What ancient tower sits
Under the patch of blue...
Exposed by tearing clouds
To give a boundless view.
Well, however ancient
And however stately,
I view it with less awe,
Or even quite sedately.
For it's a babe below
The ever-spreading sky;
Its edges - broad and tall -
Exaggerate -- They lie!
Ah, make nature your home;
Be true and be unchained.
Enrichment by control
Can never be sustained.
Build your hut in the pines:
Toss your hat and read verse.
Know the dawn from the dusk,
But not time -- cradle to hearse.
If your life suits you well
Why must you strive and strain?
If you're unbound as sky,
This style you have attained.
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 fifteenth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 疏野 and it has been translated as “Seclusion” [Giles,] “The Carefree and Wild Style” [Barnstone / Ping,] as well as, “Unrestricted,” “Seclusion,” and “Sparse Wilderness.”
I have never seen "Volcanoes" --
But, when Travellers tell
How those old -- phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still --
Bear within -- appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men --
If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place --
If at length the smouldering anguish
Wil not overcome ---
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?
If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"!
To the Hills return!
In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.
But form to lend, pulsed life create,
What unlike things must meet and mate:
A flame to melt -- a wind to freeze;
Sad patience -- joyous energies;
Humility -- yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity -- reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob's mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel -- Art.
Dawn rain has washed the city of its dust;
The refreshed hotel willows tremble in a gust.
My friendly advice, you dry up another glass,
You have no acquaintance beyond The Jade Gate Pass.
Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, --
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
A thick cloud nestled into the
valley down below,
I wonder if the forager
in that streambed knows
that it's sunny above.
I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.
I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!
I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town --
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down --
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig --
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!
