Men ask the way to Cold Mountain Cold Mountain: there’s no through trail. In summer, ice doesn’t melt The rising sun blurs in swirling fog. How did I make it? My heart’s not the same as ypurs. If your heart was like mine You’d get it and be right here.
— from Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems by Gary Snyder
My home was at Cold Mountain from the start,
Rambling among the hills, far from trouble.
Gone, and a million things leave no trace
Loose, and it flows through the galaxies
A fountain of light, into the very mind—
Not a thing, and yet it appears before me:
Now I know the pearl of the Buddha-nature
Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere.
Snow On The Santa Catalina Mountains On December 26th — Images by kenne
14
Cold Mountain has many hidden wonders,
People who climb here are always getting scared.
When the moon shines, water sparkles clear
When the wind blows, grass swishes and rattles.
On the bare plum, flowers of snow
On the dead stump, leaves of mist.
At the touch of rain it all turns fresh and live
At the wrong season you can’t ford the creeks.
— from Han Shan’s Cold Mountain Poems, translation by Gary Snyder
Once at Cold Mountain, troubles cease —
No more tangled, hung-up mind.
I idly scribble poems on the rock cliff,
Taking whatever comes, like a drifting boat.
Cold Mountain is a house without beams or walls. The six doors lift and right are open The hall is blue sky. The rooms all vacant and vague The east wall beats on the west wall At the center nothing.
Borrowers don’t bother me In the cold I build a little fire When I’m hungry I boil up some greens. I’ve got no use for the kulak With his big barn and pasture — He just sets up a prison for himself. Once in he can’t get out. Think it over — You know it might happen to you.Â
One of my favorite books of poetry is Riprap and the Cold Mountain Poems, by Gary Snyder.Â
The book includes Snyder’s translations of Han-shan’s Cold Mountain Poems. Han-shan was both a man and a mountain, a mountain madman in an old line of ragged hermits. He lived at a place called Cold Mountain, a poor poet having a crazy character. He wrote poems that were rough and fresh, and when he wrote about Cold Mountain, he means himself, his home, his state of mind.
— kenne
Gary Snyder reading “I settled at Cold Mountain long ago . . .”
My home was at Cold Mountain from the start, Rambling among the hills, far from trouble.
Gone, and a million things leave no trace loose, and it flows through the galaxies A fountain of light, into the very mind — Not a thing, and yet it appears before me: Now I know the pearl of the Buddha-nature Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere.
Snow In the Santa Catalina Mountains — Images by kenne
Honey Bee On Elegant Lupin — Image by kenne
Snow On The Santa Catalina Mountains On December 26th — Images by kenne
At the End of the Day — Image by kenne
Mixed Media Collage — Computer Art by kenne
Desert Chicory on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Becoming is Superior to Being 