Saint Julian Press

Terry Lucas ~ Poet

 

 

Dharma Rain

 

In the summer of 2008 when wildfire descended on Tassajara

Zen Center, the oldest Zen monastery outside Asia, The Forest

Service evacuated all residents. Five monks turned back and

met the fire, saving Tassajara. 

 

—Adapted from Fire Monks: Zen Mind Meets Wildfire at

the Gates of Tassajara

 

 

It was Dharma Rain

met you, Dharma Rain

from granite wine

 

pumped from the creek

through PVC pipe

soaking wooden buildings,

 

dirt, stone, skin––

sprinklers the sound

of sustained violins––

 

strings creating their own

sultry atmosphere––

your fiery, brass choir

 

waiting for the director’s baton

to cue you in. It was the Fire

Monk Jazz Quintet

 

rearranged the score,

re-harmonized the minor-chord flame-song,

Jump, Jive, An’ Wailin’

 

fire-hose saxophones

swingin’ with your drivin’

hot-rock rhythms

 

and log-rollin’ bass notes,

 cascading down into the smoke-

filled Tassajara gulch,

 

the whole valley smelling

like the world’s original singe––

you, up on the ridge,

 

ripping off red blouses

from manzanitas and madrones,

becoming more aroused

 

with each naked limb, each torso

exposed in firelight.

You crowned them one-by-one,

        

but couldn’t penetrate

the V-shaped ravine, though you tried

like a groom on his wedding night

 

but in the end, more out of duty

than desire, you stumbled drunk

into the bed

        

of the garden, soft

glow buried in her

loam, her mist.

 

*   *   *

 

Conceived of flash

 between earth and sky,

I smoldered three days

 

         beneath dust. Born hungry

for live oak, sycamore,

         maple—compelled to carve

 

paths through the chaparral––

         maroon-barked manzanita,

chamise, ceanothus, yucca––

 

to enlighten all flesh

in my oven mouth––

in one breath

 

to translate a trillion tree lines,

a billion pages of bay laurel

into fire beetles and whispering bells.

 

O Tassajara,

when your lanterns were lit

along the Engawa

 

surrounding your zendo

this morning, I saw you––

 the frost of your skin, your body,

 

your vulnerable ground,

fire monk boots making little Buddha-shapes

in the wet dirt.

 

I saw your treetops aligned

like piano keys,

each taut string

 

tied to nothingness, waiting

for my vermilion finger

-nailed touch.

 

Then I turned

to the moist commerce

of your temple gate and yurts,

 

sheds and chemicals,

pine rooms and cabins,

birdhouse and pool,

 

your schist stone Buddha,

         eyes brushed closed,

buried in the bocce ball court,

 

calling down my parched tongues

to lap your Dharma Rain, your granite wine,

to suckle the icicle of you.

 

 

 

 

“Dharma Rain” was previously published in Fifth Wednesday Journal.

 
Picture
Cover Art Credit: Maurizio Siani ~ Napels, Italy