The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume Seven (55 page)

Smell of good leather

Glory be to our Queen

Long live the Elizabeth the Second

My Queen

Toward whom I feel integrity

Long live the Queen

Stiff upper lips

Pleasing British leather saddle

Equitation

Diana Judith

Union Jack

Red white and blue

Glory be to Elizabeth the Second

The rushes of Scotland

Swamps of Northumberland

The dimples of the Lake District

Plains of Salisbury

White chalky shores of Dover and Devonshire—

There is something nice about our Kingdom

Glory be to Diana and her English nose

Foggy London

Confident boys

Union Jack flying

In the midst of traffic in Piccadilly

Still majestically bearing the symbol of St. George

And St. Andrew

St. Patrick

My second home

Glory be to the thistles, clover

And the royal rose

Cockney accent

The Liverpool accent

The Midlander’s

The Welsh, Scottish

And the Irish

Such rich people

Enjoying the bank holiday at Blackpool—

May the Kingdom last long

May the Kingdom last long free from the Tory

The Labor The Liberal

May Her Majesty ride on a powerful white horse

With her banner fluttering in the winds of English country power.

August 1, 1974

Lion Roars Sunset over Rockies’ East Slope

This spontaneous linked verse poem was spoken into a tape recorder by Chögyam Trungpa and Allen Ginsberg at 1111 Pearl Street in Boulder, Colorado, on August 1,
1974
. In this transcription Chögyam Trungpa’s lines are set in roman type. Allen Ginsberg’s lines are set in italics.

In the realm of no-mind

there was Naropa Institute.

Yellow sun fell over Rockies as whispering poets completed their thoughts.

Then there was a lion’s roar,

which is no mind’s claim;

that mind doesn’t exist;

but there is still lingering lion’s roar

proclaiming Naropa Institute,

in the form of the tiny purring of wheels and tracking of manganese oxide across electric grids.

Form is empty,

emptiness is form,

therefore we got the birth of the either, neither, or the other.

“So no rush,” spoke the machine.

Naropa was hassled by an old hag who mocked him by saying, “You don’t understand the meaning behind the words.”

By my gray beard the old hag spoke wrong!

Wrongness is old hat as it is,

as it was, as it should be,

as it might be, so forth.

What would Naropa do with bone and cunt thereafter?

Either the word or sense

which you can’t figure out,

he was in trouble,

had to seek Tilopa.

Tilopa in his animal skin solitude was thinking,

thinking nothing,

except eating fish

which he caught with his bare hands and eyeballs by the silvery waterside,

by the dozen,

and cooked or ate raw;

ate
raw,

because that is rawness of life.

Strange sashimi in some mountain nook!

Milking the rock, eating the fire, in order to quench your thirst. Tomorrow we visit the freak show.

And the fish eyes were stars,

as brilliant as the crescent moon,

which is October 8th day.

Match lit, smoke risen,

turned into clouds,

dissolve like fish powder in the broken mind.

Glorious to be Tilopa,

Glory be to Tilopa!

Glory be to Allen Ginsberg!

Glory be to Chögyam Trungpa!

Glory be to the air conditioner!

Likewise

in the red suspenders on which everything hangs. Yes!

If there is no dharma drum

let us beat on the drum of no-dharma,

which is still the drum of the dharma.

And if there’s no God, then let’s beat

on the height of the gondola!

Let us proclaim

that—

This! Nothingness! Everything at the same time!

What will the startled-multitudes shriek out in their subway slumber?

They are out in the countryside, where the jungles and forests and rocks and stars are immaculate.

Will they be able to put their 35¢ tokens in the slot machine if there ain’t no God?

It is possible because of it.

Will they be able to look at the new lion’s eyes in the Bronx Zoo if there’s no God?

It is possible because of it.

Will they be able to sail over the Atlantic in giant disappearing ocean liners if there’s no God?

It is possible because of it.

Will they be able to ascend over the earth in silvery spaceships blasting atomic fossil fuel behind—

it

them

is highly possible because of it, my dear.

Will they be able to—it is highly possible because of it, my dear—will they—

That is questionable sweetheart.

Okay, honey, they will.

Who knows who they are,

what are they?

They’re your-my grandmother with her long pink nightie, neatly embroidered at the edges, sleeping in her skull in grave lawn—

They are the people who used to gather together in the corral

with the horses, mules, and donkeys

celebrating the end of the War on Times Sq.,

and celebrating the beginning of the War

in Piccadilly.

Ties you on hunh.

Fat pussy cream.

Anything you say, sir.

Even in the darkest jungles of Congo,

or the marketplace at Ulan Bator?

The darkest of the darkest,

the darkest of the darkest,

the darkest of the darkest,

the darkest of the darkest,

the darkest of the darkest,

THE DARKEST OF THE DARKEST:

delightful because it is so dark;

therefore it is light.

Coming on in here,

with yer flashlight,

looking for a flask—

Candle’s ring! Hamburger!

That’s what became of the Lion’s Roar, a hamburger by the sake cupside?

Sake comes out of the Lion’s Roar,

hamburger comes out of the Lion’s Roar!

Glorious to be Naropa and his hags!

But the old tale teller said pure water poured out of the lion’s ear—

Who knows,

there’s mystery in the past.

They say ’twas a man was inspired by a God!

God was inspired by a man

only repeating old tales told by firelight when people were scared of the lightning.

Precisely,

there is lightning because there are dragons, hurricanes, crocodiles, frogs, lizards, and flies,

submicroscopic bacteria ascending kundalini pathways toward the neckbone.

There is no neck,

so there is no bone.

so microscopic galaxies proclaiming their lion roar—?

Lion doesn’t roar,

that was a joke,

but roar roars the lion.

So microscopic roars produce vast neon lions.

Submachine guns.

Just all done in the line of duty, sir, said the lion departing,

with his tail wrapped between his legs, slinking off,

who knows where.

Let us bring the unicorn along.

Unicorn objected, “I was the seed of Christ, Son of the King of Heaven, Lord of the Universe, ruler of all, central authority, identical with CIA.”

CIA is a product of mind,

Communist party product of daydream,

product of nightmare. Look! Look!

The Nazis are coming again?

Is that why there’re whispers in the marketplace?

Nazis are Nazis,

they have run out of Jews to persecute.

Jews have begun the machine gun attack on Allah.

Allah is freegul frugal,

parsimonious;

Sufism,

dances a lot,

talks a lot,

overflowing with divine love,

to the sweet cistern

which flows to the ocean overheard.

Ocean might be contaminated—

Vast ocean herself with all her dolphins, whales, swimming unicorns?

Maybe this will save—

sick rat is a cunning and a good one,

has beady eyes;

cockroach survives radiation.

Glorious to be them,

free from Sufism, Hinduism, Buddhism,

free from Chögyam Trungpa, Allen Ginsberg, President Nixon, and pairs of—

all the rest of it!

And pairs of eyeglasses!

And all the rest of it!

Glorious to be the roar of the motorcycle noise down the dusk street,

that is the Lion’s Roar.

Glorious to be the beady-eyed squirrel, stealing nuts from the campground!

Glorious to be the saint,

Glorious to be a grain of sand, waving its arms in the desert;

By trying to be one,

exploring thousands means,

by a thousand means,

flopping into one.

One doesn’t produce zero,

One began the goy—

one begins anything you want,

one began Jupiter;

one begins anything you want,

one begins the squeal of lizards, swimming in the ocean frost;

one begins anything you want,

one begins vast scaley fishlike dinosaurs;

one begins anything you want,

one begins the nimbus after clear days, rainless months;

one begins anything you want,

but one doesn’t exist.

One therefore begins the full moon,

crescent moon, on the 8th day of the lunar calendar.

On 8th day lunar calendar what monster was born?

What being was born, if you prefer me there? Buddha?

hum. . . .

Cause I don’t know the reference, that’s why—

Person with no tail,

no hair on his chest, but brilliant eyes

which look at you.

Person with spine and big feet approaching you,

with open hand,

carrying a scepter,

crowned with water garlands,

shivering with nervousness,

stammering, embarrassed by elephants,

now that he or you conquered the world,

swept under the dustbin cabinet with the starving mice.

The mice shit beautifully,

in beautiful pellets,

the cat smells hungrily round the garage door.

They have flying cats

here, the unicorns waving the iridescent feathers,

fitting the encyclopedia and dictionary with lights,

large, gawky professorial tomes with long tongues,

and beady eyeglasses,

and the appearance of living dress.

Glorious to be lack, lack of love,

Glorious to be beady-eyed, rat-nosed professors of mental technology,

on their way to the jail,

the plane money in their pockets, to say goodbye.

Their deceptions are too cute,

but they got a good lawyer,

their lies too self-spoken,

and the lawyer recognizes them, nullity of the judge,

tongue twister,

speechmaker,

crocodile,

good man to have if you have a murder rap,

alligatorial smile,

all televised before the public with great solemn conventional debate,

shedding the crocodilean tears,

fell down to the crocodilean shoes.

Argentina,

the Argentinean yogi!

More walk gently,

a child shoed softly,

a white dragon is no offense,

stinging monster with pleasure, gunslinger,

kindness is no offense,

no horror zoo, in the fence.

“I can” is regarded as reminder to—

because it says think and please,

before and after.

Typhon bows and scrapes at the door.

Your house is burned; What shall we do?

said the whirlwind rushing up with showers of water.

Fire Department’s inadequate!

Call in the National Guardian Angels!

What nationality are we?

Perfect Planetarian.

What planet are we in?

The place where we’re sitting.

Where are we sitting?

1111 Pearl Street, at Naropa Institute.

Call them up!

You mean the sun? Each sunbeam? No telephones in that atmosphere . . .

Really?

We’ll leave them alone.

Let ’em sleep.

How about the stars?

Stars—got work to do.

How about the mosquitoes

buzzing around our ears?

They are a helpful sign.

How about the secretary?

She types with tattoo-like fingers, like proboscis of tiny winged anvils, entering the skin.

Maybe the secretary might perspire,

and she might change her gearshift.

Maybe crocodile tears aspire to Lion’s Roar—