Every time the bucks went clattering
Over Oklahoma
A firecat bristled in the way.
Wherever they went,
They went clattering,
Until they swerved,
In a swift, circular line,
To the right,
Because of the firecat.
Or until they swerved,
In a swift, circular line,
To the left,
Because of the firecat.
The bucks clattered.
The firecat went leaping,
To the right, to the left,
And
Bristled in the way.
Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes
And slept.
one hundred birds
startle at my presence;
one eyeballs me.
It thrives in silence and with calm --
ephemeral and gossamer.
It's ever-flowing harmony,
gliding with a solitary crane,
wisping like the gentle breezes
that rustle and billow one's robe,
trilling softly like a bamboo flute.
How does one become one with it?
A chance meeting, lucked into, but
don't lunge forward, or it'll vanish.
When you think it's attainable,
it twists in your hand and is gone.
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 second of the twenty-four poems.
early summer:
birds trudge through green paddies
that they usually prowl.
From the water's edge,
I see the spastic, choppy
topography of a river
that looked glassy
from the bridge that
spans it.
Is this one river?
Am I one traveler?
I
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Reeds cover the tiny island.
Shallow streams cut through the cold sand.
I see the Southern Tower for
The first time in two decades.
How many days since I moored
Under this willow tree?
Mid-Autumn Festival is almost here.
On the rocks of Yellow Crane,
Do my friends still reside?
This old place has many new sorrows.
If I bought wine and we cast off together,
Could we be young again?
The dogs were in a wee hours war:
Growling and snapping and howling,
Breaching night's plutonian shore,
And sweet dreams those barks were fouling.
What monstrous dreamland incursions
That yapping must have brought about.
Bucolic scenes turned perversions
Of bared teeth and menacing snout.
