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Welcome to the Seventh Edition
of Poetry and Paintings
of Poetry and Paintings
In this winter of the low-hanging Arctic Vortex, I thought I would share with you a favorite poem submitted by John Aram, one of my dear, deep-natured friends. What we know as Cold Mountain, was written by Hanshan (Chinese: 寒山; pinyin:
In John's words,
The poem is somewhat long, so I am attaching only three verses which I think illustrate the ethereal sense of the poem in general. By way of introduction, however, I also wanted to include a critic's statement (with which I agree) about the poem which is included in the introduction to a book by the same title in which the poem is presented. The critic (Arthur Waley) writes, "Cold Mountain is often the name of a state of mind rather than a locality. It is on this conception, as well as on that of the 'hidden treasure,' the Buddha who is sought not somewhere outside us, but 'at home' in the heart, that the mysticism of the poem is based."
In John's words,
The poem is somewhat long, so I am attaching only three verses which I think illustrate the ethereal sense of the poem in general. By way of introduction, however, I also wanted to include a critic's statement (with which I agree) about the poem which is included in the introduction to a book by the same title in which the poem is presented. The critic (Arthur Waley) writes, "Cold Mountain is often the name of a state of mind rather than a locality. It is on this conception, as well as on that of the 'hidden treasure,' the Buddha who is sought not somewhere outside us, but 'at home' in the heart, that the mysticism of the poem is based."
I climb the road to Cold Mountain,
The road to Cold Mountain that never ends.
The valleys are long and strewn with stones;
The streams broad and banked with thick grass.
Moss is slippery, though no rain has fallen;
Pines sign, but it isn’t the wind.
Who can break from the snares of the world
And sit with me among the white clouds?
Cold Mountain is full of weird sights;
People who try to climb it always get scared.
When the moon shines, the water glints and sparkles;
When the wind blows, the grasses rustle and sigh.
Snowflakes make blossoms for the bare plum,
Clouds in place of leaves for the naked trees.
At a touch of rain, the whole mountain shimmers –
But only in good weather can you make the climb.
How cold it is on the mountain!
Not just this year but always.
Crowded peaks forever choked with snow,
Dark forests breathing endless mist:
No grass sprouts till the early days of June;
Before the first of autumn, leaves are falling.
And here a wonderer, drowned in delusion,
Looks and looks but cannot see the sky.
In Cold Mountain, 11x14, oil on panel
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