To whom do you bow when there is no foe but yourself?
That very thin slice of time and space where you are between a rock and a hard place is Budo.
Where the jagged beer bottle of life arcs towards your neck and the ground shifts beneath your feet: the precise edge of kata.
Sanchin in a darkened room and the sound of an oscillating fan.
2 comments:
As an avid reader of poetry over the years, I truly appreciate your posts. I would be pleased to buy a bound volume of works like these! Will you consider such a project? My copy would take pride of place on my bookshelf!
I should post your comments on my poetry page. Poetry and the martial arts have been long intertwined in my life; the two disciplines speak to each other in ways I’ve yet to fathom. I do not know about other countries, but in Puerto Rico quite a few poets have practiced the martial arts. It was a fellow poet that first brought me to a dojo. I believe both disciplines deal with similar issues: canons, traditions, breaks from tradition, style on the formal side. From another perspective, both in the long run face the ineffable, that which cannot be expressed yet hovers over the very act of doing. And I could go on…thanks Dan.
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