Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, or sky that holds
them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the
pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
bats hang in bamboo —
blanket-wrapped in wings —
hang like their food, fruit.
What things give you energy?
Breath and food. But I also find movement, music, and being in a natural setting feel energizing,
A man's body at auction,
(For before the war I often go to the slave-
mart and watch the sale,)
I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not
half know his business.
Gentlemen look on this wonder,
Whatever the bids of the bidders they
cannot be high enough for it,
For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of
years without one animal or plant,
For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily
roll'd.
In this head the all-baffling brain,
In it and below it the makings of heroes.
Examine these limbs, red, black, or white,
they are cunning in tendon and nerve,
They shall be stript that you may see them.
Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone
and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized
arms and legs,
And wonders within there yet.
Within there runs blood,
The same old blood! the same red-running
blood!
There swells and jets a heart, there all
passions, desires, reachings, aspirations,
(Do you think they are not there because
they are not express'd in parlors and
lecture-rooms?)
This is not only one man, this the father of
those who shall be fathers in their turns,
In him the start of populous states and rich
republics,
Of him countless immortal lives with
countless embodiments and enjoyments.
How do you know who shall come from the
offspring of his offspring through the
centuries?
(Who might you find you have come from
yourself, if you could trace back through
the centuries?)
Strong winds ripple water;
Forest trees are laid low...
A bitter urge to die --
One can't come; one can't go.
Ten decades flow, stream-like;
Riches are cold, gray ash.
Life 's a death procession --
Unless you're adept and brash,
And can take up the sword
To hasten the anguish...
No rustling dry leaves, or
Leaky roof as you languish.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a crude translation of the nineteenth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 悲慨, and it has been translated as: “Despondent,” and “Sorrowful.”
Tiger Riding for Beginners 