LUDWIG

When I was twelve, I think,
maybe in the last days of eleven,
and in my third year of piano lessons
my teacher, Mrs. Schwarting, she
of no first name, and a steady hand
that could squeeze the muscle
of my shoulder, a taloned metronome,
gave me a small plastic bust
of Beethoven, told me to place it
on the piano, so that he could watch
my daily practice and insure
my eyes were on him, not the keys.
Ludwig is long gone, lost
in one of our moves, one less
gatherer of the dust of other activities.
Now, sitting on the bench,
flexing fingers demanding independence
I realize that his smile was one
of age, thankful for his deafness.


Previously published in Fox Cry Review, Vol. 23, 1997 and in PIF Magazine, Vol. 20, 1999.

WORLD HONORED ONE ASCENDS THE SEAT

If you sit patiently enough,
and sit long enough, just perhaps
the teacher will acknowledge you.
If he holds out his arms and offers you
the heart of the Dharma, will you
grasp it and hold it closely?
If you try and grasp it
it will slip through your fingers,
disappear from sight, lost forever.
If you nod in appreciation,
hands in gassho and simply bow,
then turn and leave the room,
you will carry it with you
and no one will be able
to take it from you although
you are free to give it away.


A reflection on case 92 of the Hekiganroku (Blue Cliff Record)