So I'm going to read a couple more of these
and then some really new poems.
But harking back to Japan is this poem
called the great bell of the Gion
which is the huge park and temple
complex along the eastern slope of Kyoto,
east of the Takano river and rising into the hills--
a famous part of town from very, very early times.
One of the largest temples in Japan
is up there as well as a big, big Shinto shrine
and a remarkable stretch of sakura-- of cherry trees
that bloom every year where everybody goes and has a picnic
and gets drunk every year.
It's a wonderful place to go.
Just don't step on people, that's all.
So one of the temples in the Gion
has what is possibly the largest bell in the world set up
in a big bell structure tower.
It's 14 feet in diameter, and it is--
the Asian bell-- the Chinese and the Japanese
and the Korean bell are not rung with clappers.
They are struck with tree trunks that
are suspended from double ropes and swung back and then
in "bong" and then back.
Sometimes they'll wait several times and get it going again
and then go "bong."
And on the really big one, there's
a guy who stands up there and rides on it as it goes in.
And it's pulled back by several men
on the ground that have a long rope for pulling it back.
It's a very striking thing indeed.
And the wonderful thing about that huge bell in the Gion
is that it sounds equally loud whether you're next to it
or whether you're three miles away.
It doesn't change much.
So I think it's only rung once a year,
and that's on New Year's Eve starting at midnight--
108 strokes of the bell.
108-- that's a special number.
Quoting the "Heike Monogatari" from the 12th century--
"the great bell of the Gion temple
reverberates into every human heart to wake us to the fact
that all is impermanent and fleeting.
The withered flowers of the sala tree by Shakyamuni's
deathbed remind us that even those flourishing with wealth
and power will soon pass away.
The life of fame and pride is as ephemeral
as a springtime dream.
The courageous and aggressive person
will vanish like a swirl of dust in the wind."
This is a high point, which is a block of prose
and then a short poem.
"Heading back to our little house in Murasakino
from the Gion shrine on New Year's Eve with a glowing wick
handout from a Shinto priest lit in the New Year's sacred fire
that was started anew with a bow drill--
purified.
Walking and lightly swinging the long wick
to keep it glowing in a crowd of people all whirling wicks
and heading for home.
Finally catch a taxi.
Once home, start a propane gas plate
from the almost gone wick.
Now we have a sacred fire in the house.
The Gion's huge bell still ringing,
still ringing in the new year as soft
as loud at the house three kilometers away
as it was at the temple.
Up along the Kamo river Northwest
to higher ground after midnight New Year's
Eve the great bell of Gion 108 times deeply booms
through town.
From across the valley, it is a dark whisper
echoing in your liver mending your fragile heart."