A road lined with burnt out junkers,
And garbage fires 'round which hunker
Cold souls sitting in drizzling rain --
That rain, that rain, their eternal bane.
Blue skies are a distant memory --
Except for in every reverie
That denies claustrophobic skies
The main villain role - e'er reprised.
Where's our long-lost hero, the sun?
Have stout clouds got him on the run?
Or maybe our hero 's bleeding out;
Its feeble showing leaves room for doubt.
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 --
What they undertook to do
They brought to pass;
All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass.
To be under a cloud
Is not so sad a thing;
If you can love the rain,
And you can dance and sing.
I am not now.
I was not then.
That makes it sound
Like I've never been.
But I once was
And will be again,
But who can know
Just where & when?
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.”
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 