumb.

He who has never been wise

Is like a youth who has never been beautiful.

The stupid man who becomes wise

Is like a beggar who becomes king.

The dog who becomes master

Is like the victor in the revolution.

The master who becomes a dog

Is like a man who has awakened from a pleasant dream.

Meeting an old friend

Is like reading your own autobiography.

Finding a new friend

Is like composing music.

Chögyam writing a poem

Is like a king inspecting his soldiers.

May 22, 1972

Cynical Letter

Licking honey from a razor blade,

Eyes of the learned gouged out by books,

The beauty of maidens worn by display,

The warrior dead from not knowing fear—

It is ironical to see the dharma of samsara:

Celebrities deafened by fame,

The hand of the artist crippled by rheumatism.

The moth flew into the oil lamp,

The blind man walks with a torch,

The cripple runs in his wheelchair,

A fool’s rhetoric is deep and learned,

The laughing poet

Has run out of breath and died.

The religious spin circles, in accordance with religion;

If they had not practiced their religion, they could not spin.

The sinner cannot spin according to religion;

He spins according to not knowing how to spin.

The yogis spin by practicing yoga;

If they don’t have chakras to spin, they are not yogis.

Chögyam is spinning, watching the spinning/samsara;

If there is no samsara/spinning, there is no Chögyam.

May 22, 1972

Dignified Rocky Mountain

T
HERE IS A BIG ROCKY
mountain, like a dagger hoisted toward the sky, on which pine trees and long grasses grow. It is like a naked demon, standing erect wearing a bearskin. At the foot of this motionless rocky mountain flows a river, dark blue in color. Around the mountain the breeze blows, peaceful and gently cooling. The sun is waiting to set. In the distant meadow, on the other side of the marsh, on the grassy hill, almost out of sight, the shepherds are gathering their flocks of sheep into the fold. The mood is relaxed but uncertain. There is an air of desire for friendly conversation. Should one rest one’s mind by gazing at the rocky mountain? Or, gazing at the river, should one listen to its melody? Or, listening to the call of the shepherd, should one perhaps look off into the distance? It is uncertain.

If the dignified mountain does not pierce the heavens,

Who cares if the blue sky falls into the river?

If the flock of sheep sleep peacefully in the fold,

Who cares if there is no friend to talk to?

Since thoughts, like feathers, are blown by the wind of hope and fear,

The dignified poet remains wherever he is.

May 26, 1972

Charnel Ground

T
HE WASTELAND WHERE
thorny trees grow and fearsome animals roam, a vast charnel ground. People deposit corpses of human beings, horses, camels, and other once-living things. Recently the surrounding country suffered famine and plague. People lost honor and dignity because they brought half-dead bodies to the charnel ground. Now ravens, crows, vultures, eagles, jackals, and foxes fight over the carrion. They are continually scooping out eyes, digging out tongues. Sometimes in fleeing from each other they let fall heads, arms, legs, internal organs. The wind carries the incense of rot. The amusing theater of life and death is performing constantly. Self-existing energy is like a wave of the ocean driven by a mighty wind. There is a new display in every corner of the scene. Sometimes one would like to look at them but does not dare. Nevertheless one cannot prevent one’s eyes focusing. Occasionally there are flickering thoughts of escape. Sometimes one does not believe what he sees, regards it as a dream. But if one tries to find the moment he went to sleep, it is not there.

When the plague, accompanied by famine, arises,

The tigers and vultures have a feast.

Comparing the delicacies of tongues and eyes,

Logicians find a new study.

Perhaps one cannot imagine it, but seeing removes all doubt.

This is the world of existence: daring not to exist.

May 26, 1972

Philosopher Fool

T
HERE IS A FAMOUS
snow mountain capped with mist, like a king wearing a crown. It is said that from this mountain one may see the North and South Poles simultaneously. This mountain is encircled by other awesome rocky snow mountains, like a king surrounded by his queen and ministers. At the foot of this range lies a valley famous as a retreat for meditators. The air is redolent with the fragrance of herbs and mountain freshness. Workers, toiling endlessly, have dreamed of visiting this place. In this peaceful and beautiful forest grow flowering willows, blossoming rhododendrons, beech, pines, and many wildflowers. There is a waterfall, like white silk scarves hanging. The sound of falling water is inviting.

Near the waterfall stands a simple stone house, uncluttered by ostentatious ornament. It blends easily into the rocky landscape. Inside, the pillars and beams are of cedar. In the front, a large window opens onto a porch. Blue smoke once lifted gently from the chimney and disappeared into the sky. Here lived a famous scholar. His room was completely lined with books. He enjoyed the beauty of nature and was competent in the fields of philosophy, art, medicine, and poetry. He spent all his time in taking long walks and in reading and writing. Occasionally, dwelling in retreat, he suppressed memories of work and struggle in his earlier life in the cities. He treated his servant-disciple in a fatherly manner, but with a certain measure of pride and disdain, which insured his obedience and efficiency. He instructed his disciple in all matters, from how to brew tea and cook food to the fine points of philosophy. His servant never spoke to him, for his time was taken up with listening to the scholar.

Once they took a walk, and his servant warned him that the bridge they were about to cross was unsafe. But the scholar would not listen. For an answer, the teacher said, “The scope of my vision is much greater than yours.” As he trod on the bridge, it collapsed and he died in the turbulent river.

In the pure land of the beautiful snow ranges

Lived a learned man, a poisonous flower with venomnectar.

The disease of pride turned him deaf and dumb.

On hearing a word of advice, he committed suicide.

A man foolishly wise is like a leper;

A wisely foolish man is like a baby learning to walk.

To ride the horse of knowledge, it is necessary to have a saddle.

May 27, 1972

Does Love Kill Anybody?

Does love kill anybody?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Love is not a burden, my dear!

Poetry is not a burden for the true poet.

The notion of “chain”

The notion of “blade”

Flowers

Honey

The moon

Chrysanthemums

Sweet smile

Teenager

College kids

Sharpened pencil

Incense sticks by the dozen

Red ribbons in your hair

Coca-Cola advertisements which speak of “action”