She said it was
stupid meaningless empty
this poem.
That it did nothing for her —
no thing depends upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water.
Yet, she aspired to greatness.
Cracking shells with her dull pen
she looked for the elusive pearl
to string around her slender neck.
She aspired to greatness
with an ungreat full mind.
And I two rows back
struck dumb
by her thick, reaching thighs
and the
vain pounding of her hard head,
tried to overlook her inconsistencies
thinking I might
see eternity in a grain of sand,
that I might
jump down from my high and firy cross.
But I could not,
the farmer in my green soul
knowing
that so much does depend upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water.
That so much does depend upon
empty beauty
full,
filled with in
significance.
Message To A Monk Who Scribbles Verse - Ikkyu
Pain and bliss, love and hate, are like a body and its
shadow:
Cold and warm, joy and anger, you and your condition.
Delight in singing verse is a road to Hell,
but at Hell’s gate—peach blossoms, plum blossoms.
