| |
As
in a dream, I climbed the wooded mountain at Yamadera, where Basho, the
haiku poet, made a pilgrimage to the gods centuries ago. I went up the
leafy winding path, thinking to compose an offering to the Master. The
crimson universe of spring filtered down among the giant cedars, while
far below, mist-tinted in stillness, lay the rice-fields, not yet flooded
for planting. Then a skylark sang, like an echo out of the past; and it
seemed the moment of creation had come upon me. But I was unable to think
of anything worthy enough to say and was thus content to linger in the
fullness of the waning light, knowing I was closer to heavenly things
than to earthy matters, and ever shall be.
From Bernard Durrant's poignant book,
The Heart In Exile, 1964-1990
|
|
|
| |
Extract
from the Introduction to 'Flowers of Stone' by
Zen Master Tekkan Matsumoto:
Seraphin J Sigrist, a bishop and
most distinguished orientalist in New York, who wrote the foreword to
Durrant's FROM THE BUTTERFLY'S WING book of poetry, published in Japan
ten years ago to excellent reviews, referred to the distinct note of sadness
throughout the collection.
Yet reading in manuscript form Durrant's
latest offering FLOWERS OF STONE, written I feel with much restraint and
precision, I am not aware of any sense of sorrow over the human condition.
On the contrary, he reveals an affinity with the spiritual landscapes
of Zen Buddhism; there is a rhythmic flow in his lines, the gentle flowing
movement which is found in all Japanese art: archery, flower arrangement,
scroll writing and the tea ceremony.
Instinctively, Durrant stays close
to the roots of Nature. Was it not dear Basho, our seventeenth century
haiku poet, who made the important statement: "Learn about a pine
from a pine, and about a bamboo from a bamboo." Durrant uses the
same cool objective framework, puts silence and solitude to the forefront,
as for example:
Let flowers die gracefully like
old letters in a drawer
|
|