The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume Seven (64 page)

Kalapa Camp: Purrington House

Dixville Notch, N.H.

April 30, 1978

I Miss You So Much

I miss the Regent

And that transforms into clarity,

The luminosity which perpetually lights itself:

No need for switch or kindling wood.

I miss my son

And that transforms into energy,

Unyielding energy and play

Which can perform the cosmic dance.

I miss my queen

And that transforms into the power of speech,

Utterance of genuineness and nowness

Which cuts thoughts and proclaims the vision of indestructibility.

I miss the princess consort

And that transforms into passion;

Every moment becomes coemergent twist—

It is beyond coming or going.

The pain of the delight

Lights up the universe.

Choicelessly I remain as flaming vajra.

July 3, 1978

Tro (Happiness).

The Doha of Confidence

SAD SONG OF THE FOUR REMEMBRANCES

As I look constantly to the Great Eastern Sun,

Remembering the only father guru,

Overwhelming devotion blazes like a bonfire—

I, Chökyi Gyatso, remain alone.

Having been abandoned by my heart friends,

Though my feverish mind feels great longing,

It is joyful that I am sustained by this great confidence

Of the only father guru and the Great Eastern Sun.

Having seen the beauty of a mist covering the mountain,

The pines moving gently in the wind,

The firm power of rock-hard earth,

I am constantly reminded of the splendor and beauty

Of the only father guru and the Great Eastern Sun.

Wildflowers extend everywhere

On mountain meadows filled with the sweet smell of fragrant herbs.

Seeing the gentle deer frolicking from place to place,

I constantly remember the compassion and gentleness

Of the only father guru and the Great Eastern Sun.

Fighting enemies in the chasm of love and hate,

Having sharpened the weapon’s point of joy and sorrow, hope and fear,

Seeing again and again these cowardly hordes,

I take refuge in the sole confidence

Of the only father guru and the Great Eastern Sun.

Fatherless, always dwelling in foreign lands,

Motherless, not hearing the speech of my own country,

Friendless, tears not quenching my thirst,

Remembering the warriors of the father and mother lineages,

I live alone in the sole blessing

Of the only father guru and the Great Eastern Sun.

July 25, 1978

Bon Voyage

Bon Voyage.

You go away.

You go away with doves and rhododendrons.

You fade away in the memory that is part of the blue sky.

You will be forgotten with ashes of burning cigarettes,

As if fossils never formed in the prehistoric age.

Happy birthday to you.

You fade away in my life.

November 27, 1978

Memorial in Verse

This year of building the kingdom:

Dealing with the four seasons,

Studying how millet grows,

And how the birds form their eggs;

Interested in how Tampax are made,

And how furniture can be gold-leafed; Studying the construction of my palace—

How the whitewash of the plain wood can be dignified,

How we could develop terry cloth on our floor,

How my dapöns can shoot accurately,

How my financiers can rush themselves into neurosis,

How the cabinet session can arrive at pragmatic decisions.

Oh, I have watched the sky grow old

And the trees become younger as the seasons changed.

I have experienced the crisp air of December and January becoming a landmark of my life

As twenty gray hairs grow on my head.

I have witnessed that I have grown older and old,

As I grasp the scepters and handle the rice heaps,

Performing ceremonies.

I have thought I have also grown younger every day,

Taking showers, looking at myself in the mirror—

Perky and willing, I see myself:

That my lips don’t quiver, my jaws are strong,

My gaze is accurate.

When I think of this year,

The most memorable occasion was the explosion of love affair,

Which was no joke.

It is true, I think of that every day

When I take my Aldactone and my Reserpine for my good health,

As prescribed by the physicians.

I think of my love affair as I wipe my bottom

Sitting on the toilet—

One appreciates that yellow dye sitting on white paper

As it flushes down the efficient American plumbing system.

One of this year’s highlights is also that I failed and accomplished a lot:

The failure is mine, the accomplishment is to my Regent.

Sometimes I think of the Ganges and Brahmaputra, or the Yellow River;

I could have shed many tears.

And I think of the glaciers of Mt. Everest;

I could become solid, steady, and stern.

I have developed the face of a frozen glacier.

So my life comes and goes,

The same way the swallows sway back and forth in the air.

They may catch flies or they may not.

I have developed the jurisdiction and fair constitution of the Kingdom of Shambhala.

I have told the truth of the Great Eastern Sun vision from my moldy lips.

I have experienced certainty within uncertainty,

Because one realizes the traffic of ants does not have traffic lights

And it is hard to give them speeding tickets.

My journey grows and shrinks as the Vajracharya and the Sakyong,

The first of the Kingdom of Shambhala’s history.

However, the wicked will tremble and the awakened will rejoice.

I have fought, ambushed, raped, attacked, nursed, abused, cultivated, fed, nourished, hospitalized my world

With its worldees.

Now I have grown very young and very old.

I appreciate the sun and moon, snow and rain, clouds and deep blue sky;

I appreciate the ruggedness and the beauty of the universe,

Which is sometimes cruel, developing sharp thorns of cactus,

And sometimes produces chrysanthemums of fantastic scent.

Blood or ink: both I take as yellow and purple color.

January 1, 1979

Boulder, Colo.

To My Son

Be fearless and consume the ocean.

Take a sword and slay neurosis.

Climb the mountains of dignity and subjugate arrogance.

Look up and down and be decent.

When you learn to cry and laugh at the same time, with a gentle heart,

All my belongings are yours,

Including your father.

Happy birthday.

January 19, 1979

For Anne Waldman

When your blood boils,

Relax with the wind;

The wind always blows.

Play with a blade of grass;

The truth will always be told.

March 7, 1979

As Long as the Sky Is Blue

TO ALLEN GINSBERG

As long as the sky is blue and the sun shines

We tell the truth

To some it might be mockery

To some it might be joyful.

March 7, 1979

Dorje Dzong

Putting Up with the Trans-Canada

The yearning Lake of Louise is imprisoned by her own ice;

The proud ranges of the Rockies are undermined by the bad weather;

An occasional avalanche protests from the glaciers.

But I am impressed that there is no outrage or complaint.

The trees and moss become very polite

And you can hear them talking to each other in hush hush, saying,

“Don’t interrupt the mountains or the lake.”

However, holiday-makers of the winter and the spring couldn’t care less

About such diplomacy taking place between the mountains and the trees.

Japanese come a long way from Japan

And the locals intrude their weekends,

Taking advantage of the highway belt that cuts through the mountains,

Roaring with their motorized vehicles.

But the Canadian Rockies and the Canadian lakes are so naive and stupid.

Supposing they heard the boom of prajna—

The Rockies might dissolve into sand dunes.

Let us not take a chance.

But, on the other hand, it is very tempting.

May 24, 1979

Lake Louise, Alberta

Canada

Buddhism in the Canadian Rockies

With the walk of an elephant, the peacock’s dance occurred;

With the gait of a jackal, the snake coils;

With the bark of a dog, a fleabite occurred.

Seeing the flower in the sky,

Experiencing blue sky,

We are never intimidated by the world of yes and no.

Tangerines are said to be good to eat,

Kumquats are cute;

However, we drink nectar without salt or sugar.

Go away, children of mud, disperse.

Don’t look upon me as your playmate;

I have no desire to have a mud bath.

Roaring lion on the mountains

Parrots talking double language

Rhododendrons blooming too early because the season is unreliable—

The range of Himalayan mountains can dissolve with the vajrayana magic;

All the oceans in the universe can dry up hearing the fantastic vajrayana proclamation.

Children, children, don’t be afraid;

Come along and join us:

As has been said, “Gathering nuts in May.”

We will celebrate and cherish our heritage.

Infants that do not need bottles or nappies,

We go along to the archery range

To see the whistling arrows that sometimes hit and sometimes miss the target.

The impossibility of the possible can be achieved

At the archery ground of the playground.

Thick and gray clouds of rain and storm,

Desolate mountains which roar with avalanches—

Solitary hotel stands in the midst of nowhere,

Swarmed with holiday-makers with their multicolored outfits and seeming limps,

Armed with cameras, uniformed with sunshades,

Complaining, “Where is the Lake Louise?”—

Much to their own surprise,

Since they couldn’t find delight anywhere, let alone in the Chateau or the Lake.

Canadian Rockies, extraordinary and blunt,

Decorated with snowcaps and mist,

Proclaiming their dubious status range after range,

As if there were many weddings, but the couples never ate the cake;

As if there were many birthday celebrations, but the party is never finished.

Ironic sensationalism of the Canadian Rockies,

Young and blunt, treacherous but keen:

Shaggy reindeer descending along with mountain goats,

Feasting themselves on the garbage of the towns of Field or Banff—

As long as they are protected by the so-called national parksmanship, they are not hunted,

But at the same time they display subhuman immigrant greasy hair and tarred hooves.

Sun and moon shone simultaneously in the Canadian Rockies,

But I never saw them cheering up;

In fact, they usually cry along with the mist and clouds,

Wiping their tears with the local dust.

Somebody planted toothpick trees:

They grew and got older, decorated with little thorns and cones,

Inviting the holiday-makers,

Putting up with broken bottles and empty cans,

As if they were Boy Scouts who had lost their breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

How splendid the Canadian Rockies—godless, without worshipers.

One wonders how we found ourselves in these Canadian Rockies,

Practicing meditation according to the example of Milarepa and our lineage.

We were able to get into the cracks in the skeleton of the CP administration;