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Inspired by reading Red Pine’s translations of Chinese poetry, I have decided to give it a try myself. By posting this intention in my blog, I am determined to shame myself into giving it a try. What I publish here will probably be short and blank or free verse. This week, I have medical and physical therapy appointments to eat up my timer, but I will be freer next week. Probably the end of next week.
And, no, I will not be using a fountain pen.
Page from Ts’ao Chih’s “Worlds of Dust and Jade”
This summer, I discovered Chinese poetry, particularly as translated by the excellent Red Pine, alias Bill Porter. The poet Ts’ao Chih had his problems dealing with the Chinese court in Loyang and wrote a magnificent poem called “Dew on the Leek.” The following is Red Pine’s translation of a section from that poem, as quoted in his Finding Them Gone: Visiting China’s Poets of the Past:
From “Dew on the Leek”
There’s no end to Heaven and Earth
light and shade take turns
people live but awhile
suddenly we’re dust in the wind
I hoped to perform meritorious deeds
to devote myself to my lord
to assist my king with my talents
with an open and unbiased heart
swimming things honor dragons of the deep
running things honor a unicorn
if creatures can recognize virtue
why not the gentlemen at court
in the works compiled by Confucius
the royal way is abundantly clear
I offer this modest brush of mine
to promote sweetness and style
As I typed this poem, I suddenly realized that I was talking about my own working life, in which I deeply felt I was not sufficiently appreciated. At least I didn’t have to be sent into exile on a hostile frontier.
Charlotte Brontë as Painted by Her Brother Branwell
I am currently reading (and enjoying) The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë. I thought I would present a poem by Anne’s sister Charlotte (1816-1855), author of Jane Eyre, Villette, and Shirley.
Life
Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
Although Emily was probably the best poet in the family, I’ve always admired Charlotte.
As I grow older, I become more and more enamored of ancient Chinese poetry. One of the all-time greats was Tu Fu, also known as Du Fu, who was born in AD 712 and died in 770. This poem is called “Farewell to My Soldier Friend.” The translation is by Chao Tze-chiang.
Farewell to My Soldier Friend
The Jo River flows to the land’s end;
The Yang Pass looms on the horizon.
Now you will cross the sand-bar;
There smoke didn’t rise for months.
To show your valor, take no care for life;
To be a marquis, do not count the years.
In winter, keep your horse from being lost,
Or snow will bury his broidered saddle.
Tao Yuanming (365-427) is one of the great poets of China. I have been reading a translation of his poems by Bill Porter (under his pseudonym Red Pine) and came across this unnamed poem. It talks about the hardships of travel in China around the year 400 AD. I, who yearn to have the money to allow me to travel and find myself stuck in Southern California, am in a slightly different situation.
People sigh about the hardships of travel
I’m just learning about them now
about the size of mountains and rivers
and the unexpected dangers of both
about crashing waves that echo across the sky
and relentless winds that never cease
the more I travel the more I long for home
why am I stuck where I am
I’ve been thinking about how much I love my garden
and why haven’t I said goodbye to the world
how long will my good years last
and why did I ever question my heart
Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682)
He was one of the greatest writers of prose in the English language. Religio Medici and essay “Hydriotaphia, or Urn Buriall” are my favorites among his works. The following comes from Religio Medici:”:
We term sleep a death; and yet it is waking that kills us, and destroys those spirits that are the house of life. ’Tis indeed a part of life that best expresseth death; for every man truely lives, so long as he acts his nature, or some way makes good the faculties of himself. Themistocles, therefore, that slew his Soldier in his sleep, was a merciful Executioner: ’tis a kind of punishment the mildness of no laws hath invented: I wonder the fancy of Lucan and Seneca did not discover it. It is that death by which we may be literally said to dye daily; a death which Adam dyed before his mortality; a death whereby we live a middle and moderating point between life and death: in fine, so like death, I dare not trust it without my prayers, and an half adieu unto the World, and take my farewell in a Colloquy with GOD.
And here is a devout prayer he wrote:
An Evening Prayer
THOU whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep;
Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open whilst mine close;
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as Jacob’s temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance;
Make me to sleep a holy trance,
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought;
And with as active vigour run
My course, as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death. Oh, make me try
By sleeping, what is it to die!
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my bed.
Howe’er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with Thee!
And thus assured, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
Polish Poet Czeslaw Milosz (1911-2004)
Born in Lithuania, Czeslaw Milosz had a chance to witness firsthand many of the horrors of the Twentieth Century. Milosz is perhaps my favorite Eastern European poet of the 20th century. In 1980, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Here is a poem of his entitled “At a Certain Age.”
At a Certain Age
We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.
White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind
Was too busy visiting sea after sea.
We did not succeed in interesting the animals.
Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,
A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.
A person seemingly very close
Did not care to hear of things long past.
Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee
Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.
It would be humiliating to pay by the hour
A man with a diploma, just for listening.
Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what?
That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble
Yet later in our place an ugly toad
Half-opens its thick eyelid
And one sees clearly: “That’s me.”
Mexican Poet Octavio Paz (1914-1998)
In this short poem, Mexican Poet Octavio Paz reveals the secret of the deserts of Mexico and the American Southwest.
Wind, Water, Stone
For Roger Caillois
Water hollows stone,
wind scatters water,
stone stops the wind.
Water, wind, stone.
Wind carves stone,
stone’s a cup of water,
water escapes and is wind.
Stone, wind, water.
Wind sings in its whirling,
water murmurs going by,
unmoving stone keeps still.
Wind, water, stone.
Each is another and no other:
crossing and vanishing
through their empty names:
water, stone, wind.
“Catullus” Painted by Polish Artist Stefan Bakałowicz
As I am reading a biography of Caesar Augustus, I thought I would present a delightful poem by Catullus (84-64 BCE):
Fabullus, provided the gods favor you,
in a few days’ time we’ll be dining well.
For your part could you bring a decent
sizable meal, a fair-fleshed girl and
also, the wine with your wit and laughter?
If you can manage these, dear friend,
we’ll be dining in style, for right now
Catullus’ purse is a nest of cobwebs;
for your noble efforts you’ll get the
most pure friendship, and all things
sweet and agreeable. I’ll have a perfume
that is my girl’s, it was given her by Venus
and the Cupids. It is so sweet, Fabullus
that when you smell it, you’ll wish
you were nothing but nose.
A Street in Stromness on the Orkney Mainland
George Mackay Brown (1921-1996) spent most of his life in Stromness, Orkney, which he always called by its original Norse name of Hamnavoe. If you want to go to the Orkneys, either you fly to the small airport at Kirkwall from Aberdeen or Wick; or you take the ferry from Scrabster (just west of Thurso) to Stromness.
I have been to Orkney twice. The first time, I stayed in Stromness at the house of an old couple named the Linklaters. Dinner consisted of potatoes prepared two or three different ways. At that time, I met George Mackay Brown after I stepped outside from the local Stromness bookstore bearing several books by him.
Here is a poem about seven men who, years ago, went to the market in Hamnavoe and what happened to them.
Hamnavoe Market
They drove to the market with ringing pockets.
Folster found a girl
Who put wounds on his face and throat.
Small and diagonal, like red doves.
Johnston stood beside the barrel.
All day he stood there.
He awoke in a ditch, his mouth full of ashes.
Grieve bought a balloon and a goldfish.
He swung through the air.
He fired shotguns, tolled pennies, ate sweet fog from a stick.
Heddle was at the market also.
I know nothing of his activities.
He is and always was a quiet man.
Garson went three rounds with a negro boxer,
And received thirty shillings,
Much applause, and an eye loaded with thunder.
Where did they find Flett?
They found him in a blazing circle,
All flame and blood, a new Salvationist.
A gypsy saw in the hand of Halcro
Great strolling herds, harvests, a proud woman.
He wintered in the poorhouse.
They drove home from the Market under the stars
Except for Johnston,
Who lay in a ditch, his mouth full of dying fires.
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