Nirvana Days

Cale Young Rice

Nirvana Days

FOREWORD

A few of the poems of this volume are retained from two of the author's earlier volumes which are now out of print. The rest are new.

INVOCATION

(From a High Cliff)Sweep unrestOut of my blood,Winds of the sea! Sweep the fogOut of my brainFor I am oneWho has told Life he will be free.Who will not doubt of work that's done,Who will not fear the work to do.Who will hold peaks PrometheanBetter than all Jove's honey-dew.Who when the Vulture tears his breastWill smile into the Terror's Eyes.Who for the World has this Bequest —Hope, that eternally is wise.

THE FAIRIES OF GOD

Last night I slipt from the banks of dreamAnd swam in the currents of God,On a tide where His fairies were at play,Catching salt tears in their little white hands,For human hearts;And dancing dancing, in gala bands,On the currents of God;And singing, singing: —There is no wind blows here or spray —Wind upon us!Only the waters ripple awayUnder our feet as we gather tears.God has made mortals for the years,Us for alway!God has made mortals full of fears,Fears for the night and fears for the day.If they would free them from grief that sears,If they would keep all that love endears,If they would lay no more lilies on biers —Let them say!For we are swift to enchant and tireTime's will!Our feet are wiser than all desire,Our song is better than faith or fame;To whom it is given no ill e'er came,Who has it not grows chill!Who has it not grows laggard and lame,Nor knows that the world is a Minstrel's lyre,Smitten and never still!..Last night on the currents of God.

A SONG OF THE OLD VENETIANS

The seven fleets of VeniceSet sail across the seaFor Cyprus and for TrebizondAyoub and Araby.Their gonfalons are floating far,St. Mark's has heard the mass,And to the noon the salt lagoonLies white, like burning glass.The seven fleets of Venice —And each its way to go,Led by a Falier or Tron,Zorzi or Dandalo.The Patriarch has blessed them all,The Doge has waved the word,And in their wings the murmuringsOf waiting winds are heard.The seven fleets of Venice —And what shall be their fate?One shall return with porphyryAnd pearl and fair agàte.One shall return with spice and spoilAnd silk of Samarcand.But nevermore shall one win o'erThe sea, to any land.Oh, they shall bring the East back,And they shall bring the West,The seven fleets our Venice setsA-sail upon her quest.But some shall bring despair backAnd some shall leave their keelsDeeper than wind or wave frets,Or sun ever steals.

NIRVANA DAYS

IIf I were in Japan today,In little Japan today,I'd watch the sampan-rowers rideOn Yokohama bay.I'd watch the little flower-folkPass on the Bund, where playOf "foreign" music fills their earsWith wonder new alway.Or in a kuruma I'd stepAnd "Noge-yama!" cry,And bare brown feet should wheel me fastWhere Noge-yama, highAbove the city and sea's vastUprises, with the sighOf pines about its festal fanesBuilt free to sun and sky.And there till dusk I'd sit and thinkOf Shaka Muni, lordOf Buddhas; or of Fudo's fireAnd rope and lifted sword.And, ere I left, a surging shadeOf clouds, a distant horde,Should break and Fugi's cone stand clear —With sutras overscored.Sutras of ice and rock and snow,Written by hands of heatAnd thaw upon it, till 'twould seemMeant for the final seatOf the lord Buddha and his bliss —If ever he repeatThis life where millions still are boundWithin Illusion's cheat.IIOr were I in Japan today —Perchance at Kyoto —Down Tera-machi I would searchFor charm or curio.Up narrow stairs in sandals pureOf soil or dust I'd goInto a room of magic shapes —Gods, dragons, dread Nio.And seated on the silent mats,With many a treasure near —Of ivory the gods have dreamt,And satsuma as dear,Of bronzes whose mysterious mintSeems not of now or here —I'd buy and dream and dream and buy,Lost far in Mâyâ's sphere.Then gathering up my gains at last,Mid "sayonaras" softAnd bows and gentle courtesiesRepeated oft and oft,My host and I should part – "O pleaseThe skies much weal to waftHis years," I'd think, then cross San-joTo fair Chion-in aloft.For set aloft and set apart,Beyond the city's din,Under the shade of ancient heightsLies templed calm Chion-in.And there the great bell's booming fillsIts gates all day, and thinLow beating on mokugyo, byPriests passioning for sin.And there the sun upon its courtsAnd carvings, gods and graves,Rests as no light of earth-lands known,Like to Nirvana lavesAnd washes with sweet under-flowInto the soul's far caves.And no more shall this life seem realTo one who feels its waves."No more!" I'd say, then wander onTo Kiyomizu-shrine,Which is so old antiquity'sFar self cannot divineIts birth, but knows that Kwannon, sheOf mercy's might benign,Has reached her thousand hands alwaysFrom it to Nippon's line.And She should hear my many prayers,And have my freest gifts.And many days beside her shouldI watch the crystal riftsOf Otawa's clear waters earnTheir way, o'er rocks and drifts,Beside the trestled temple down —Like murmurs of sweet shrifts.Then, when the city wearied me,To Katsura I'd wend —A garden hid across green milesOf rice-lands quaintly penned.And, by the stork-bestridden lake,I'd walk or musing mendMy soul with lotus-memoriesAnd hopes – without an end.IIIOr were I in Japan today,Hiroshima should callMy heart – Hiroshima built roundHer ancient castle wall.By the low flowering moat where sunAnd silence ever fallInto a swoon, I'd build againOld days of Daimyo thrall.Of charge and bloody countercharge,When many a samuraiFierce-panoplied fell at its pale,Suppressing groan or cry;Suppressing all but silent hatesThat swept from eye to eye,While lips smiled decorously on,Or mocked urbane goodbye.Then to the river I would passAnd drift upon its tideBy many a tea-house hung in bloomAbove its mirrored side.And geisha fluttering gay beforeTheir guests should pause in piedKimono, then with laughter brightBehind the shoji hide.Unto an isle of Ugina'sLow port my craft should swing,Or scarce an island seems it nowTo my fair fancying,But a shrined jut of earth up throThe sea from which to singUnto the evening star of allNight's incarnations bring.Then backward thro the darkened streetsI'd walk: long lanterns writWith ghostly characters should danceBeside each door, or flit,Thin paper spirits, to and froAnd mow the wind, when itDemanded of them reverenceAnd passed with twirl or twit.What music, too, of samisenAnd koto I should hear!Tinkle on weirder tinkle throThe strangely wistful earWhat shadows on the shoji-doorOf my dim soul should veerAll night in sleep, and haunt the lightOf many a coming year!IVOr were I in Japan today,From Ujina I'd sailFor mountain-isled MigajimaUpon the distance, frailAs the mirage, to Amida,Of this world's transient tale,Where he sits clothed in boundless lightAnd sees it vainly ail.Up to the great sea-torii,Its temple-gate, I'd wind,There furl my sail beneath its beam;And soon my soul should findWhat it shall never, tho it siftThe world elsewhere, and blindItself at last with sight of allEarth's blisses to mankind."Migajima! Migajima!"How would enchantment chantThe syllables within me, tillDesire should cease and pantOf passion press no more my will —But let charmed peace supplantAll thought of birth and death and birth —Yea, karma turn askant.For on Migajima none mayGive birth and none may die —Since birth and death are equal sinsUnto the wise. So IShould muse all day where the sea spillsIts murmur softly byThe still stone lanterns all arowUnder the deathless sky.And under cryptomeria-treeAnd camphor-tree and pine,And tall pagoda, rising roofOn roof into the shineOf the pure air – red roof on roof,With memories in each lineOf far Confucian China whereThey first were held divine.And o'er Migajima the moonShould rise for me again.So magical its glow, I dareThink of it only whenMy heart is strong to shun the snareOf witcheries that menMay lose their souls in evermore,Nor, after, care nor ken.VYes, were I in Japan todayThese things I'd do, and more.For Ise gleams in royal groves,And Nara with its lore,And Nikko hid in mountains – whereThe Shogun, great of yore,Built timeless tombs whose glory gloomsFunereally o'er.These things I'd do! But last of all,On Kamakura's lea,I'd seek Daibutsu's face of calmAnd still the final seaOf all the West within me – fromIts fret and fever freeMy spirit – into patience, peace,And passion's mastery.

THE YOUNG TO THE OLD

You who are old —And have fought the fight —And have won or lost or left the field —Weigh us not downWith fears of the world, as we run!With the wisdom that is too right,The warning to which we cannot yield,The shadow that follows the sun,Follows forever!And with all that desire must leave undone,Though as a god it endeavor;Weigh, weigh us not down!But gird our hope to believe —That all that is doneIs done by dream and daring —Bid us dream on!That Earth was not bornOr Heaven built of bewaring —Yield us the dawn!You dreamt your hour – and dared, but weWould dream till all you despaired of be;Would dare – till the world,Won to a new wayfaring,Be thence forever easier upward drawn!

OFF THE IRISH COAST

Gulls on the wind,Crying! crying!Are you the ghostsOf Erin's dead?Of the forlornWhose days went sighingEver for BeautyThat ever fled?Ever for LightThat never kindled?Ever for SongNo lips have sung?Ever for JoyThat ever dwindled?Ever for Love that stung?

A VISION OF VENUS AND ADONIS

I know not where it was I saw them sit,For in my dreams I had outwandered farThat endless wanderer men call the sea —Whose winds like incantations wrap the worldAnd help the moon in her high mysteries.I know not how it was that I was ledUnto their tryst; or what dim infiniteOf perfect and imperishable nightHung round, a radiance ineffable;For I was too intoxicate and trancedWith beauty that I knew was very love.So when divinity from her had stolenInto his spirit, as, from fields of myrrhOr forests of red sandal by the sea,Steal slaking airs, and he began to speak,I could but gather these few fleeting words:"Your glance sends fragrance sweeter than the lily,Your hands are visible bodiments of songYou are the voice that April light has lost,Her silence that was music of glad birds.The wind's heart have you, and its mystery,When poet Spring comes piping o'er the hillsTo make of Tartarus forgotten fear.Yea all the generations of the world,Whose whence and whither but the gods shall know.Are vassal to your vows forevermore."And she, I knew, made answer, for her wordsFell warm as womanhood with wordless things,But I had drifted on within my dream,To that pale space which is oblivion.

SOMNAMBULISM

INight is above me,And Night is above the night.The sea is beside me soughing, or is still.The earth as a somnambulist moves onIn a strange sleep …A sea-bird cries.And the cry wakes in meDim, dead sea-folk, my sires —Who more than myself are me.Who sat on their beach long nights ago and sawThe sea in its silence;And cursed it or implored:Or with the Cross defied;Then on the morrow in their boats went down.IINight is above me …And Night is above the night.Rocks are about me, and, beyond, the sand …And the low reluctant tide,That rushes back to ebb a last farewellTo the flotsam borne so long upon its breast.Rocks… But the tide is out,And the slime lies naked, like a thing ashamedThat has no hiding-place.And the sea-bird hushes —The bird and all far cries within my blood —And earth as a somnambulist moves on.

SERENATA MAGICA

(Venetian)My gondola is a black sea-swan,And glides beneath the moon.Dark palaces beside me pass,Like visions in a beryl-glassOf what shall never be, alas,Or what has been too soon.Like what shall never be, but inThe breathing of a swoon.My gondola is a black sea-swan,And makes her mystic wayFrom door to phantom water-door,While carven balconies hang o'erAnd casements framed for love say moreThan love can ever say.Say more than any voice but voiceOf silent magic may.My gondola is a black sea-swan —Rialto lies behind.And by me the Salute swings,A loveliness that must take wingsAnd vanish, as imaginingsWithin an Afrit's mind;As vague and vast imaginingsThat can no substance find.My gondola is a black sea-swan:San Marco and the shaftOf the slim Campanile stealInto my trance and leave a sealUpon my senses, like the feelOf long enchantment quaffed:Of long enchantments such as songsOf sage Al Raschid waft.My gondola is a black sea-swanAnd gains to the lagoon,Where samphire and sea-lavenderAround me float or softly stir,While far-off Venice still lifts herFair witchery to the moonAnd all that wonder e'er gave birthSeems out of beauty hewn.

O-SHICHI AND MOTO

IO-Shichi, all my heart todayIs dreaming of your fate;And of your little house that stoodBeside the temple gate;Of its plum-garden hid awayBehind white paper doors;And of the young boy-priest who read too late with you love-lores.IIO-Shichi dwelt in Yedo – whereA thousand wonders dwell.Gods, golden palaces and shrinesThat like a charm enspell.O-Shichi dwelt among them there,More wondrous, she, than all —A flower some forgetful god had from his hand let fall.IIIAnd all her days were as the dreamOn flowers in the sun.And all her ways were as the wavesThat by Shin-bashi run.And in her gaze there was the gleamOf stars that cannot waitToo long for love and so fare forth from heaven to find a mate.IVO-Shichi dwelt so, till one nightWhen all the city slept,When not a paper lantern swung,When only fire-flies sweptSoft cipherings of spirit-lightAcross the temple's gloom —Sudden a cry was heard – the cry that should O-Shichi doom.VFor following the cry came flame,A Chaya's roof a-blaze.And quickly was the street a streamOf stricken folk, whose gazeKnew well that when the morning cameTheir homes would be but smokeVanished upon the winds: now had O-Shichi's fate awoke.VIAnd waited. For at morning priestsIn pity of her yearsAnd desolation led her backBehind the great god's spheres;The great god Buddha, who of beastsAnd men all mindful was.O Buddha, in thy very courts O-Shichi learned love's laws!VIILove of the body and the soul,Not of Nirvana's state!Love that beyond itself can seeNo beauty wise or great.O-Shichi for a moon – a wholeMoon happy there beheldThe young boy-priest whose yearning e'er into his eyes upwelled.VIIISo all too soon for her was foundElsewhere a kindly thatch.And all too soon O-Shichi heardBehind her close love's latch.They led her from the temple's groundInto untrysting days.And all too soon that happy moon was hid in sorrow's haze.IXFor now at dawn she rose to dressWith blooms some honored vase,Or to embroider or brew tea'sSweet ceremonial grace.Or she at dusk, in sick distress,Before the butsudan,Must to ancestral tablets pray – not to her Moto-San!XNot unto him, her love, who swaysHer breast, as moon the tide,Whose breath is incense – Ah, againTo see him softly glideBefore the grave god-idol's gazeOf inward ecstasy,To watch the great bell boom for him its mystic sutra-plea.XIBut weeks grew into weariness,And weariness to pain,And pain to lonely wildness, whichSet fire unto her brain.And, "I will see my love!" distressMade fair O-Shichi cry,"Tho for ten lives away from him I then must live and die."XIIYet – no! She dared not go to him,To her he could not come.Then, sudden a thought her being sweptAnd struck her loud heart dumb.Till in her rose confusion dim,Fear fighting with Desire —Which to O-Shichi took the shape of Fudo, god of fire.XIIIAnd Fudo won her: for that nightDid fond O-Shichi dareTo set aflame her father's house,Hoping again to shareThe temple with her acolyte,Her lover-priest, who, spentWith speechless passion for her face, in vain strove to repent.XIVBut ah! what destiny can doIs not for folly's hand.The flames O-Shichi kindled wereFrom sea to Shiba fanned.And it was learned a love-sick girlHad charred a thousand homes.Then were the fury-smitten folk like to a sea that foams.XVAnd so they seized her: but not inThe temple – O not thereHad she been led again by priestsIn pity – led to shareHer lover's eyes; no, but her sinBrought not one dear delightTo poor O-Shichi – who was now to look on her last rite.XVIFor to the stake they bound her – fireThey lit – to be her fate…O-Shichi, have I dreamt it all?Your face, the temple gate,The fair boy-priest shut from desireIn Buddhahood to-be?Then let me dream and ever dream, O flower by Yedo's sea.

AS OF OLD

The fishermen bade their wives farewell,(The sun floated merry up the morning)They sang, to the rhythm of the low-swung swell,"O come, lads, scorningThe highlands high,There's no warningIn the blue south sky,There's no warning,O come, lads, free,We'll cross the harbor bar and put to sea!"The fisherwives prayed, the sails blew fast,(O home it is happy where there's hoping)

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