Thinking of the recent post in which Hazrat Inayat Khan spoke of the spiritual nature of poetry, here is a small taste of a renowned poet of the Chinese tradition.  Yang Wan-li (1127-1206 CE) was one of the ‘four masters’ of Southern Sung poetry, and left a collection of over 4,000 poems, not counting a further thousand of his early poems that he burnt. He loved literature, as he said, as other men loved women, and devoted his life to it.  It is possible to trace the influence of Ch’an Buddhism, the Chinese precursor of Zen Buddhism, in his work, finding the essence within–and beyond–the momentary.

Now, what is poetry?
If you say it is simply a matter of words,
I will say a good poet gets rid of words.
If you say it is simply a matter of meaning,
I will say a good poet gets rid of meaning.
“But,” you ask, “without words and without meaning, where is the poetry?”
To this I reply: “Get rid of words and get rid of meaning, and there is still poetry.”

* * *

Don’t read books!
Don’t chant poems!
When you read books your eyeballs wither away, leaving the bare sockets.
When your chant poems your heart leaks out slowly with each word.
People say reading books is enjoyable.
People say chanting poems is fun.
But if your lips constantly make a sound like an insect chirping in autumn,
you will only turn into a haggard old man.
And even if you don’t turn into a haggard old man,
it’s annoying for others to have to hear you.

It’s so much better
to close your eyes, sit in your study,
lower the curtains, sweep the floor,
burn incense.
It’s beautiful to listen to the wind,
listen to the rain,
take a walk when you feel energetic,
and when you’re tired go to sleep.

Tr. Jonathan Chaves