Quit seeking to firm up the soul; Return to the unadorned truth. One can seek the shape of water; One can write of a pleasant spring. Winds shift the shapes of clouds, Flowers stand tall, and flowers droop. The great waves of a sprawling sea, The mountain's craggy ruggedness... They all emulate the Great Way. Every wonderful thing is dust. Find semblance beyond shape or form. In this person, the multitudes.
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 translation of the twentieth of the twenty-four poems. Translated titles vary. This one has been titled “Descriptive” and “Form and Feature” by varied translators.
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? Oh, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.
Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as all, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would.
Hand in hand. Plum petals floated to her skirt. -- Love unbound -- Now, lost souls mill about: Thier loved ones long unseen. Old songs are heard once more, Recalling Tower and Temple.
On ordinary days, I'd write a thousand lines. Now, I brush away dust, And think of us, together. The moon reflects in the lake. Willows droop beside water. A dragon-head cloud drifts on air.
Note: Translated titles vary. e.g. Xu Yuanchong entitles his translation “Song of Incense.”
To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summer's pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.
Plain and simple words are chosen, Even to express tangled thoughts. Then one comes upon a hermit, And one glimpses the heart of Dao. The clear stream burbles its soft song Amid the shady ancient pine grove. A woodsman passes with his cordwood; A stranger listens to a lute song. A strong feeling takes one over, Bringing with it bliss and wonder, And one's easy link with heaven Is tender as the sound of water.
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 translation of the eighteenth of the twenty-four poems. Translated titles vary — e.g. Herbert A. Giles titled this translation “Actualities.”
Tiger Riding for Beginners 