The raised finger

By
Master Ju Zhi, it is reported to us,
Was a quiet, gentle type and so modest
That he completely gave up words and teachings
For words are appearance, and all appearance
He was determined to avoid.
So, when many pupils, monks and novices
Were happy to indulge themselves
In noble rhetoric and flashing insights
Into great topics, he kept a quiet guard
For every excessive exuberance.
And when they came to him with all their questions,
Both frivolous and serious, about
The meaning of the scriptures, the Buddha names,
Enlightenment, the world’s beginning 
And its decline, he remained silent,
Just quietly pointing upwards with his finger.
And this wordless, eloquent finger pointing
Was ever more intimate and admonishing:
It spoke, taught, praised, punished, pointed so close to
The heart of the world and of truth, that then
Afterwards many followers understood
This finger’s gentle urging, shook and woke up.

Der erhobene Finger
Hermann Hesse, 15 January 1961

Comments

scholarbytheriver said…
Hesse dedicated this poem to Wilhelm Gundert, one of his cousins who was a distinguished professor of Japanese studies and translator of the ‘Hekiganroku’ koan collection, the ‘Blue Cliff Record’: Case 19 of which deals with Ju Zhi’s ‘one-finger Zen’.
June 26, 2020 at 7:34 AM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Stages

By
As each fine flower wilts and each young person Becomes an old one, so each stage of life blooms, And every wisdom blooms and every virtue, In its own day and cannot last forever. At each of life’s calls the heart must be ready For a departure and a new beginning, Surrendering itself courageously and  Without mourning into new relationships. And every beginning contains a magic, To protect and help us to go on living. We should stride cheerfully through place after place, Not clinging to any of them as our home, Great Spirit would not have us chained and narrowed, But stage after stage would raise and broaden us. When we become settled in a sphere of life, Cosily familiar, threatened with slackness, We must prepare for leaving and a journey, Or else get entangled in deadening habits. It’s possible that even the hour of death Sends us more youthfully towards new spaces, Life’s call to us will never reach an ending ... So, heart, take your lea...
Read more

The children

By
You do not know our times, Only know that somewhere far away A war is being fought, You make wood into swords and shields and spears And play-fight happily in the garden, Put up some tents, Wear white bandages with the Red Cross sign. And if my dearest wish has any power, War for you will Always remain only a vague legend: Never standing in battle Never dying Never fleeing a house destroyed by fire. But you will still be warriors And you will all know, That your experience of sweet breath, That your dear possession of a heartbeat Are only on loan, and that through your blood Runs the past, the heir you’re expecting And the far-off future, And that for each of the hairs on your head A fight, a pain, a death has been endured. And you will know, that the nobility In your mind is always a warrior, Even when it’s unarmed, That each day an enemy, That each day a fight and a fate are waiting. So, don’t forget! Remember the blood, slaughter a...
Read more

Creaking of a crooked branch

By
A splintered, crooked branch, Still clinging year on year, Drily creaks its song in the wind, Without leaves, without bark, Stripped, pale, tired from a long life, And also a long death. Its singing sounds harsh and tough, Defiant, secretly scared Just one more summer Just one more winter long. Knarren eines geknickten Astes  Hermann Hesse, 1-8 August, 1962
Read more