Nirvana Days
Cale Rice




Cale Young Rice

Nirvana Days





FOREWORD


A few of the poems of this volume are retained from two of the author's earlier volumes which are now out of print. The rest are new.




INVOCATION



(From a High Cliff)

		Sweep unrest
		Out of my blood,
		Winds of the sea! Sweep the fog
		Out of my brain
		For I am one
		Who has told Life he will be free.
		Who will not doubt of work that's done,
		Who will not fear the work to do.
		Who will hold peaks Promethean
		Better than all Jove's honey-dew.
		Who when the Vulture tears his breast
		Will smile into the Terror's Eyes.
		Who for the World has this Bequest —
		Hope, that eternally is wise.




THE FAIRIES OF GOD


		Last night I slipt from the banks of dream
		And swam in the currents of God,
		On a tide where His fairies were at play,
		Catching salt tears in their little white hands,
		For human hearts;
		And dancing dancing, in gala bands,
		On the currents of God;
		And singing, singing: —
		There is no wind blows here or spray —
		Wind upon us!
		Only the waters ripple away
		Under our feet as we gather tears.
		God has made mortals for the years,
		Us for alway!
		God has made mortals full of fears,
		Fears for the night and fears for the day.
		If they would free them from grief that sears,
		If they would keep all that love endears,
		If they would lay no more lilies on biers —
		Let them say!
		For we are swift to enchant and tire
		Time's will!
		Our feet are wiser than all desire,
		Our song is better than faith or fame;
		To whom it is given no ill e'er came,
		Who has it not grows chill!
		Who has it not grows laggard and lame,
		Nor knows that the world is a Minstrel's lyre,
		Smitten and never still!..
		Last night on the currents of God.




A SONG OF THE OLD VENETIANS


		The seven fleets of Venice
		Set sail across the sea
		For Cyprus and for Trebizond
		Ayoub and Araby.
		Their gonfalons are floating far,
		St. Mark's has heard the mass,
		And to the noon the salt lagoon
		Lies white, like burning glass.

		The seven fleets of Venice —
		And each its way to go,
		Led by a Falier or Tron,
		Zorzi or Dandalo.
		The Patriarch has blessed them all,
		The Doge has waved the word,
		And in their wings the murmurings
		Of waiting winds are heard.

		The seven fleets of Venice —
		And what shall be their fate?
		One shall return with porphyry
		And pearl and fair agàte.
		One shall return with spice and spoil
		And silk of Samarcand.
		But nevermore shall one win o'er
		The sea, to any land.

		Oh, they shall bring the East back,
		And they shall bring the West,
		The seven fleets our Venice sets
		A-sail upon her quest.
		But some shall bring despair back
		And some shall leave their keels
		Deeper than wind or wave frets,
		Or sun ever steals.




NIRVANA DAYS



I

		If I were in Japan today,
		In little Japan today,
		I'd watch the sampan-rowers ride
		On Yokohama bay.
		I'd watch the little flower-folk
		Pass on the Bund, where play
		Of "foreign" music fills their ears
		With wonder new alway.

		Or in a kuruma I'd step
		And "Noge-yama!" cry,
		And bare brown feet should wheel me fast
		Where Noge-yama, high
		Above the city and sea's vast
		Uprises, with the sigh
		Of pines about its festal fanes
		Built free to sun and sky.

		And there till dusk I'd sit and think
		Of Shaka Muni, lord
		Of Buddhas; or of Fudo's fire
		And rope and lifted sword.
		And, ere I left, a surging shade
		Of clouds, a distant horde,
		Should break and Fugi's cone stand clear —
		With sutras overscored.

		Sutras of ice and rock and snow,
		Written by hands of heat
		And thaw upon it, till 'twould seem
		Meant for the final seat
		Of the lord Buddha and his bliss —
		If ever he repeat
		This life where millions still are bound
		Within Illusion's cheat.


II

		Or were I in Japan today —
		Perchance at Kyoto —
		Down Tera-machi I would search
		For charm or curio.
		Up narrow stairs in sandals pure
		Of soil or dust I'd go
		Into a room of magic shapes —
		Gods, dragons, dread Nio.

		And seated on the silent mats,
		With many a treasure near —
		Of ivory the gods have dreamt,
		And satsuma as dear,
		Of bronzes whose mysterious mint
		Seems not of now or here —
		I'd buy and dream and dream and buy,
		Lost far in Mâyâ's sphere.

		Then gathering up my gains at last,
		Mid "sayonaras" soft
		And bows and gentle courtesies
		Repeated oft and oft,
		My host and I should part – "O please
		The skies much weal to waft
		His years," I'd think, then cross San-jo
		To fair Chion-in aloft.

		For set aloft and set apart,
		Beyond the city's din,
		Under the shade of ancient heights
		Lies templed calm Chion-in.
		And there the great bell's booming fills
		Its gates all day, and thin
		Low beating on mokugyo, by
		Priests passioning for sin.

		And there the sun upon its courts
		And carvings, gods and graves,
		Rests as no light of earth-lands known,
		Like to Nirvana laves
		And washes with sweet under-flow
		Into the soul's far caves.
		And no more shall this life seem real
		To one who feels its waves.

		"No more!" I'd say, then wander on
		To Kiyomizu-shrine,
		Which is so old antiquity's
		Far self cannot divine
		Its birth, but knows that Kwannon, she
		Of mercy's might benign,
		Has reached her thousand hands always
		From it to Nippon's line.

		And She should hear my many prayers,
		And have my freest gifts.
		And many days beside her should
		I watch the crystal rifts
		Of Otawa's clear waters earn
		Their way, o'er rocks and drifts,
		Beside the trestled temple down —
		Like murmurs of sweet shrifts.

		Then, when the city wearied me,
		To Katsura I'd wend —
		A garden hid across green miles
		Of rice-lands quaintly penned.
		And, by the stork-bestridden lake,
		I'd walk or musing mend
		My soul with lotus-memories
		And hopes – without an end.


III

		Or were I in Japan today,
		Hiroshima should call
		My heart – Hiroshima built round
		Her ancient castle wall.
		By the low flowering moat where sun
		And silence ever fall
		Into a swoon, I'd build again
		Old days of Daimyo thrall.

		Of charge and bloody countercharge,
		When many a samurai
		Fierce-panoplied fell at its pale,
		Suppressing groan or cry;
		Suppressing all but silent hates
		That swept from eye to eye,
		While lips smiled decorously on,
		Or mocked urbane goodbye.

		Then to the river I would pass
		And drift upon its tide
		By many a tea-house hung in bloom
		Above its mirrored side.
		And geisha fluttering gay before
		Their guests should pause in pied
		Kimono, then with laughter bright
		Behind the shoji hide.

		Unto an isle of Ugina's
		Low port my craft should swing,
		Or scarce an island seems it now
		To my fair fancying,
		But a shrined jut of earth up thro
		The sea from which to sing
		Unto the evening star of all
		Night's incarnations bring.

		Then backward thro the darkened streets
		I'd walk: long lanterns writ
		With ghostly characters should dance
		Beside each door, or flit,
		Thin paper spirits, to and fro
		And mow the wind, when it
		Demanded of them reverence
		And passed with twirl or twit.

		What music, too, of samisen
		And koto I should hear!
		Tinkle on weirder tinkle thro
		The strangely wistful ear
		What shadows on the shoji-door
		Of my dim soul should veer
		All night in sleep, and haunt the light
		Of many a coming year!


IV

		Or were I in Japan today,
		From Ujina I'd sail
		For mountain-isled Migajima
		Upon the distance, frail
		As the mirage, to Amida,
		Of this world's transient tale,
		Where he sits clothed in boundless light
		And sees it vainly ail.

		Up to the great sea-torii,
		Its temple-gate, I'd wind,
		There furl my sail beneath its beam;
		And soon my soul should find
		What it shall never, tho it sift
		The world elsewhere, and blind
		Itself at last with sight of all
		Earth's blisses to mankind.

		"Migajima! Migajima!"
		How would enchantment chant
		The syllables within me, till
		Desire should cease and pant
		Of passion press no more my will —
		But let charmed peace supplant
		All thought of birth and death and birth —
		Yea, karma turn askant.

		For on Migajima none may
		Give birth and none may die —
		Since birth and death are equal sins
		Unto the wise. So I
		Should muse all day where the sea spills
		Its murmur softly by
		The still stone lanterns all arow
		Under the deathless sky.

		And under cryptomeria-tree
		And camphor-tree and pine,
		And tall pagoda, rising roof
		On roof into the shine
		Of the pure air – red roof on roof,
		With memories in each line
		Of far Confucian China where
		They first were held divine.

		And o'er Migajima the moon
		Should rise for me again.
		So magical its glow, I dare
		Think of it only when
		My heart is strong to shun the snare
		Of witcheries that men
		May lose their souls in evermore,
		Nor, after, care nor ken.


V

		Yes, were I in Japan today
		These things I'd do, and more.
		For Ise gleams in royal groves,
		And Nara with its lore,
		And Nikko hid in mountains – where
		The Shogun, great of yore,
		Built timeless tombs whose glory glooms
		Funereally o'er.

		These things I'd do! But last of all,
		On Kamakura's lea,
		I'd seek Daibutsu's face of calm
		And still the final sea
		Of all the West within me – from
		Its fret and fever free
		My spirit – into patience, peace,
		And passion's mastery.




THE YOUNG TO THE OLD


		You who are old —
		And have fought the fight —
		And have won or lost or left the field —
		Weigh us not down
		With fears of the world, as we run!
		With the wisdom that is too right,
		The warning to which we cannot yield,
		The shadow that follows the sun,
		Follows forever!
		And with all that desire must leave undone,
		Though as a god it endeavor;
		Weigh, weigh us not down!

		But gird our hope to believe —
		That all that is done
		Is done by dream and daring —
		Bid us dream on!
		That Earth was not born
		Or Heaven built of bewaring —
		Yield us the dawn!
		You dreamt your hour – and dared, but we
		Would dream till all you despaired of be;
		Would dare – till the world,
		Won to a new wayfaring,
		Be thence forever easier upward drawn!




OFF THE IRISH COAST


		Gulls on the wind,
		Crying! crying!
		Are you the ghosts
		Of Erin's dead?
		Of the forlorn
		Whose days went sighing
		Ever for Beauty
		That ever fled?

		Ever for Light
		That never kindled?
		Ever for Song
		No lips have sung?
		Ever for Joy
		That ever dwindled?
		Ever for Love that stung?




A VISION OF VENUS AND ADONIS


		I know not where it was I saw them sit,
		For in my dreams I had outwandered far
		That endless wanderer men call the sea —
		Whose winds like incantations wrap the world
		And help the moon in her high mysteries.
		I know not how it was that I was led
		Unto their tryst; or what dim infinite
		Of perfect and imperishable night
		Hung round, a radiance ineffable;
		For I was too intoxicate and tranced
		With beauty that I knew was very love.
		So when divinity from her had stolen
		Into his spirit, as, from fields of myrrh
		Or forests of red sandal by the sea,
		Steal slaking airs, and he began to speak,
		I could but gather these few fleeting words:
		"Your glance sends fragrance sweeter than the lily,
		Your hands are visible bodiments of song
		You are the voice that April light has lost,
		Her silence that was music of glad birds.
		The wind's heart have you, and its mystery,
		When poet Spring comes piping o'er the hills
		To make of Tartarus forgotten fear.
		Yea all the generations of the world,
		Whose whence and whither but the gods shall know.
		Are vassal to your vows forevermore."
		And she, I knew, made answer, for her words
		Fell warm as womanhood with wordless things,
		But I had drifted on within my dream,
		To that pale space which is oblivion.




SOMNAMBULISM



I

		Night is above me,
		And Night is above the night.
		The sea is beside me soughing, or is still.
		The earth as a somnambulist moves on
		In a strange sleep …
		A sea-bird cries.
		And the cry wakes in me
		Dim, dead sea-folk, my sires —
		Who more than myself are me.
		Who sat on their beach long nights ago and saw
		The sea in its silence;
		And cursed it or implored:
		Or with the Cross defied;
		Then on the morrow in their boats went down.


II

		Night is above me …
		And Night is above the night.
		Rocks are about me, and, beyond, the sand …
		And the low reluctant tide,
		That rushes back to ebb a last farewell
		To the flotsam borne so long upon its breast.
		Rocks… But the tide is out,
		And the slime lies naked, like a thing ashamed
		That has no hiding-place.
		And the sea-bird hushes —
		The bird and all far cries within my blood —
		And earth as a somnambulist moves on.




SERENATA MAGICA



(Venetian)

		My gondola is a black sea-swan,
		And glides beneath the moon.
		Dark palaces beside me pass,
		Like visions in a beryl-glass
		Of what shall never be, alas,
		Or what has been too soon.
		Like what shall never be, but in
		The breathing of a swoon.

		My gondola is a black sea-swan,
		And makes her mystic way
		From door to phantom water-door,
		While carven balconies hang o'er
		And casements framed for love say more
		Than love can ever say.
		Say more than any voice but voice
		Of silent magic may.

		My gondola is a black sea-swan —
		Rialto lies behind.
		And by me the Salute swings,
		A loveliness that must take wings
		And vanish, as imaginings
		Within an Afrit's mind;
		As vague and vast imaginings
		That can no substance find.

		My gondola is a black sea-swan:
		San Marco and the shaft
		Of the slim Campanile steal
		Into my trance and leave a seal
		Upon my senses, like the feel
		Of long enchantment quaffed:
		Of long enchantments such as songs
		Of sage Al Raschid waft.

		My gondola is a black sea-swan
		And gains to the lagoon,
		Where samphire and sea-lavender
		Around me float or softly stir,
		While far-off Venice still lifts her
		Fair witchery to the moon
		And all that wonder e'er gave birth
		Seems out of beauty hewn.




O-SHICHI AND MOTO



I

		O-Shichi, all my heart today
		Is dreaming of your fate;
		And of your little house that stood
		Beside the temple gate;
		Of its plum-garden hid away
		Behind white paper doors;
		And of the young boy-priest who read too late with you love-lores.


II

		O-Shichi dwelt in Yedo – where
		A thousand wonders dwell.
		Gods, golden palaces and shrines
		That like a charm enspell.
		O-Shichi dwelt among them there,
		More wondrous, she, than all —
		A flower some forgetful god had from his hand let fall.


III

		And all her days were as the dream
		On flowers in the sun.
		And all her ways were as the waves
		That by Shin-bashi run.
		And in her gaze there was the gleam
		Of stars that cannot wait
		Too long for love and so fare forth from heaven to find a mate.


IV

		O-Shichi dwelt so, till one night
		When all the city slept,
		When not a paper lantern swung,
		When only fire-flies swept
		Soft cipherings of spirit-light
		Across the temple's gloom —
		Sudden a cry was heard – the cry that should O-Shichi doom.


V

		For following the cry came flame,
		A Chaya's roof a-blaze.
		And quickly was the street a stream
		Of stricken folk, whose gaze
		Knew well that when the morning came
		Their homes would be but smoke
		Vanished upon the winds: now had O-Shichi's fate awoke.


VI

		And waited. For at morning priests
		In pity of her years
		And desolation led her back
		Behind the great god's spheres;
		The great god Buddha, who of beasts
		And men all mindful was.
		O Buddha, in thy very courts O-Shichi learned love's laws!


VII

		Love of the body and the soul,
		Not of Nirvana's state!
		Love that beyond itself can see
		No beauty wise or great.
		O-Shichi for a moon – a whole
		Moon happy there beheld
		The young boy-priest whose yearning e'er into his eyes upwelled.


VIII

		So all too soon for her was found
		Elsewhere a kindly thatch.
		And all too soon O-Shichi heard
		Behind her close love's latch.
		They led her from the temple's ground
		Into untrysting days.
		And all too soon that happy moon was hid in sorrow's haze.


IX

		For now at dawn she rose to dress
		With blooms some honored vase,
		Or to embroider or brew tea's
		Sweet ceremonial grace.
		Or she at dusk, in sick distress,
		Before the butsudan,
		Must to ancestral tablets pray – not to her Moto-San!


X

		Not unto him, her love, who sways
		Her breast, as moon the tide,
		Whose breath is incense – Ah, again
		To see him softly glide
		Before the grave god-idol's gaze
		Of inward ecstasy,
		To watch the great bell boom for him its mystic sutra-plea.


XI

		But weeks grew into weariness,
		And weariness to pain,
		And pain to lonely wildness, which
		Set fire unto her brain.
		And, "I will see my love!" distress
		Made fair O-Shichi cry,
		"Tho for ten lives away from him I then must live and die."


XII

		Yet – no! She dared not go to him,
		To her he could not come.
		Then, sudden a thought her being swept
		And struck her loud heart dumb.
		Till in her rose confusion dim,
		Fear fighting with Desire —
		Which to O-Shichi took the shape of Fudo, god of fire.


XIII

		And Fudo won her: for that night
		Did fond O-Shichi dare
		To set aflame her father's house,
		Hoping again to share
		The temple with her acolyte,
		Her lover-priest, who, spent
		With speechless passion for her face, in vain strove to repent.


XIV

		But ah! what destiny can do
		Is not for folly's hand.
		The flames O-Shichi kindled were
		From sea to Shiba fanned.
		And it was learned a love-sick girl
		Had charred a thousand homes.
		Then were the fury-smitten folk like to a sea that foams.


XV

		And so they seized her: but not in
		The temple – O not there
		Had she been led again by priests
		In pity – led to share
		Her lover's eyes; no, but her sin
		Brought not one dear delight
		To poor O-Shichi – who was now to look on her last rite.


XVI

		For to the stake they bound her – fire
		They lit – to be her fate…
		O-Shichi, have I dreamt it all?
		Your face, the temple gate,
		The fair boy-priest shut from desire
		In Buddhahood to-be?
		Then let me dream and ever dream, O flower by Yedo's sea.




AS OF OLD


		The fishermen bade their wives farewell,
		(The sun floated merry up the morning)
		They sang, to the rhythm of the low-swung swell,
		"O come, lads, scorning
		The highlands high,
		There's no warning
		In the blue south sky,
		There's no warning,
		O come, lads, free,
		We'll cross the harbor bar and put to sea!"

		The fisherwives prayed, the sails blew fast,
		(O home it is happy where there's hoping)




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