"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."
So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:
"Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."
Long, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not,
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?)
Fame is a bee.
It has a song --
It has a sting --
Ah, too, it has a wing.
I still remember drinking on the Bridge of Noon
With bright wits of the day.
The silent moon
On endless river rolled away.
In lacy shadows cast by apricot flowers
We played our flutes till morning hours.
O'er twenty years have passed like dreams;
It is a wonder that I'm still alive.
Carefree, I mount the tower bathed in moonbeams.
So many things passed long
Ago survive
Only in fishermen's midnight song.
Translation: This Song Dynasty poem was translated by Xu Yuanchong in: Xu Yuanchong [translator]. 2021. Deep, Deep the Courtyard. [庭院深深.] Cite Publishing: Kuala Lumpur, p. 212-213
Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven -- birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.
When one makes god of wealth,
Light glows from yellow "gold,"
But the lavish withers --
Even as its deeps take hold.
Fog at the river's edge.
Red apricots, woods enfold.
Moon shine on bower's flowers.
Painted bridge in green shadow.
An old bowl full of wine,
As a friend's lute song unfolds.
Make your bliss of such things,
And they will be your true gold.
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 ninth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 绮丽, and its translated titles include: “Beautiful,” “Intricate,” and “Embroideries.”
A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
Clear eyes, beneath clear brows, gaze out at me,
Clear, true and lovely things therein I see;
Yet mystery, past ev'n naming, takes their place
As mine stay pondering on that much-loved face.
Gliding o'er all, through all,
Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul -- not life alone,
Death, many deaths I'll sing.
I taste a liquor never brewed --
From Tankards scooped in Pearl --
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air -- I am --
And Debauchee of Dew --
Reeling -- thro' endless summer days --
From inns of molten blue --
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door --
When Butterflies -- renounce their "drams" --
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats --
And Saints -- to windows run --
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the -- Sun!
Tiger Riding for Beginners 