Sound of water cascading over rock.
A silent mountain in the night.
Bright moonlight washes over the pines.
One thousand peaks, all in one color.
“Walking to Guanghua Temple by Moonlight” by Ouyang Xiu [w/ Audio]
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Category Archives: Poetry
Lily Pad Heron [Haiku]
water lilies stand
confidently, while herons
step warily.
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“Retort” by Paul Laurence Dunbar [w/ Audio]
"Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart,
"Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art,
To be led astray by the trick of a tress,
By a smiling face or a ribbon smart;"
And my heart was in sore distress.
Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair,
The light gleamed soft on her raven hair;
And her lips were blooming a rosy red.
Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air:
"Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"
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Hornbill [Haiku]
perching hornbill:
a plodding half-ton bovine
doesn't merit attention.
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The Other Shore [Free Verse]
Standing on the bank,
Looking at the other shore --
A hundred meters or a mile?
Does it matter,
In such a fast flow?
If I were to swim for it,
Launching myself into
Those cold, choppy waves,
Which would I reach first:
The other shore, or
The Falls, downstream?
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“Drunk in the Fairyland” by Huang Tingjian [w/ Audio]
In the face of heavy morning cloud again
And drizzling evening rain,
Leaning on each other, rugged the hills remain.
The Gorge of Witch and lofty peaks
Lock in the Southern Palace rosy cheeks.
In spring the halberds move in force,
Maids in fair dress welcome heroes on horse,
To the riverside town they go only.
I come to the wasteland a thousand miles away,
With my shadow so lonely.
How can I become cheerful and gay?
It is said the Southern land is so high,
It nearly scrapes the sky.
To the capital I stretch my eye,
I see but misty water far and nigh.
When I drank in the hall,
My friends were talents all.
Songstresses sang with rosy face
And dancers danced with grace,
Drunk, they intoxicated the place.
Hearing the cuckoo's home-going song
All the night long,
Could I resist my yearning strong?
Translation: Xu Yuanchong [translator]. 2021. Deep, Deep the Courtyard. [庭院深深.] Cite Publishing: Kuala Lumpur, pp. 191-192.
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Submerge [Haiku]
Aesthete Levels [Free Verse]
Anyone
can see beauty
in the flawless.
Artists
can see beauty
in the flawed.
Sages
can see beauty
in chaos.
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“Ode on Solitude” by Alexander Pope [w/ Audio]
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by the day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
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BOOKS: “One Hundred Poems of Kabir (1915)” Translated by Rabindranath Tagore
One Hundred Poems of Kabir by KabirMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
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Kabir was a fifteenth century Indian poet and mystic. This collection was translated by the Bengali Indian Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore, and Tagore’s stylistic imprint is felt in these poems. The poems are overwhelmingly of a mystic / spiritual nature. Kabir was non-sectarian but extremely oriented towards mystic belief. He references the Koran and Vedas alike, but is more likely to communicate in secular, if mystical, terms.
How much the godly emphasis works for the reader will vary greatly. For me it was a bit excessive, often reading more like prayers than poems, but your results may vary.
The only thing I found actually disturbing was the repeated romanticization of sati, a practice in use during Kabir’s lifetime in which widows would be burned alive on their husband’s funeral pyre. Kabir repeatedly writes of sati as if it was always a completely voluntary act of raw passion and connection and was never motivated by being old and destitute (not to mention being societally pressured or, even, physically forced into it.)
The poems are well composed and engaging, and if you can get past the periodic sati propaganda, it’s a pleasant, almost euphoric, read.
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