“To One in Paradise” by Edgar Allan Poe [w/ Audio]

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine --
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream to bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from the Future cries,
"On! on!" -- but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more -- no more -- no more --
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams --
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

“Good Things” by Qin Guan [w/ Audio]

Spring rains spur roadside flower growth,
and wildflowers creep to the mountain's base.
Hiking deep up the valley along the stream,
I see and hear hundreds of orioles.
Looking skyward, a cloud becomes a dragon or snake,
But then breaks up, giving way to blue sky.
Lying in the forest under hanging vines,
I can't tell north from south.

“Requiem” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

“I heard a Fly buzz – when I died” (591) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air -
Between the Heaves of Storm -

The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset - when the King
Be witnessed - in the Room -

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable - and then it was
There interposed a Fly -

With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -
Between the light - and me -
And then the Windows failed - and then
I could not see to see -

BOOKS: “A Child’s Garden of Verses” by Robert Louis Stevenson

A Child's Garden Of VersesA Child’s Garden Of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

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Until recently, I was only acquainted with Stevenson as a novelist, but I had a powerful experience with his poem “The Hayloft” (included in this collection.) I was intrigued by how a poem written by a nineteenth century Scot could prove so nostalgia-inducing for me, having been a 20th century American farm-boy. So, I read the collection, and found that “The Hayloft” was only one of many examples that had such an effect. Others include: “Land of Counterpane,” “Block City,” and “Land of Nod.” The nostalgic power of the poems derives from the fact that Stevenson does a phenomenal job of capturing a child’s enthusiasm for play, and in that regard I’m sure the collection will resonate more broadly than just I, or even than just farm kids.

Afterall, there’s a lot of Stevenson’s experience that is dissimilar to mine. Besides his era and his nationality, his mentions of nurses, gardeners, and cooks is surely much different from my own upbringing, being devoid of household staff. But the book only needs to draw upon that love of play and imagination to take one back.

For a work from the nineteenth century, this collection of 50+ lyric poems has aged well. There is the occasional word like “gabies” or “whin” to send one to a dictionary, but those archaic or obsolete terms are rarities. Furthermore, the lyricism of the poems makes them easily read or sung.

I’d highly recommend this collection for poetry readers, particularly children or those looking to reexperience childhood.

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“Strong” [Poetry Style #8] by Sikong Tu [w/ Audio]

Walk with a mind that's clear and unburdened, 
With life force that flares -n- flows like rainbows,
Traversing the witch's gorge through the mountains --
Among the floating clouds and blowing winds.
Drink up the spiritual; dine on the real;
Let them ever build up in your body.
Emulate the health and might of the gods,
Preserve your energy through harmony.
Be one with Heaven, be one with the Earth.
See in yourself divine transformations.
Know all this to the utmost -- be all this,
And hold on to it 'til the bitter end.

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 eighth of the twenty-four poems.

“The Hayloft” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

Through all the pleasant meadow-side
The grass grew shoulder-high,
Till the shining scythes went far and wide
And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops
They led in wagons home;
And they piled them here in mountain tops
For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
Mount Eagle and Mount High --
The mice that in these mountains dwell,
No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there,
O what a place for play,
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
The happy hills of hay!

“Sympathy” by Paul Laurence Dunbar [w/ Audio]

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals --
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting --
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, --
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings --
I know why the caged bird sings!

BOOKS: “Water Margin” by Shi Nai’an

Outlaws of the marsh (the Water Margin)Outlaws of the marsh by Shi Nai’an
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

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Water Margin is one of the four classic Chinese novels. The English language translations of the novel go by many names, but in Chinese it’s called Shui Hu Zhuan (i.e. 水滸傳.) The book tells a tale of war and brotherhood in a world in which a person’s virtue and his station in life are often topsy-turvy. It’s one of the most engaging pieces of fiction I’ve read in some time. While it’s a sprawling epic (close to a thousand pages in the unabridged translation,) it draws the reader in and keeps one reading by way of clever plotting and intense intrigues.

The story revolves around 108 individuals of varied checkered pasts who end up together as a band of outlaws in the Liangshan Marsh (hence, one of the most common translated titles is “Outlaws of the Marsh.”) Under the leadership of an exceptionally virtuous and beloved leader, Song Jiang, these outlaws are united into, first, a band of outlaws and, later, (having been pardoned by the emperor) as an incomparable military force that quells threats to the nation.

About the first half of the book consists of the individual stories of the most central of the 108 outlaw chieftains. The next quarter of the book describes their time together as outlaws and, particularly, how they repeatedly defeated government attempts to crush their band. The final quarter of the book is about the band’s Imperial service: first in defeating Tartar invaders from the North and then in crushing a kingdom that arose in the south by uprising of a self-declared king.

If the reader is thinking that 108 primary characters is too many to contend with, I would say that: a.) there are a small set of characters that are so substantially discussed and developed that you’ll be able to always keep them straight; b.) not all of the 108 are crucial to keep straight to follow the flow of the story, but c.) yes, it is not easy to keep them all straight — particularly for a non-Chinese reader who will find a number of the names quite similar (e.g. Wu Yong and Wu Song.)

I should note that the book can be extremely visceral, too much so for some readers. This intensity largely has to do with the stories involving one of the chieftains, Li Kui. Li Kui is the worst. He has a horrific temper, a blood lust, is completely out of control, and almost always turns anything he touches into a bloody mess. His only saving grace is that he recognizes in Song Jiang’s virtue something that must be followed, such that he does his level best to do anything Song Jiang tells him to and (often more importantly) not do whatever he is told not to do. Many readers will hate Li Kui, finding him completely despicable. However, there is a good chance that thinking about why Li Kui is kept around and tolerated after constantly fouling things up will be a productive thought exercise for those who can get through the gore. One may want to consider that question in relationship to the fascinating fact that Song Jiang, the undisputed leader who all the men insist take the position of head chieftain, is the only member of the band who has no kung fu. The other 107 chieftains are all martial arts masters-extraordinaire, most with specialties in particular weapons or tactics.

I won’t say there aren’t clunky plot devices and repetitive elements, but they didn’t bother me much for a few of reasons. Firstly, this novel is from the fourteenth century, and — given that — the readability and emotional resonance of the book is phenomenal. Secondly, I have no way of knowing how much the cheapening plot devices are a product of the original versus of the translation. Finally, those elements are more than made up for by skilled story crafting.

I’d highly recommend this book for all readers who can feasibly get through an 850-page novel with hundreds of characters. Martial artists and travelers may find it of particular value.


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“The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [w/ Audio]

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!