Korean Sŏn Poetry
II. Korean Sŏn Poetry
It is almost impossible to describe so many narrative traditions compiled for 1500 years here. I will select some poems to tip off their linguistic structures, meanings, and imaginative techné.
Let’s start with a poem, somewhat lyric and literary, by Hyesim who wrote Sŏnmun Yŏmsong, the most popular book for the students of the Sŏn Poetry.
Pondside, I sit alone, serene,
I see a monk down in the water.
Silent, we see each other, smiling.
I know language is no responsive.
(Shadow )[i]
In his leisure time, he likes to see his Self. Who is the image reflected on the surface of clear water? He might start a whispering dialogue to his self-image without any assuring answer. Silent smile and serene air currents come back to his self-questioning mind. Here his inner voice fire-cracks, “Don’t rely on words,” Pulip munja (不立文字)!
Yesterday it is in the hands of the master.
Today it is in the palm of his disciple.
When so hot waves sweep us all mad,
Nothing forbids it to raise fresh wind.
(Fan)
He recited this poem when his teacher, Chinul, invited him to betray his mind for submission of his Law, handing over the fan out of his sleeve. In the disarrayed years of late Koryŏ dynasty, it’s hard to keep or raise “fresh air,” or authentic Law, in the “hot waves,” signifying the corrupt society.
It is the place no pains can arrive.
There is a heaven and earth, all removed.
If you ask me, “What is it?” I will say
it is the Nirvanic Gate of Great Serenity.
(Death Song)
In his death bed, he says to his servant, “I am too busy today.” He sat up in his meditative position and sitting, passed away into the place of no pains, which might be a remote universe, where all peaceful serenity is waiting for him in emptiness. He might be still thresholding over his Nirvanic Gate in his picnicking journey somewhere.
Ch’ungchi wrote about the routine thingness of the life, which reflects the world of Buddha as it is;
Half clear, half mizzling, the sky is murky.
Now warm, then chilly, the spring is tranquil.
The gate closed, I lie down for long till the sunset.
A bell tolls, soft and remote, tapping my window wall.
(Things Are)
Life is not to do something, but better leave it as it is. The seasons come and go, but everything keeps its own places as tranquil as they are. Men are just to lie down and listen to the last melodies of life at dusk. What a brilliant moment of life not to be thinking of anything at all, except his own! Emptiness is not just a vacancy of time, but feeling nothing in fullness.
Kyŏnghan wrote about his enlightening process;
A stone lady gives a birth to a child all of sudden.
A wooden man strokes a spot on the forehead in darkness.
A dark Konryun tribe rides on the iron horse.
Immediately somebody strikes the golden whip.
(To Monk Chikong)
This is a typical poem of enlightenment which symbolizes the final state of nirvanic ecstasy. All the Sŏn-practicing monks wish to bear and deliver an infant of final illumination. After long years of meditation and practice, the infertile woman barely comes to have a Buddha’s baby, even tiny or not fertilized completely yet, at a particular moment all of sudden. Then, a wooden man, probably dry and husked old, not sapping juicy yet, come to recognize the blissful occasion and anoint the baby just born by spotting on his forehead. However, there is still a long way to go ahead of a new born. This is just a starting point. So he rides on a new iron horse like the dark-skinned barbarian Tibetans (Konryun tribe), and then all suddenly somebody, invisible or non-existential, whips a shiny golden lash again. This might be second or supreme state of enlightenment.
Who is the first stone woman? She is a symbol (metaphor) of desperate monks to fertilize themselves with the Buddha. Attaboy! A congratulatory event of the first child birth! Her husband, another wooden man, nods on her first anointment. Yet, the anointer and the anointed are the same ‘hallucinated’ entities, maybe dry and un-skinned yet. Who bears a child and who dare to nod and anoint her? So they must be reborn as a new people riding a new horse in a different region of uplifted intelligence, refined affection, and more active ethical behaviour. Who is the last man whipping the man on the iron horse? It may be the Self, the Nature of Buddha, or the Image of The Goddess of Mercy. Who is being whipped, riding on his horse of prideful mind? It might be the empty vanity, dusty emptiness in the hall, or nothing itself.
[i] All the translations are mine, based on the original texts.