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“Reading Books”

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Ancient Chinese Scroll

This is a delightful poem from Liu Tsung-yuan (AD 773-819) who was exiled by the Emperor to Yungchou in the 9th century for espousing unpopular opinions. Though it is more than 1,100 years old, it could have been written yesterday—especially in today’s political environment.

Reading Books

Living in obscurity I’ve given up current affairs
I bow my head in silence and reflect on the sage kings
the highs and lows of the ancient past
the ups and downs of countless paths
I laugh to myself when I’m pleased
when I’m sad I simply sigh
I take my books from their cases
I go through from front to back
despite the affliction of tropical diseases
I feel different than in the past
while reading I suddenly understand
when I’m done my mind is a blank
who can I talk with at night
if not these texts on bamboo and silk
I lie down when I get tired
after a good sleep I feel refreshed
I yawn and stretch my limbs
I read out loud to my heart’s content
I enjoy doing what suits me
not to please learned men
I shut up when I’ve said what I want
free of restraints I relax
the clever consider me stupid
the wise think I’m a fool
but reading as managed to make me happy
what good is working till you drop
cherish this body of yours
don’t use it to chase after fame

The translation is by Red Pine. The book is Written in Exile: The Poetry of Liu Tsung-Yuan, published by the Copper Canyon Press.

Haggis

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Haggis, Neeps, and a Wee Drappit of Scotch

When I first visited Scotland in 1976, I had my first taste of Haggis at an Edinburgh restaurant near Waverley Station. From everything I had heard, it was disgusting stuff—the innards of a sheep stuffed with oatmeal, onions, suet, and various spices. Imagine, to my surprise, that I was familiar with the taste. It was almost identical to Hungarian Hurka sausage, which was similar in every respect except it was made from pork and not sheep.

Here is Scottish poet Robert Burns’s tribute to Haggis, a poem that is quoted on Burns night in celebrations around the globe.

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber mead.

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that owere his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect scunner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratfu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Burns’s lowland Scots dialect may be strange to American ears, but the poem’s vitality somehow carries it along.

Vanitas Vanitatum

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The Brontë Sisters as Painted by Their Brother Branwell

The painter wiped his own image out of his painting of his more famous sisters. The sister on the left is Anne, who signed her two novels under the pseudonym of Acton Bell. Those two novels were Agnes Grey (1847) and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848). She was an early feminist who dealt in her two novels with the issues of parenthood and relationships respectively. Unfortunately, she died young, at the age of 29.

Here is one of her poems, which illustrates the intensity of feelings which pervades her work. The title is from Ecclesiastes 1:2: “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”

Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas

In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;

And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise;
THAT, sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;

And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest:

Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth,
Now blowing keenly from the North;

Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne’er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;

The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,
But still the ocean craves for more.
’Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,

Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants supply,
Pleasure but doubles future pain,
And joy brings sorrow in her train;

Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth–
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,
Death comes, our labour to destroy;

To snatch the untasted cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life’s comforts while he can,

Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes;
Trust God, and keep His statutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill;

Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on Heaven;
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day.

An Ode to Breakfast

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A Full English Breakfast

Since I am reading Charles Lamb’s Essays of Elia (1823), I thought I would look at some of his poems. There I found this encomium on the subject of the morning meal.

Breakfast

A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use, “Good night,”
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet “Good morrow,”
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.
Sleepy Robert never hears
Or urn or kettle; he appears
When all have finished, one by one
Dropping off, and breakfast done.
Yet has he too his own pleasure,
His breakfast hour’s his hour of leisure;
And, left alone, he reads or muses,
Or else in idle mood he uses
To sit and watch the venturous fly,
Where the sugar’s pilëd high,
Clambering o’er the lumps so white,
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight.

赤松

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Bill Porter (aka Red Pine)

It all started with a book of Chinese poems I picked up at random from the shelves of the Central Library. It was called Dancing with the Dead: The Essential Red Pine Translations. It turns out that Red Pine (Chinese: 赤松) is the pen name of one Bill Porter, an American writer known for his translations from the Chinese of ancient poetry. I guess that’s where “the Dead” in the title comes from.

That book, which I read in April, opened a whole new world to me. I had read Chinese poems in translation before, from translators like Arthur Waley, Kenneth Rexroth, and Ezra Pound. But I had the feeling that Red Pine was somehow closer to the original. Like this short poem from a poet who calls himself Cold Mountain:

Looking for a refuge
Cold Mountain will keep you safe
a faint wind stirs dark pines
come closer the sound gets better
below them sits a gray-haired man
chanting Taoist texts
ten years unable to return
he forgot the way he came

If you are interested, I sugget you begin the way I did, by reading Dancing with the Dead: The Essential Red Pine Translations. It excerpts some of the best selections from his thirty-odd books containing selections from such poets as Cold Mountain, Stonehouse, Tao Yuanming, Wei Ying-wu, and Liu Zongyuan.

Here is a poem from Tao Yuanming:

With the passing days and months
as you leave childhood behind
good fortune won’t be undeserved
but disaster easily earned
rise early and retire late
I hope such habits are yours
if they aren’t
so be it

The Poetry Project

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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.

“Dust in the Wind”

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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.

Life

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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.

“Farewell to My Soldier Friend”

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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.

“The Hardships of Travel”

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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