General Introduction

Zen Buddhism, the non-theistic psycho-spiritual system which developed in sixth century China, has much to say about the value of silence and the inefficiency of words, concepts, and images to convey reality. It is surprising, then, to learn that of all the Buddhist sects of Asia, Zen has the largest collection of literature produced by its own rank and file. Even today, in the west, there seems no end to the proliferation of works, both scholarly and creative, from Buddhists in general and Zenists in particular. But of all the literary genres the one for which Zen Buddhism is best known is poetry.

On second thought, this is not really so surprising. Zen, like many a mystical tradition, loves paradox and, perhaps, this is just one of them. When the deepest attention is given to what is said or written by Zenists, it tends to put one's words, concepts, and images, on hold in a radical way. Then, after spending quality time in that rare silence, there is much one might be compelled to say about the experience.

The literature that tries to convey the "indefinable, incommunicable root, free from all names, descriptions, and concepts, that can only be experienced by each individual" (Schuhmacher 443), is that of the koan. Nishijima writes that the Japanese word koan is derived from kofu-no-antoku (Jp). This refers to "a notice board on which a new law was announced to the public in ancient China" (33). Zen Buddhists have appropriated the word for their own purpose to mean "stories and sayings [which] contain patterns, like blue prints, for various inner exercises in attention, mental posture, and higher perception…" (Cleary xv).

But I prefer an even more prosaic description. Here's one:

Koans are the folk stories of Zen Buddhism, metaphorical narratives that particularize essential nature. Each koan is a window that shows the whole truth but just from a single vantage. It is limited in perspective. … When they are enriched with insightful comments and poems, then you have ten thousand vantages. There is no end to this process of enrichment. (Aitken ix)

Did he say poems?

I have always felt that the act of writing poetry, like the practice of Zen is, in essence, a contemplative act. That there are differences between poetry, religion, and philosophy, per se, is obvious. Yet, that they can be seen to overlap in essential ways should be noted as well. In fact, they often compliment each other. As Gary Snyder puts it,

[M]editation looks inward, poetry holds forth. One is private, the other is out in the world. One enters the moment, the other shares it. But in practice it is never entirely clear which is doing which. In any case, we do not know that in spite of the contemporary public perception of meditation and poetry as special, exotic, and difficult, they are both as old and as common as grass. (2)

Poetry, as a contemplative act, is motivated by contemplative states that occur in the writer who, if successful, produces artifacts which initiate contemplative states in the reader. The highest aim of contemplation is to arrive at a deep insight into the nature of oneself and others. Once again, because this insight by nature transcends words, concepts, and images, that is, those elements which comprise language, the modes of linguistic expression which the writer employs are often of necessity ambiguous and paradoxical. In one sense, one must learn to use language against itself.

It seems to me the more deeply one looks in to the workings of language, the more one finds that language desires this conflict. It wants to be wooed like a lover who encourages one moment, only to pull away at another. She disappoints and infuriates but one cannot help loving and needing her. Then, after prolonged objective descriptions, instructions, inquiries, theorizing, and all the rest, language finally matures into poetry.

I like to think that this is what Wittgenstein had in mind when he describes his motivation in writing. In one of his works, which I understood much better when I began to read it as a series of poems, he writes that his intention is to teach the reader "to pass from one piece of disguised nonsense to something that is patent nonsense" (1958 #464). His intention is to orchestrate the failure of language to explain itself in such a way as to cause the reader to "see the world aright" (1961, 74).

Wittgenstein seeks to undermine language's stranglehold on the reader. He does this by uncovering "one or another piece of plain nonsense and of bumps that the understanding has got by running its head against the limits of language" (119). Then, once the "houses of cards" have been swept away, "the grounds of language on which they stand" appear (113). The reader, if all goes well, comes to the place where the problem of language "completely disappears" (113) and "everything lies open to view and there is nothing to explain" (126).

And I am not the only person to perceive a poetic quality in Wittgenstein as well as a parallel between him, the western philosophical schools he has inspired, and Asian ways of manipulating language for the sake of spiritual insight. After a study of Zen Buddhism, Charles S. Hardwick wrote that,

Now, it is possible to see the significance of some of the queer statements we meet in [Wittgenstein's] work. "Do we think with our feet?" "What is the color of the number three?" These statements are devised to produce a "bump." We quickly sense the queerness of these statements. But they are calculated to bring us to see that such statements as "What is the meaning of a word?" are equally queer. Our failure to see this in the first place is simply because we assume that a statement such as "What is the meaning of a word?" does make sense. Herein lies the real nonsense. We have been bewitched by our language, and we need a bump to bring us around to seeing our error. (232-3)

As a serious Zen person I have had the best of luck pursuing these academic, as well as creative and spiritual, interests as a single endeavor. After several yeas practicing Zen under teachers who preferred specialization in Zen practice as a sign of dedication to that practice, I became the student of the late Kobun Chino Otokawa, Roshi in 1979. Not only did Kobun not discourage my perennial pursuits, as had other teachers, he insisted that I pour myself into such studies and even joined me with no small amount of enthusiasm.

As his Jisha, or personal attendant, a kind of teacher in training position at Zen temples, I had a gratifying amount of access to him. Kobun and I spent many sleepless nights going over the underlying insights of spirituality, philosophy, and the arts of the east and west. It was during those times that I came to envision projects like the one at hand: using Zen Buddhist classic literary works as a springboard for the creation of poems. These poems would also incorporate wisdom literature from the various religious and philosophical cultures which parallel the insights expressed in those Zen classics. I once told Kobun of this idea, expressing disbelief that I could do such a project justice. With a great show of energy, he said, "You have to do it!"

After long consideration I have chosen four classics of prime importance in Zen Buddhism which have been of enormous personal value in my own intellectual and spiritual life. Perhaps the most important characteristic of these four works is that, unlike the typical Zen koan, they are not short intense aphorisms which simply back one's intellect up against the wall. These challenge the intellect but give the mind some breathing room. These are the works which I feel best lend themselves to a western style of poetic commentary.

With the sections marked Invitation and Coda, I do, however, begin and end the entire collection with examples of the more usual style of koan. Unlike the koans which comprise the four chapters, these sections contain only single poems. Together they symbolize the beginning and end of one's study of koans. The koan in Invitation is a good example of a first koan of a major collection, and Coda of a last koan.

The two middle works are unique in Zen Buddhism in that they relate to folk tales which have nothing at all to do with Buddhism. One, the Sei-ji koan, is the only instance of a koan in a major collection of koans that originates entirely from a non-Buddhist source. In this koan a Zen teacher recalls a Chinese ghost story in which a woman splits into two individuals who later rejoin. The teacher makes the story into a koan simply by asking which of the two manifestations of the woman was the real one. The other chapter, Hyakujo and the Fox, borrows heavily from indigenous Chinese fox spirit lore but, unlike the Sei-ji koan, was composed by a Zen Buddhist source. The first and last chapters might seem philosophical and discursive. Yet, both can easily be considered prose poems. As a whole I have tried to create a cohesive artistic artifact, while giving each chapter an internal integrity that would allow each to be read as a separate chapbook.

Although I have spent a tiny fraction of my life working on these series' of poems, they were inspired by a lifelong study of what I am persuaded are some of humankind's greatest cultural gifts. These, in turn, were produced, preserved, taught, and eventually extended to the world by persons who should be remembered and their goodwill emulated. The vast majority of these are not represented here but have provided the context for what follows. It is my hope that the reader will feel at least some of the resulting love and gratitude manifest in my effort.