A Poet’s Prayer to Rumi/Dogen's Life Work Blows Out the Window

CLARK POWELL

O Mevlana, friend of the turning stars,
you who made longing a language,
and silence a home—
I come barefoot to your words.

My ink has grown weary of meaning;
teach it again to dance.
Let rhyme lose its vanity
and rhythm remember its pulse in the heart.

You who spun emptiness into music,
whisper to me what you told the reed:
that separation is only the first note
of union’s long song.

I have written of love as if I knew it;
now let love write through me,
so every line breaks open like a gate
to the invisible city.

Take my hand, old master of burning;
set me alight without ash.
Let each poem be a small surrender,
a turning toward what never leaves.

And when I forget why words exist,
remind me:
they are footsteps
back to the Beloved.

DOGEN’S LIFE WORK BLOWS OUT THE WINDOW

It happened in the middle of the night

After he just finished inking
The last page
Of seven years of painting
Letter by letter
Letters to make words
Holding seven years
Of writing everything
He learned from the old Masters
And his own heart —

A big wind came down the mountain
And blew open the window
Above the writing desk
And took his pages sailing
Away in the night —

Dogen awoke to find it all
Gone, pages swirling far below
In the courtyard, sailing
Over the monastery wall
Off into the rainy night
Seven long years of finished labor
Finished.

In the morning the monks
Came and said, Master!  We
Will find and fetch
As much as we can!

Dogen smiled from his window,
Looking at the mountain
That took away his pages.

Why? He said to the monks below,
Didn't the wind teach us
What we already knew?

That the Give-Away
Happens to everything
We hold dear?

Said the monks
But Master!  These are priceless
Teachings — how can you,
How can we, just let them go?

Dogen, who had been up
All night at the window,
Smiled again and said,
Look how the wind
Has published my words
On compassion to build bird
Nests, given my words
About Non-attachment
To the trees to leave
Them to the leaves
That fall to the roots
And die with them

To nourish trees to come
And may become paper
To carry other words
Of someone else’s wisdom?
Has it not been distributed
By nature to Nature?

But we have lost your words!
Cried the monks.
And Dogen placed his hand
On his heart and said,
The words came from here

And still are here.
And they will return
By heart to new words.

The monks shook their heads
And walked in wonder away.
And Dogen smiled
And went to sleep.

After the long stormy night
The ordinary sun lit
Another day through a crack
In the mountains,
A sunrise Dogen never saw.