Sekitei - June 14 2023

 

Sekitei

June 14 2023

The rock garden

was in full bloom.

Plants, hungry for sun

reach for the sky.

The abundance

is almost too much,

a riot of flowers

bursting out,

the avid greenery

shouldering aside

its verdant rivals.

But there is scarcity, as well;

lush moss

you can't help but touch,

a bonsai tree

with deeply wrinkled bark.

Yet even these

in this brief intense season

are frantic to grow.

And rocks, stone, gravel

in shades of pink and grey,

meticulously placed

raked

manicured.

And to rest the eyes

an open space

of fine white sand,

inscribed with circles

and swirls

and abstract shapes.

Inert matter;

patient

changeless

still.

Permanence

and transience,

the living and the dead.

The contrast is powerful.

The kinetic energy of plants

overtaking the garden

if not cut back.

And the restful calm

of sun-warmed rocks,

which have settled in

as if they'd always been there.

The sound of running water

washing gently over them.

A reflecting pool

mirrors the sky;

granite, speckled pink and grey

glistens with light.

River rock

polished by moving water

over incomprehensible time.

The title is the word for a Japanese rock garden or so-called “Zen” garden. This is a serene place meant to foster contemplation. It must, according to tradition, always include the 3 elements: vegetable, mineral, water. And perhaps a 4th: space. It's all about subtlety and restraint, and I wanted the poem to reflect this sensibility.

Although the prime inspiration was the compelling tension contained in the name itself: “rock garden”. Not just — at least for the literal minded, or for those who are particularly attentive to language — the amusing idea of cultivating rocks, but the powerful contrast in those two simple words between inert matter and life, permanence and transience.