"Every Monk Down in Who-Ville"

The Seuss of Zen: My Long Verse on the "Mu" Koan

Every monk down in Who-ville liked words a lot. 

But the Hermit, who lived North of Who-ville, did not. 

The hermit loathed words, she avoided delusion. 

Please don't ask why because the self's an illusion!

It could be, perhaps that her hood was too tight.

It could be her tongue was not screwed on right.

I think her insight was a red-hot iron ball.

For that Hermit, she knew the Truth of it all.

Now, whatever the reason, her tongue or her hood,

She sat upright, not-thinking how to do good,

For the glow of Joshu's Mu like a vast ocean,

Waved through the hermit and set her in motion.

Staring down from her cave with an angelic grin:

"Tomorrow is almost here; the end of sesshin."

She thought, no-thought while mindfully walking.

"I must find some way to stop them from talking!"

For tomorrow, I know all the boy and girl monks

Will sleep and dream of self, waking at noon like drunks.

Then, they'll do something the hermit liked least of all:

Every monk down in Who-ville, the tall and the small,

Will stand six-feet apart, their socially distant mingling,

And then they'll start thinking. Like ghosts they'll start cling-ing

To bushes and weeds and the myriad thing-ing!

And oh, oh! The words! Oh, the words! Words! Words! Words!

I hate the stream of words because words are absurd!

They'll stand with open hearts, with masks on their faces,

A chat, chat, chatting to puzzle what the case is.

"Does a dog have the Buddha nature?  Yes and no!"

They will ponder and wonder: "How could it be so?"

If they say it has or has not they're dead on the spot.

To become ruined and homeless, talking must stop.

For these monks devoted to the Way, chasing the air

And pursuing fragrance, they will never save their hair

From the fire; and their monkey minds will despair

about the gateless gate which is not even there.

The more she thought about this without emotion,

The more she thought, "I must stop this whole commotion!

"For nine years of wall sitting, I've sat with it now!

"I must stop these idle monks from talking! But how?"

Then in the mind door arose a flashing volition;

An idea to prevent this karmic condition:

"I'll make a Bodhidharma staff and a red cloak,"

And she mused and chuckled, "It'll be a sweet joke."

"All I need is a fast horse!" And she looked around.

But since steeds were scarce, there were none to be found.

Did that stop the Hermit?  "No!" she simply said.

"If I can't find a horse, I'll sled down instead!"

She grabbed her zafu, a bell, a thermos of tea,

Her cloak and staff, and entered a merry samadhi.

She folded into lotus on top of her zafu,

Sitting like a mountain, wearing her rakusu,

The Hermit shouted "Mu!" And the sled started down

Toward the rooms where the monks lay a snooze in their town.

Rev. Kokyo Henkel sketched this for this poem.

Like a red shadow, she glided through the twilight,

The True Dragon's breath pumping her heart with might.

The unreal and real suffused in the darkling light—

Stars and sky sharing the essence hidden in plain sight.

The Hermit on her zafu slid into Whoville,

And sat in the zendo. All was silent and still.

The weary monks were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of the Buddha swirled in their heads.

The Hermit pulled out her thermos and poured some tea.

From her cloak out came the bell, which she rang with glee.

Monks sprang from their beds to see what was the matter.

They breezed into the hall and started to chatter. 

And to their eyes, what should dependently co-arise?

A red-wrapped roshi, sipping tea, to their surprise!

The monks grew hush for she was so clear of karma

They knew in an instant she embodied the Dharma.

Then she spoke without making a sound: "The front gate

of Zen is Mu! But if you try, you'll separate.

Since there's no barrier, you must not hesitate.

Now! Is the only way to enter the gateless gate."

Then a star fell from the sky, striking the densho;

All the monks, the tall and small, slipped into kensho.

Behind their masks, they smiled like Makakasho.

Their minds as vast as space; their whole-hearted hearts a glow.

Then a soft voice said, "Dear roshi, if all is Mu,

Then that absurd word must have Buddha nature too.

And since we have to say something, what can we do?

I, for one, won't ever stop saying I love you."

Hearing these words, a calmness like falling snow

Filled the Hermit up with what she needed to know.

Then she swung her staff like the sword of Manjushri,

Chanting the harmony of difference and unity:

“Just like winter streams branch into spring rivers

The emptiness of receiver, gift and givers

Is what it means to embody the Buddha’s way

Like a tireless horse with shanks that have gone gray.”

With that she floated like a cloud into the air, 

And she merged with the darkness like a silent prayer.

To the monks below, she gave a deep, deep gassho.

They heard her silver voice shining through the moonglow:

“Each moment is Nirvana, so drop your story,

Because it limits your chances of satori!”

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