"woodcutter" poems
An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill,
Overrun with rank weeds growing unchecked year after year;
There is no one left to tend the tomb,
And only an occasional woodcutter passes by.
Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair,
Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River.
One morning I set off on my solitary journey
And the years passed between us in silence.
Now I have returned to find him at rest here;
How can I honor his departed spirit?
I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone
And offer a silent prayer.
The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill
And I’m enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines.
I try to pull myself away but cannot;
A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.
6.8k
Woodcutter.
Cut out my shadow.
Free me from the torture
of seeing myself fruitless.
Why was I born among mirrors?
The daylight revolves around me.
And the night herself repeats me
in all her constellations.
I want to live not seeing self.
I shall dream the husks and insects
change inside my dreaming
into my birds and foilage.
Woodcutter.
Cut out my shadow.
Free me from the torture
of seeing myself fruitless.
4.8k
Two miles from town, I meet an old woodcutter
and we travel the road lined with huge pines.
The smell of wild plum blossoms
drifts across the valley.
My walking stick has brought us home.
In the ancient pond – huge, contented fish.
Long sunbeams penetrate the deep woods.
And in the house – a long bed
all covered with poetry books.
I loosen my belt and robes,
copy phrase after phrase for my poems.
At twilight, I walk to the east wing –
spring quail startle into the air.
Tramping for miles I come upon a farm house
as the great ball of sun sets in the forest.
Sparrows gather near a bamboo thicket,
flutter about in the closing dark.
From across a field comes a farmer
who calls a greeting from afar.
He tells his wife to strain their cloudy wine
and treats me to his garden's feast.
Sitting across table we drink each other's health
our talk rising to the heavens.
Both of us are so tipsy and happy
we forget the rules of this world.
Too confused to ever earn a living
I've learned to let things have their way.
With only three handfuls of rice in my bag
and a few branches by my fireside
I pursue neither right or wrong
and forget worldly fortune and fame.
This damp night under a grassy roof
I stretch out my legs without regrets.
4k
A vine of arrowroot
Touch the cheek of a woodcutter.
Gigantic columns of clouds.
3.3k
Wingceltis goldenrain shine empty bend
Fresh and green ripple ripples ripples
Secret enter Shang hill road
Woodcutter not able know
Wingceltis and goldenrain shine at the empty bend,
Fresh and green, rippling ever onward.
A secret road leads up to Shangshan hill,
Even the woodcutter does not know.
3k
My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest;
Every year the green ivy grows longer.
No news of the affairs of men,
Only the occasional song of a woodcutter.
The sun shines and I mend my robe;
When the moon comes out I read Buddhist poems.
I have nothing to report, my friends.
If you want to find the meaning, stop chasing after so many things.
Zen Master Ryokan
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
After the painting by Fritz Von Uhde (1848 – 1911)
Sophie is twelve
Hanna thirteen
dear pinafored girls both
home from school
this summer afternoon
they sit knee to knee
but far enough away
from mothers’ chatter
at tea on the terrace.
The girls have gossip of their own
to share and talk is ten
to the dozen (and more)
whilst Hanna turns the pages
of a story book (with pictures):
a woodcutter’s daughter
a handsome young squire
ensnared with love
by a magiced white owl
there’s a castle by a lake
an endless forest dark
a mountainous domain
so far away so long ago.
Poised in the doorway
of their teenaged years
our girls imagine
the courteous attentions
of uniformed cadets
who one day soon
may very well sit
at the garden table
in the dappled shade
and silently gaze with longing
on their oh so delicate charms.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
never content:
withholding love out of what?
fear? envy? greed? sadness?
how i long for peace, stability and change...
a constant contradiction. barreling from heart to heart -
never finding ground long enough to lose myself
in someone else’s arms.
feelings stronger after i tear them out.
have to look at them in the air in front of my eyes.
bleeding, dripping their blood on the carpet,
heart beating in my hands.
to be clinically inspected and torn apart
only to discover that this was what i wanted all along.
like a tree, felled to tell its age,
dead, but finally understood.
too late to say,
“ah! look how old it’s branches, how deep its roots, how wonderful it’s shade!”
dead. dead and decomposing on the floor.
will i always glorify love lost over love in front of my eyes?
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
I bored a hole through the rock of resistance
lining the base of my heart
oh the terrible pain -
with the rotor blade of hardened resolve,
to heal, to heal,
until I have reached my soul:
look - the waters of love -
they gush over.
Sweet waters of love,
To heal both you and me.
This axe wound on my trunk
is sore not all by you:
In the dead of the night
I welcomed the shadowy woodcutter;
Now I find recompense.
But now, sweet waters of love,
from the soul -
to heal both you and me.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
I closed my eyes
and felt the ground vibrate
as the Huskavarna roared to life
and chewed through log after log
devouring fibers
and depositing sawdust
the smell filled my nose
and a smile passed my lips
fresh fir in the morning
the crash of timber in the distance
the hush that fell upon the forest during lunch –
muted thumping trancelike and rhythmic
each round hit with a maul
and then bashed with the sledge
tossing split rounds
into stacks on the truck bed
perfect dance performed by the woodcutter –
the rumbling tires against the gravel road
sent me to slumber
the crunching mixed with the gentle rocking
fighting until the very last
trying desperately to hear
the low murmur
of my father and uncle Steve
telling tall tales
of 600 yard coyote kills
with just one blast
from the old 2-23 Remington
and the 40 lb. salmon
still swimming with a 20 dollar jig –
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Lean not on to me
O' dear one
I am weary and old
All day in the sun
Standing, bearing
The heat and rain
Abused and vandalized
Pinned with pain
My branches shade
To one and all
Now too old to stand
I am ready to fall
No leaves, no greenery
Only dead branches stand
Birds just pass by
As I am stuck on this land
An woodcutter showed
No mercy today
Chopped off all branches
And took all my pieces away
Now I am just rooted
Like an ugly dying pole
Wishing for a great storm
To release my tortured soul...
©sim
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
A part of me dreams in pictures on screens
and some of me sits at reality's door.
Knock
Knock
who's there?
I heard a bird 'it was no nightingale, but a
storm petrel looking for a ship under sail
on the high sea
and a part of me knows it was only a dream.
I see reality
so easy to ignore
where some of me
sits at reality's door.
Knock
Knock
who's there?
The beggarman's wife sees reality,
life is no dream
for her.
But nothing's the same as the pain that you feel when you're poor, down at heel and the baby is crying for milk.
Occasionally I wake and
take a quick look outside
to see who is knocking,
there's
no one
only the wind slapping
at me,
reality stings
a nightingale sings
the storm petrel rides
on the wind.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
woodcutter's sunlight
absent like truth at the gate
at raintime; strangers'
memories, flowing as mud
a samurai was killed, but—
Sep 13, 2021
Sep 13, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
Choosing to die rather than watch.
Matthew rose to feet unsupported by vigor.
Wielding a simple woodcutter's axe.
Turned butcher's cleaver.
His foe turned, pivoted and let go of lever.
That wood exploded.
Its head fell into the marsh.
He fished for it but found instead.
A blade by his head.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
I wish I had the courage
The courage of the stump
to laugh at my problems
The way the stump laughs
at the woodcutter
I wish I had the audacity
to sprout and blossom
Even when life slaps me had in the face.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 2:48 PM UTC
She muttered words nobody would ever hear
Her cubicle scarred her for life
Putting staples in the stapler was the final straw
The monotony of it was stifling
She left
Nobody ever noticed
Now she lives deep in the woods
among giant trees that speak to birds
She's got not much use for words
She hacks down the dead ones
so new life can grow
She's the world's best woodcutter
Far superior to any other
But nobody will ever know
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 4:16 PM UTC
Darker days
Stormy hours
Windy moment
All your leaves are blown away
You stand there
Dry and colourless
No bird is attracted to you
You are good as dead
Without your leaves you give no oxygen
You become useless
Unwanted
And dead
Everyone judges you
Just because the could stand strong
When the wind blew hard
But what they don't know is
Your leaves were already loose
You stand there
Dry and colourless
Begging for the woodcutter
To save you from this misery
You are just a leaf-less Tree
But everything to the lone bird
~ForestGreenSoul
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC