Asking for Rain
The Buddhist pilgrim Jojin, passing through the Chinese capital in 1073, became the first Master from Japan to be commanded by the Emperor to pray for rain.
I
Let me begin with the crab-apple tree
in September: half-green, half-red,
its unripe and ripening fruits
and the delicate twine of clematis;
the grass is littered with apple stunts
and the wasps are rising off them –
there is incense burning somewhere,
there is mist come down from the hills
to the garden, and I wait afraid.
II
I’ve been praying here for thirteen days –
the birds are praying for me: a vye-
and-echo sunset-lung menagerie
alive with taunts and blossom talk…
I envy them their opportunity to mock
as stubborn clouds resist my weak-
heart refrains, and only one of us is breaking.
Their presence in the bowery
tends and seasons me another way,
as it has done for everyone religiously
called to play these games at twilight;
they whistle what they see, each allotted
note a notification for the dead:
if I say one more word they might just call it.
III
My tent is full of mysteries.
I lie awake and listen to the wind
and wonder if the rain will come tonight,
whether it will please the Emperor
and leave him happy with my work,
which I cannot contain and
he cannot possess alone;
we both know this, so I remain.
Our silence has its history:
listening in respective palaces
filled with conversations, empty cares;
then when the wind drops
each of us discerns the other
attending and immeasurably divine.
I think he will permit himself
a smile in my direction.
IV
In this old kingdom
nothing lasts but mist:
it holds sway over everything,
so everything – these trees, that hut,
this plot of dirt – is lost then found
and newly formed in looking,
eyes releasing all phenomena,
their nature learned
across the milky way.
The world as breath,
its presence saturating,
takes its life from bird calls
and the shouts of early risers
twisting down the valley,
so its voice, inborn and rich
and palpable, condenses there
in morning throats, warms
and weathers hearts.
In her palace the Empress wakes
and seeks her favourite slippers;
wrapped in cloud she stands out
on her balcony and lets the air
wash over her like lines of silk,
lip to thigh, longing for the sun…
I should not linger there; he stirs:
The Emperor with his concubine;
my master, dreaming always of the rain.
V
Lobelia
Honeysuckle
Coltsfoot
Lady smock
Lady slipper
Mistress, I will use the Lotus Flower
to bring you rain: a billion showered
petals scenting darkness from your halls,
and ivy stalks to undermine his walls.
Lupins, curl us safely in your bells,
ferns, turn us silver with your pools,
fronds and stems drown us where you bend
so surely we will come to understand
Bees’ words blurry with sweet juice,
and our voices be renewed
with a taste like blackbird honey,
restoring dawn to harmony
As distant swans and marsh crakes
break the world awake
Red Dragon Lady
Green Dragon Lady
Rise up from the earth
Red Dragon Lady
Green Dragon Lady
Come down from the sky
Red Dragon Lady
Green Dragon Lady
Meet me in the thundering air