[photo by Warren Falcon. All rights reserved]

for Allen & Izzy
for Robin & Michael & Sunraven
after Philip Whalen kinda

 

*

 

 

 

I note now from yesterday the grace of 

animals who held me in their long gaze: 

 

1 dog

1 peacock

1 llama

 

 

Llama looks up from her evening feed of field greens, 

blinks through mist by long eyelashes purled

rising silently while I read my book 

foolishly head down in the midst
of springing slow surprise - 

 

gratuitous is this veiled field wet, 

soft, an unexpected llama looking at me, 

taking me in.

 

Raiment mist stops at the hem of the darkening woods, 

 

requisite red barn, old, leans against the ribbon

of ground fog hovering, a wire fence almost invisible, 

 

gray wire in white cloud, between me and that cloud

and that great llama attracted (I like to think this)   

 

by my kissing sounds, a call for her to come
to me which she does walking slowly, her ope't
eyes bestowing near me now suddenly

 

look down, 

 

the small head always tilts one side to the other, 

little mouth a posed curiosity chewing like a child, 

the long graceful neck shagged, soft fur thickly flows, 

 

disappears into tall grass

 

and I am victim of my own infatuation for all

my lip smacks and cooing and waving of hands, 

one more fool for love fooled yet again.

 

 

I note here for the record that I have actually lost

the desire to chase, at least outwardly, rather, my

chase is inner (as always).
 

 

I open my zen poetry book**attempting to come

to enlightenment by proximity, and why not? 

who's to say, rubbing elbows, it can't be done 

or is cheating? Enlightenment IS cheating,
how dare any being escape the itch, the play
and pain, the desire in



chase and surcease



craving release



as does the



field let go





a fine white






mist into space







which 

 

gradually 

 

dissipates 

 

without 

 

any trace of

 

having been  

 

 

THIEF!

I scream 

 

HALP HALP! 

 

THIEF THIEF! 

 

WHITE MIST! 

 

 

The animals (not

Stanley, peacock

on top of the barn,

come)   

 

come running

sweetly to me.

 

I think, Well,

of course.

 

Open my book,

read first thing

meets zenny eye: 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

I recall a zen monk in Hawaii,
an Oahu mountainside (the '80's?),
quietly works ink and brushes upon
handmade paper at the zendo made.

The chasing crowd I am a self-conscious
reluctant part of stands awkwardly yet awed 

at a safe distance (will he go nova) cultivating
boredom stroke by stroke, the silence broken
by temple bell's deep resonant tone close by.

 

This monk is the zen master (I did not know
it at the time), looks up as if noticing for the
first time that we gawker-graspers are there
though he does know, intense, says, making
eye contact with (why?) me, 
 

 

 

Gong chimes again as
if rehearsed and on cue.

I sweat like a pig. Blame
it on tropical humidity.

Reasonable enough. 
 

 

A Jungian analyst some years after this,
after recounting this story to her, having
a good laugh at me, me nervously laughing
with, says, 

 

A most appropriate response when 

confronted personally by a Buddha. 

 

You see, Warren,

sweat KNOWS. 

 

Pay attention

to sweat.

 

BE (not attached to) sweat.



Huh?

 

 

*

 

 

Ursa Major. Little Bear. Circles.  

 

 

 

Soon. Ursa Major. Follows.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Now days, tired of being a disturbance in most of my 

corner of the universe, the Milky Way looks good to me 

from where I currently stand. 

 

Once there, who knows.

 

I think that stars are cold in their enviable far light,
unattainable bottles lined up, glinting totems on altar
shelves, pretty behind a dark and mysterious Bar that
is open all night. I need their remote stellar indifference,
their inhuman capacity to be undisturbed by anything
other than gravity, and something-somewhere 

light-years close-enough going-nova. 

 

Then are they affected.

 

 

Recall what I recently wrote on a job application

asking what my career goals are for the future 

(I'm 61 years of age): 

 

I'm going to go nova one day.

 

Feels good to admit that to someone else, 

a distant star for all I know. For now I remain, 

rather, a simile then a metaphor then, really, 

a black star - energy trapped.

Still I must be smart and good-looking enough
in yesterday's Autumn field and this memory all
aroma and chirrup-chirrup to attract such unexpected
and unreasoned animal grace.

 

 

*

 

 

I read now a yellowed manuscript, an old chase, 

an itch returned, raw, red, inflamed, my own words
writ 30 years ago sitting on a cold stone wall by a
frozen river, West 142nd Street, cars and humans
shouting up the street behind me, Setcho poems***
in my pocket, this my earnest response to him from
icy fingers, a shaking pen then, this:

 

 

What's will when

 

the window slams shut? 

 

Just old cake thrown on the street

 

Why try be happy/sad? 

 

don't affect it

 

disinfect your mind

 

play possum

 

Who's somebody's darlin'? 

 

*


Setcho, zen master & poet, writes***: 

 

After so very many years, it's pointless to

 

look back on it.

 

Give this looking back a rest! 

 

A clear breeze the world over

 

- what limit could it have? 

 

 

*

 

 

>>><<<

 

 

** Philip Whalen, Overtime, Selected Poems.

 

*** Setcho Juken, Zen monk from Japan who compiled The Blue Cliff Record, a collection of 100 koans with appreciatory verses.