[MD] The Fool on the Hill - repainted

[MarshaV]

John,

You have been perfectly generous with your words, and I love them all.


Marsha



-----Original Message-----
From: moq_discuss-bounces at lists.moqtalk.org
[mailto:moq_discuss-bounces at lists.moqtalk.org] On Behalf Of John Carl
Sent: Wednesday, September 02, 2009 11:33 AM
To: moq_discuss at moqtalk.org
Subject: Re: [MD] The Fool on the Hill - repainted

Oh my word no!  The word "stingy" was Han Shan's and I merely quoted him.
 Well, I guess it was Gary Snyder's translation so maybe it was Gary's
word...
But when you pick out a poem that seems apt, you think about the aptness of
particular parts of the poem as well, and I did think to myself that I have
not been stingy with my word.   A bit self-aggrandizing then, but nothing at
all critical.  In fact, I just wish the rest of you would retreat into full
lurk mode and it was John Carl all the time!

just kidding.



On Wed, Sep 2, 2009 at 12:41 AM, MarshaV <valkyr at att.net> wrote:

>
> John,
>
> Last night I started to have this nagging feeling that by 'stingy people'
> you might have meant stingy with words, or worse yet, stingy with words of
> response, and I felt horrified that you might not know how much your words
> are appreciated.  Is that what you meant John?  Because I very much
> appreciate you postings.  I appreciate them to such an extent that the
> words
> I might use to respond seem puny, inadequate, insincere, unequal to the
> experience, and I toss out the attempt to respond.  Is that what you meant
> by stingy?
>
>
> Marsha
>
>
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: moq_discuss-bounces at lists.moqtalk.org
> [mailto:moq_discuss-bounces at lists.moqtalk.org] On Behalf Of John Carl
> Sent: Tuesday, September 01, 2009 12:24 PM
> To: moq_discuss at moqtalk.org
> Subject: [MD] The Fool on the Hill - repainted
>
> Yes, there are stingy people,
> but I'm not one of the stingy kind.
> The robe I wear is flimsy? The better to dance in.
> Wine gone? It went with a toast and a song.
> Just so you keep your belly full--
> never let those two legs go weary.
> When the seeds are poking through your skull,
> that's the day you'll have regrets!
>
> So Marsha, I really, liked the posting of young paul spinning on the
> hilltop.  I enjoyed it on my laptop and the morning after when Lu was up
> and
> at her computer, it played again for me yawning  and coffee in hand in the
> quiet morning home.  Only this time on the big screen with the big
speakers
> and even more evocative sharing it with my wife.
>
> An old song applied in a new way.  Something about those cherubic cheeks.
> In Demon Box, Ken Kesey talks about the high powered lens of fame, how it
> scours the soul and turns humans into something twisted usually ...  With
> John it seemed to carve him out hollow, but Paul just let that beam of
> attention go 'round  and 'round and 'round- spinning and polishing those
> cherubic cheeks into buddha bellies of joy.
>
>  a dynamic interaction with an old song
>
> Then, last night, I sat down with something a bit different I got from the
> library and I found a poem I'm sure you've read but for me was brand new.
>
> a dynamic interaction with a new song.
>
> And they blended so well, I wanted to offer you a taste
>
> As for me, I delight n the everyday Way
> among mist-wrapped vines and rocky caves.
> Here in the wilderness I'm completely free,
> with my friends, the white clouds, idling forever.
> There are roads but they do not reach the world.
> Since I'm mindless, who can rouse my thoughts?
> On a bed of stone I sit, alone in the night,
> while the round moon climbs up Cold Mountain.
>
>
> It goes along with the Long and Winding Road too!
>
> But the most evocative image I got from your posting, Marsha, and that
> resonated for me the same evening, happening upon HanShan's poem, wasn't a
> new picture of Paul, or myself, or Platt or anyone on this forum but the
> old
> fool on the hill himself.
>
> Wise men, you have cast me aside.
> Fools, I do the same to you.
> I would be neither wise man nor fool;
> from now on let's hear no more from each other.
> When night comes I sing to the bright moon;
> at dawn I dance with white clouds.
> How could I still my voice and my hands
> and sit stiff as a stick with my gray hair rumpled?
>
> A man sitting in a mountain pass--
> robed in clouds, tricked out in sunset's rose.
> In his fingers a fragrant flower, to pass along,
> but the road's so long and hard to climb!
> In his mind: disappointment and doubt;
> old as he is, he's accomplished nothing.
> People laugh at him, call him a cripple,
> yet he stands alone-- constant, untouched.
>
> Poems of five-character lines, five hundred,
> of seven-character lines, seventy nine,
> of three-character lines, twenty-one--
> six hundred poems in all.
> Usually I write them up on a rock face
> and praise myself:  "Very good calligraphy!"
> Anyone who can understand my poems--
> you must be the true mother of all things!
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