Whispered.

The HUMP-BACKED FLUTE PLAYER

The hump-backed flute player

walks all over.

sits on boulders around the Great Basin

his hump is a pack.

Hsuan Tsang (original name Ch’en I

went to India 629 AD

returned to China 645

with 657  sutras, images, pictures,

and 50  relics)

a curved frame pack with a parasol,

embroidery carving

incense censer swinging as he walked

the Pamir the Tarim Turfan

the Punjab the doab

of Ganga and Yamuna,

Sweetwater, Quileute, Hoh

Amur, Tanana, Mackenzie, Old Man,

Bighorn, Platte, the San Juan

he carried

“Emptiness”

He carried

“mind only”

vijnaptimatra

The hump-backed flute player

Kokopilau

his hump is a pack.

In Canyon de Chelly on the North Wall up by a cave

is the hump-backed flute player laying on his back

playing his flute.  Across the flat sandy canyon wash,

wading a stream and breaking through the ice, on the

south wall, the pecked-out pictures of some Mountain Sheep

with curling horns.  They stood in the icy shadow of the

south wall two hundred feet away; I sat with my

shirt off in the sun facing south, with the hump-

backed flute player just above my head.

They whispered; I whispered; back and forth

across the canyon, clearly heard.

In the plains of Bihar, near Rajgir, are the

Ruins of Nalanda.  The name Bihar comes from “vihara”

-- Buddhist temple -- the Diamond Seat is in Bihar, and

Vulture Peak -- Tibetan pilgrims come down to these

Plains.  The six-foot-thick walls of Nalanda, the

monks all scattered -- books burned -- banners tattered --

statues shattered -- by the Turks.

Hsuan Tsang describes the high blue tiles, the delicate

debates; Logicians of Emptiness, worshippers of Tara,

Joy of Starlight, naked breasted, “She who saves.”

Ghost Bison, Ghost Bears, Ghost Bighorns, Ghost Lynx, Ghost Pronghorns, Ghost Panthers, Ghost Marmot, Ghost

Owls:

Swirling and gathering, sweeping down, in the power

Of a dance and a song. Then the White Man will be gone.

The the butterflies will sing

on slopes of grass and aspen;

thunderheads the deep blue of Krishna

rise on rainbows; and falling shining rain --

each drop—

tiny people gliding slanting down: a little Buddha

seated in each pearl—

and join the million waving Grass-Seed Buddhas

on the ground.

Ah, what am I carrying?  What is this load?

Who’s that out there in the dust

sleeping on the ground?

with a black hat, and a feather stuck in his sleeve.

-- It’s old Jack Wilson,

Wovoka, the prophet,

Black Coyote saw the whole world

in Wovoka’s empty hat

the bottomless sky

the night of starlight, lying on our sides

the ocean, slanting higher

all manner of beings

may swim in my sea

echoing up conch spiral corridors

the mirror: countless ages back

dressing or laughing

what world today?

pearl crystal jewel

taming and teaching

the dragon in the spine --

spiral, wheel,

or breath of mind

desert sheep with curly horns.

the ringing in your ears

is the cricket in the stars.

Up in the mountains that edge of the Great Basin

it was whispered to me

by the oldest of trees.

by the oldest of beings,

the Oldest of Trees.

and all night long, sung on

by a vast throng

Of Pinyon

Pine

Gary Snyder