Walking beside the tree-peonies, I saw a beetle Whose wings were of black lacquer spotted with milk. I would have caught it, But it ran from me swiftly And hid under the stone lotus Which supports the Statue of Buddha.
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewst, Now is the time that face should form another, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime; So thou through windows of thine age shalt see, Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. But if thou live rememb'rd not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
Close your eyes and listen with care. Turn all your attention inside. Let your soul ride the Eight Borders At a galloping stride.
Inner space brightens, becomes more Compact, as one views the expanse. Words pour forth to cleanse the soul, As the Six Arts lend a fragrance.
Float, swim, and dive in the abyss, Heedful for words as it all soaks in... Sometimes the right word must be hooked, And hauled up where it can be spoken. But, other times, words are like birds, That fly themselves out of the clouds, To be downed by one swift arrow -- Quite willingly freed of their shrouds.
Mine for lines lost ages ago -- Rhymes unsung for ten centuries. Thank tight buds for the sweet flowers That they - soon enough - will be.
See past and present concurrently, At once, touch mountain and sea.
Hanging from the beam, Slowly swaying (such the law), Gaunt the shadow on your green, Shenandoah! The cut is on the crown (Lo, John Brown), And the stabs shall heal no more.
Hidden in the cap Is the anguish none can draw; So your future veils its face, Shenandoah! But the streaming beard is shown (Weird John Brown), The meteor of the war.
I met the Bishop on the road And much said he and I. 'Those breasts are flat and fallen now Those veins must soon be dry; Live in a heavenly mansion, Not in some foul sty.'
'Fair and foul are near of kin, And fair needs foul,' I cried. 'My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied, Learned in bodily lowliness And in the heart's pride.
'A woman can be proud and stiff When on love intent; But Love has pitched his mansion in The place of excrement; For nothing can be sole or whole That has not been rent.'
The poet stands in the Center And stares into deep mysteries. He's nourished by reading Classics And tombs of the men in Histories. He sighs as four seasons pass by And thinks upon ten-thousand things. He's saddened by Autumn's leaf drop And gladdened by the tender Spring. He feels Winter's frost on his heart, Though his mind may be up in a cloud. And when he sings of ancestors' Heroic deeds, he belts the song aloud. He combs through great literature Just as he roams the forest wild, But in search of a "natural" -- Shown in elegant phrase and style. And it's just such thoughts and feelings That set my brush and mind wheeling.
Asleep on a leaf beneath lotus blooms, Their fragrance floats across the misty lake. Sudden rain - taps upon the canopy; Its sound snaps me from sleep to wide awake!
The lotus is beaded with rain droplets -- Like pearls, drops roll together and apart; The clear blobs coalesce like mercury, Dripping to the river... back to their start.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 