Ancient temple carved with features:
Beasts, men, gods and mythic creatures.
Imagine my surprise when I
Came face-to-face with this lil’ guy.
The lizard did his level best
To stay stock still with puffed-out chest.
To pass for a chiseled dragon,
But couldn’t keep its tail from waggin’.
The Soul has Bandaged moments -
When too appalled to stir -
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her -
Salute her, with long fingers -
Caress her freezing hair -
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover - hovered - o'er -
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme - so - fair -
The soul has moments of escape -
When bursting all the doors -
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings opon the Hours,
As do the Bee - delirious borne -
Long Dungeoned from his Rose -
Touch Liberty - then know no more -
But Noon, and Paradise
The Soul's retaken moments -
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the song,
The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue -
Alone, the hermit returns home to sleep.
He's cleansed of cares by way of solitude.
He gives thanks and praise to the geese on high
For lifting feelings to grand altitude.
Day or night, his mind holds no intentions,
Who can sense his energy, so subdued?
His flight and submergence self-limited,
Where can he find calm, and still be renewed?
This is the third poem in 300 Tang Poems [唐诗三百首] as well as the third of a quartet of poems entitled Gǎn Yù [感遇] that open the collection. The original in Simplified Chinese is:
幽人归独卧， 滞虑洗孤清。
持此谢高鸟， 因之传远情。
日夕怀空意， 人谁感至精？
飞沉理自隔， 何所慰吾诚？
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
The wild winds weep,
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs infold:
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling birds of dawn
The earth do scorn.
Lo! to the vault
Of paved heaven,
With sorrow fraught
My notes are driven:
They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with tempests play.
Like a fiend in a cloud
With howling woe,
After night I do croud,
And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east,
From whence comforts have increas'd;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.
Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Man came to tell it what was wrong:
It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard—the aim was song.
And listen—how it ought to go!
He took a little in his mouth,
And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
And then by measure blew it forth.
By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be—
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song—the wind could see.
Verdant orchid leaves of Spring;
Cassia blooms bright in Autumn;
Thriving plants, top to bottom.
Festivals planned by their timings.
Who knows the forest recluse --
Pleased with winds and winds with he.
Plants have stems, branches, and roots
Why beg a belle to pluck their fruits.
This is poem #2 of the 300 Tang Poems [唐诗三百首,] and is the second in a quartet of poems called 感遇 [Gan Yu.] The original poem in Simplified Chinese goes:
兰叶春葳蕤， 桂华秋皎洁；
欣欣此生意， 自尔为佳节。
谁知林栖者， 闻风坐相悦。
草木有本心， 何求美人折？
Knowledge can be a wicked curse,
Like gold coins in a sturdy purse.
Tied up -- inviolably pent --
To be rattled... but never spent.
I love thy music, mellow bell,
I love thine iron chime,
To life or death, to heaven or hell,
Which calls the sons of Time.
Thy voice upon the deep
The home-bound sea-boy hails,
It charms his cares to sleep,
It cheers him as he sails.
To house of God and heavenly joys
Thy summons called our sires,
And good men thought thy sacred voice
Disarmed the thunder's fires.
And soon thy music, sad death-bell,
Shall lift its notes once more,
And mix my requiem with the wind
That sweeps my native shore.
There is a finished feeling
Experienced at Graves—
A leisure of the Future—
A Wilderness of Size.
By Death’s bold Exhibition
Preciser what we are
And the Eternal function
Enabled to infer.
