If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
Be always drunken. Nothing else matters: that is the only question. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.
Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken.
And if sometimes, on the stairs of a palace, or on the green side of a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped away from you, ask of the wind, or of the wave, or of the star, or of the bird, or of the clock, or whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks, ask what hour it is; and the wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is the hour to be drunken! Be drunken, if you would not be martyred slaves of Time, be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will.”
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This poetry translation anthology presents examples from some of the earliest known Chinese poetry to authors who are still alive and composing. It’s arranged by dynastic period (up until the modern era,) and, within dynasties, by poet. Most of the poets merit only a poem or two, but some of the major poets are allotted many pages of poems. Of course, how much poetry per poet is included isn’t just a function of how prolific or popular the poet was, but also how much extant poetry remains — i.e. how much survived. Each dynastic section begins with an overview of the time and poetic trends, and there is bio blurb for each poet.
There is quite a bit of variation in the book beyond that of the changing nature of Chinese poetry. The translations are also by varied translators, including not only the book’s editors but also individuals from the past, such as Arthur Waley. I wouldn’t say there is any bad translation in the book, but some translators capture the feel, e.g. the relative sparseness, of Chinese better, and others show their English poetic educations more obviously.
All in all, I enjoyed this selection of poems immensely, and learned a lot about Chinese history as well as of the country’s changing poetic tradition. I gained new insight to some of my favorites (e.g. Li Bai, Han Shan, etc.) and gained new favorites I’d never heard of before. I’d highly recommend this book for readers of poetry in translation.
I hear the rains accelerate
From the lightest sprinkle.
Soon the streets are aflood; mere sound
Makes my fingers wrinkle.
The rain continues to ratchet
Up: faster & faster.
'Til it's maxed out at a speed that
Spells certain disaster.
How can it keep up this dire pace?
What sponge this cloud must be
To hold on high, up in the sky,
The contents of a Sea.
But, in time, the downshift begins
Towards just drips & drops.
No matter how boisterous the band,
The song, it always stops.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Bohemians
gathered around
the absinthe bottles,
the light hitting
the bottles shone
a radioactive shade
of green.
That green light
threw blotches
against walls &
floors & people &
anything else there
was to illuminate.
The more they drank,
the less green the mottling --
not because the empty glass
was clear, &
didn't refract, or spray green,
but because the splotches
turned every color --
every color there is --
and the colors danced
around the increasingly
amorphous surfaces.
Until, at last,
everyone was asleep,
and visions of Green Fairies
danced in their dreams.
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
Old thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 