Turtles sun on pier foundations
at the very edge.
So that upon the merest glance
They can slip the ledge,
And sink down into the pond's depths
To hide amid the murk.
Those who aren't shy can never know
Just how hard is its work.
I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me
and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them,
respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full
with the charge of the soul.
Was it doubted that those who corrupt
their own bodies conceal themselves?
And if those who defile the living are as bad
as they who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do fully
as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul,
what is the soul?
a starling stomps,
like a masked bandit,
across dusty earth.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protruded, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
a single lily
stands out in a pond of pads:
bright to browned.
sprawling tree,
laid asunder by its own weight:
a crack plus time
There's a certain slant of light,
Winter Afternoons --
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes --
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us --
We can find no scar,
But internal difference --
Where the Meanings, are --
Non may teach it -- Any --
'Tis the seal Despair --
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air --
When it comes, the Landscape listens --
Shadows -- hold their breath --
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death --
solitary fish
darts about at lake's edge:
taunting fates & fishers.
Climbing Taihang Mountain,
On the green winding way.
The jade-lined trail in fog,
Floral scents from the gray.
Stuck in unflowing time,
'Til a song sung bright and gay...
I'm steered back to my past
With the grace of ghosts at play.
Skirting roiling waters,
A Roc soars after prey.
The Tao is unbounded --
Round or square as it may.
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 seventeenth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 委曲, and has been translated as: “Grievance” and “In Tortuous Ways.”
Tiger Riding for Beginners 