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Sunday, August 7, 2011

Tea-bowl Tantra

Mt. Fuji for Natsuko drawn
On this teabowl, dripped upon.
What's got fire, land, and sea?
With soul, not ire, it stands for me.

Watered Shino, tinged and rosy,
To daughter Maya, a gift with poesy.
Why so pleasant drinking tea?
Life's great lesson is simplicity.

Little bats, from iron rich clay,
Nibbled my lip, they crawl'd through glaze.
This Vampire Cup was made from mud,
With vampire bats, for drinking blood!

Win this bowl without a fee,
Drink from a vessel, soul-ed by tea.
A humble bowl's modernity,
Took some soul, from a mystery.
The tiny pin prick on this bowl,
Defeats perfection, that has no soul.

To Lieutenant Edward Lash,
This cup got covered, by wood ash.
I'll give to you at Brandreth Lake,
Where tea we'll drink, and thanks we'll take.

On a lumpy cup our fire played,
Dumped in ash, and melted clay.
This project's soul, is friendship tea,
Not about objects, or pottery.
I've named this bowl for a moon that's full,
It gleams tonight, my full-moon bowl.

Her knee's inflamed, she lies in bed,
Some tears of pain, it's turned bright red,
Where tantra acts the night is clear,
Reflects back, what light is near.

By a river of time, a restless fire,
Ignites in life, what dreams inspire.
Who will take this Shino bowl,
And then for tea, will pour in soul?

What in deed does Murdoch fear?
He's turned eighty, could play King Lear,
In James the son, his ego's host,
He made a run, with his father's ghost.

There's a time to lead and a time to follow,
One's the seed, and the other's the father.
Shiva meditates in his cave,
So brings success, the 'I Ching' says.

I come at last to bowl nineteen,
In which I taste some soul with tea.
On this bowl, Don-oxide danced,
Quixote's soul, walks with lance.

In a tidal marsh, of sunset red,
We saw this egret, before going to bed.
Some red flashing, inside drips,
What's left of brushwork, looks like fish.

I've written couplets about each cup,
Next time I'll write them on it.
And if I get fed up with that,
I'll then start writing sonnets.

A slim tree with leaves of green,
A mountain hidden by what you're seeing.
Mud burned red, by simple iron,
The blood is fed by trembling desire.
A draught of Mars will deaden fears,
Drink from this cup, live a thousand years.

A distant isle swathed in fog,
From ashen fire, a dawn-rising raga.
A volcano's erupted, or else a wig,
A tiny hill, sprouts grassy sprigs.

A weft ikat by fire woven,
A sketch of flames in a witches' coven.
On that sari, or pashmina shawl,
Behind my drawing lies hidden from all.
A Shino bowl, where reds have flashed,
Now is gone, to David's stash.

Hail to a Mott Street friend,
Hale fell at my journey's end.
From this cup we'll drink some tea,
And then old friend, it belongs to thee.

Streaks of lightning, striking down,
Thirty-one is crying, "I'm almost done!"
Strokes by nature's drawing kit,
Mocks attempts, at imitating it.
When tea in this, is finally bowl-ed,
The X you'll see is green and gold.

Fire flutters, and then it rushes,
Iron splatters, rosy blushes.
A mountain seen through snowy haze,
Leaves of tea, in a crackly glaze.
The project’s through, Cup thirty-six,
A haiku of leaves, and winter sticks.


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