Thoughts conveyed by way of short verse May degrade in eccentricity. With bowed head, lonely and friendless. Face up, vast sky where all is free. Like one string stretched to perfect pitch, But lacking all resonancy.
NOTES: Earlier I posted a translation by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping, entitled A One-String Harp that was contained in The Art of Writing (Boston: Shambhala; p. 15) This, however, is my own translation. The original poem in Simplified Chinese is:
Some shoots and stalks stand out -- Taller than the masses. Their form eludes pursuit, Sound slips through, like gases. Great lines are always disjunct: Don't weave with mid'ling lyrics. They're pent up and peerless: Chop them? A win that's pyrrhic. Jade flecks make mountains shimmer, Pearly waters enchant. The thicket mustn't be clipped If Kingfisher's glory, grant. Stitched words end under snow, Work the weft, steady and slow.
Splendid thoughts arise from joined words -- Lucidity is awakened: Luminous like adorned brocade, Doleful as a string serenade. But if crib suspicions aren't killed, It'll be just one more pulp piece. Though you may be these word's weaver-- Some ancestor, the prime conceiver. You must be just and rise above, Though it kills words you've grown to love.
Language can be complex, reason may sprawl, And words don't always seem to point the way. Extremes aren't always clear and distinct. Overhauls are not always an upgrade. The gist may dwell in a key phrase or two -- Those words the whip that make it race or stay. Though multitudinous words are in place They must do more than roar, hiss, or bray. Overuse of the whip exhausts the horse -- Keep the impulse to whip too much at bay.
Maybe the first lines constrain the last; Maybe ends insist on openings; Maybe some truths escape all words; Maybe dulcet lines tell no truths. One may need to keep separated -- Beauty and truth -- to avoid wounds. Inspect and haggle over each word -- Distinctions maybe finer than a hair; Weigh each edit upon a scale; Ensure each cut serves its purpose.
Matter comes in countless varieties, And the forms are evershifting, as well. Writers must dance the varied characters To dulcet lines where elegance dwells, Finding the right pace, cadence, and stresses To blend like harmony in the five hues. Though the tune fades in and out randomly And the path is rugged and hazard-strewn, Those who know the ways of change and order Will find all falls into place with a flow. But if one misses the proper pivots It's like grabbing the tail to steer the nose -- Like yellow painted onto wet, black walls, One's writing becomes muddy, and it stalls.
Poetry is poignant and ornate; Essays are deep and content-centric. Stele entries are true to the essence; Paeans, moving and melancholic. Inscriptions are concise and kindly; Telltales have a logic and cadence. Odes show great grace and refinement; Op-eds are unrepressed and intense. Music 's penetrating and stately; Speeches must sparkle with cleverness. Though there ever so many forms, All thwart evil and allow release: Expression, sans pride overweening, With no waste of words or lost meaning.
Among ten thousand writing styles, There's no one standard or measure. The styles: many, muddled, and free -- Form, the unattainable treasure. Talent in word-wrangling shows skill. Idea conveyance shows craft. Writers strive 'twixt have and have not -- Unyielding in shallow or deep draught. An escape artist of fine lines -- Yet time and space consume in kind. Intricacy excites the eye, But frugality soothes the mind. One of few words is not confined. Verbose writers drift the Undefined.
It's all the amusing matters That sages admire without bounds. Writers find their way through the void -- Knock on silence to find its sound. Silk scroll messages from afar, The bard's words surge forth from the heart. Words and ash grow to overflow -- Thoughts transcend depths to become art. Flowery fragrance pungently sprawls; Plants shoot forth verdant greenery. The brush winds swirl to whirlwinds Clouds climb above the academy.
After choosing one's scope of thought, Turn the words and note their order. Embrace the hot ones, feel their burn; Knock on lines and hear their timbre. Use the branches to shake the leaves, And waves can be traced to their source. Make the hidden come visible; Make the difficult seem simple. A tiger's transformation startles -- Birds take flight on sight of dragons. Sometimes words nest into each other; Sometimes, jaggedly, they won't mesh. With a clear, contemplative mind Hordes filter through to easy speech. Heaven and Earth contained within: All things flow from the brush with ease. Starting timidly with dry mouth, Ending with a wandering brush. Meaning is borne by a stout trunk, Language hangs like leaf and fruit. Make words and intended meaning match As moods show clearly on a face. When happiness comes, laugh & smile, And with sorrow let loose a sigh. At times words flow spontaneously; At times one bites one's brush, musing.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 