The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume Seven (51 page)

His flow of thunder-energy is impressive

His dorje and phurba are the weapons of self-liberation—

With penetrating accuracy they pierce

Through the heart of spiritual pride.

One’s faults are so skillfully exposed

That no mask can hide the ego

And one can no longer conceal

The anti-dharma which pretends to be dharma.

Through all my lives may I continue

To be the messenger of dharma

And listen to the song of the king of yanas.

May I lead the life of a bodhisattva.

1968

Colophon from
The Sadhana of Mahamudra

Listen, Listen

Listen, listen to the sound of the mind’s own utterance,

Within the womb of the beauty of Autumn,

While the setting sun shows the red glory of her smile.

Hearing the bamboo flute which no one plays,

Listen to the reeds swaying in the breeze,

And the silent ripple’s song.

The disciples debate,

But never reach the ripple’s end.

The teacher’s word that lies beyond the mind—

Listened to, it cannot be found,

And found, it still cannot be heard.

Three-Bladed Missile

Three-bladed missile

Piercing to the sky—

Vroom,

Bang, Bang!

It leaves the ground.

It is the manifestation

Of hatred for the whole earth,

Hatred for the whole solar system.

Who is the victim?

Who is the victor?

It is highly ironical

While others live

On such luxury.

There must be some force

Of truth and justice—

These very words have been overused.

Yet with the force of the true powerful nature

There will be the perfect situation

Which is unorganized,

Inspired by the pupil who is not conditioned.

So the world is not all that

Pitch black—

There is some harmony

And in this harmony we live.

We have been inspired

Yet are neither anarchists, nor revolutionists,

In the blind sense.

Love to you all.

December 17, 1969

Scotland

Whistling Grasses of the Esk Valley

Whistling grasses of the Esk Valley,

So many incidents occur.

The image is the climate of this part of the country.

There comes a hailstorm—

Children, children, seek protection!

A mighty thunderbolt strikes to the ground.

It does not make any distinction between trustees and the spiritual leader.

Violent winds shake the Scots pine tree,

Copper beech and rhododendrons.

I said to myself,

You, most mighty of all, should have come three weeks earlier.

Here is the big storm.

Buckets of rain pour down.

The Esk river turns reddish in color,

Sweeps all the trees and branches away.

A mighty force invades our valley—

Fishes thrown up on the banks for the birds’ delight.

Chögyam watches all this,

Wishing that I could be one of those fishes,

That this ruthless political current would throw me away.

Why wasn’t I born an innocent fish

That could die in peace on the banks of the Esk?

If karma exists the weather will adjust.

I am not seeking revenge.

I am seeking peace

As one of those fish peacefully dead on the bank,

Its body a feast of its victory.

But I cannot help thinking they will say grace before the meal,

And will have a good cook

To make their evening feast enjoyable.

October 31, 1969

Scotland

This Marriage

This marriage is the marriage of sun and moon.

It is the marriage of ocean and sky.

What can I say if the universal force demonstrates it?

Today there is a big storm;

The autumn leaves are swept by the force of wind.

That is the meeting of wind and tree.

Emotion, what is that?

Longing for you is something deeper than my impression of you

And the memory could be carved on rock, something substantial.

Your letter is beautiful because it is written by you.

I hear Krishna playing his flute

In the long distance.

There needs to be courage from both you and me.

The words that I said will not fade

Because they are carved on this gigantic rock.

Your presence in my chamber

Still remains

As the presence of my Guru

In my mind.

Let’s dance together

In the nondualistic air

Let’s sing together

In the silent clarity.

Still there is sorrow

As oneness crowned with thorns and crucified.

But it’s not the fault of Pontius Pilate;

It’s beyond his stature and his power.

There have been many discoveries

Like a child collecting pebbles

I’m so pleased that you are the source of happiness.

You radiate light.

This is the gateway for you

As you enter this gate

You will find openness without effort.

Faith is most important

Nothing else matters.

It is the channel for everything.

Come, my darling,

Be open.

There is tremendous discovery

It is not you alone

If we both make the effort.

November 2, 1969

Garwald House

Eskdalemuir, Scotland

Song

A railway station,

People busy, involved in their affairs.

A park keeper,

Enjoying cutting the flowers with his secateurs,

Pruning the roses.

This life is normal to some people.

But to people like us it is not normal at all.

So many things happen—

They are all part of life.

A battlefield,

Innocent people being killed.

I am sure we could change the course of the bullet—

Wars are not fought for hate,

But for pursuing further development.

I saw in my mind innocent Easter.

Young as he was his whole head had been exploded.

To whom could I tell such neglect and cruelty?

Where does it come from?

I say no more.

This is a lonely song.

I sing in a peaceful valley

Where the glittering frost ignites with the spark of sun.

This beauty does not satisfy me.

Come my friends, who has got heart?

That we may dance

And come into effect,

Into the perpetual time.

November 20, 1969

In the North of the Sky

In the north of the sky there is a great and dark cloud

Just about to release a hailstorm.

Mind, children,

Mind, young puppies and kittens,

That your heads are not injured.

Yet these hailstorms are merely pellets of ice.

There were hundreds of magicians

Who tried to prevent storm and hail.

In the course of time

All the ritual hats, altars, and ritual garments

Have been blown away by the force of the hailstorms.

Here comes Chögyam disguised as a hailstorm.

No one can confront him.

It is too proud to say Chögyam is invincible,

But it is true to say he cannot be defeated.

Chögyam is a tiger with whiskers and a confident smile.

This is not a poem of pride

Nor of self-glorification:

But he is what he is.

He escaped from the jaw of the lion.

“Clear away,” says the commander,

“You are standing on no-man’s-land.

We do not want to shoot innocent people.”

We cannot alter the path of the shell.

Once the bomb is released it knows its duty;

It has to descend.

Chögyam knows the course of his action.

He could be described as a skillful pilot;

He can travel faster than sound,

Faster than thoughts.

He is like a sharp bamboo dagger

That can exterminate pterodactyls

Or fast-moving boa constrictors.

I am not interested in playing games.

But what is a game?

It is a game when you shoot pheasants and deer.

You might say this is the game of the politicians,

Rather like the game of mah-jongg

Or that of chess.

Devoid of these games

I will sail straight through

Like a ship sailing through icebergs.

No one can change Chögyam’s course,

His great odyssey.

The world waits,

Squirrels in the forest

And those of the moon

Listening in silence

Amidst gently moving clouds.

There is a force of silence

With energy

Which can never be interrupted.

With conviction and energy

I send my love to you.

I love you.

November 23, 1969

Good-bye and Welcome

“Good-bye”

“Welcome”

“Glad to meet you”

“How do you do”—

All this I hear

Echoing in the cave of social meeting,

And the echo goes on and on

Until it dies in the mountain depths,

Powerless to reflect.

But O World, O Universe,

My journey to the overseas continent needs no copyright,

For it has never been conducted in the same manner.

It is the fresh meeting of man,

The true meeting of living man.

It is the pilgrimage,

The great odyssey which I have never feared,

Since I have not hesitated to flow with the river’s current.

With blessings and wisdom I write this poem,

As I am free once and for all

In the midst of friends who radiate true love.

Love to you all.

December 16, 1969

Meteoric Iron Mountain

Meteoric iron mountain piercing to the sky,

With lightning and hailstorm clouds round about it.

There is so much energy where I live

Which feeds me.

There is no romantic mystique,

There is just a village boy

On a cold wet morning

Going to the farm

Fetching milk for the family.

Foolishness and wisdom

Grandeur and simplicity

Are all the same

Because they live on what they are.

There is no application for exotic wisdom,

Wisdom must communicate

To the men of now.

Dharma is the study of what is

And fulfills the understanding of what is here right now.

The ripple expands when you throw the pebble:

It is true, a fact.

That is the point of faith,

Of full conviction,

Which no one can defeat or challenge.

Please, readers,

Read it slowly

So you can feel

That depth of calmness as you read.

Love to you.

I am the Bodhisattva who will not abandon you,

In accordance with my vow.

Compassion to all.

December 17, 1969

The Zen Teacher

The Zen teacher hates the horse

But the horse carries him;

At the river both depend on the boat.

For crossing the mountains

It is better to carry a stick.

American Good Intentions

So violent in achieving nonviolence

A journey to the moon and the discovery of kundalini

Spiritual testimonials and presidential promises

Law and order and militant monasticism

Colorful gurus on sale at the A&P

Buddhologists

Rosicrucians

Masons

Zen profundity

Benevolent Protective Order of Elks

Electricity by the megawatts

Potential children discover potential parents

Virginia aristocrats

New York Jews

Mississippi is a meaningless noun

Idaho with its potatoes

Cape Kennedy with its moon

Washington, D.C., with its clean-cut

Chicago with its notorious Mafiosi

Telegraph Avenue sells Himalayan art in Berkeley

Canadian internationalism a cheap copy of the U.S.’s

A franchised Ugandan dictator

Black

Yellow

Crimson

Purple

All are primitive jokes

White cons black into gray

War is an opportune time to create peace

Nationwide respectability fails to include street-trained dogs

Oath of Allegiance violates a sense of humor

Yellow cabs roar through skyscraper canyons

Urban jackals patrol the streets crying red white and blue

Officials entertaining foreign dignitaries

Are busy apologizing for the presence of radical demonstrators

Wide as American inspiration