Tag Archives: Audio

“Natural” [Poetry Style #10] by Sikong Tu [w/ Audio]

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Stoop anywhere and pluck it up,
 But if you look 'round - it's not there.
 Any path may lead you to it.
A stroke of the brush becomes Spring,
 And the flowers are in full bloom. --
 It's like seeing a new year dawn:
 Snatch at it and you won't have it.
 Seize it by force and you'll be poorer.
Be like the old mountain hermit --
 Like duckweed gathered by stream flow.
Find calm amidst storms of feeling
 By knowing Heaven's harmonies.

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 tenth of the twenty-four poems.

“Dulce et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owen [w/ Audio]

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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
 Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling
 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. --
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace 
 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
 Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est 
   Pro patria mori.

NOTE: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori is a line written by Horace in Latin that translates to: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”

“To One in Paradise” by Edgar Allan Poe [w/ Audio]

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Thou wast that all to me, love,
   For which my soul did pine --
  A green isle in the sea, love,
   A fountain and a shrine,
 All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
   And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream to bright to last!
   Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
  But to be overcast!
   A voice from the Future cries,
  "On! on!" -- but o'er the Past
 (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
   Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
   The light of Life is o'er!
  No more -- no more -- no more --
   (Such language holds the solemn sea
  To the sands upon the shore)
 Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
   Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
   And all my nightly dreams
  Are where thy grey eye glances,
   And where thy footstep gleams --
 In what ethereal dances,
   By what eternal streams.

“Good Things” by Qin Guan [w/ Audio]

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Spring rains spur roadside flower growth,
   and wildflowers creep to the mountain's base.
 Hiking deep up the valley along the stream,
   I see and hear hundreds of orioles.
Looking skyward, a cloud becomes a dragon or snake,
   But then breaks up, giving way to blue sky.
 Lying in the forest under hanging vines,
    I can't tell north from south.

“Requiem” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

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Under the wide and starry sky,
   Dig the grave and let me lie.
 Glad did I live and gladly die,
   And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
   Here he lies where he longed to be;
 Home is the sailor, home from sea,
   And the hunter home from the hill.

“I heard a Fly buzz – when I died” (591) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -
   The Stillness in the Room
 Was like the Stillness in the Air -
   Between the Heaves of Storm -

The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -
   And Breaths were gathering firm
 For that last Onset - when the King
   Be witnessed - in the Room -

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away
   What portion of me be 
 Assignable - and then it was 
   There interposed a Fly -

With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -
   Between the light - and me -
 And then the Windows failed - and then
   I could not see to see -

“Strong” [Poetry Style #8] by Sikong Tu [w/ Audio]

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Walk with a mind that's clear and unburdened, 
   With life force that flares -n- flows like rainbows,
 Traversing the witch's gorge through the mountains --
   Among the floating clouds and blowing winds. 
 Drink up the spiritual; dine on the real;
   Let them ever build up in your body.
 Emulate the health and might of the gods,
   Preserve your energy through harmony.
 Be one with Heaven, be one with the Earth.
   See in yourself divine transformations.
 Know all this to the utmost -- be all this,
 And hold on to it 'til the bitter end.

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 eighth of the twenty-four poems.

“The Hayloft” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

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Through all the pleasant meadow-side
   The grass grew shoulder-high,
 Till the shining scythes went far and wide
   And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops
   They led in wagons home;
 And they piled them here in mountain tops
   For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
   Mount Eagle and Mount High --
 The mice that in these mountains dwell,
   No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there,
   O what a place for play,
 With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
   The happy hills of hay!

“Sympathy” by Paul Laurence Dunbar [w/ Audio]

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I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
 When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
 When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
 And the river flows like a stream of glass;
 When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
 And the faint perfume from its chalice steals --
 I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
 Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
 For he must fly back to his perch and cling
 When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
 And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
 And they pulse again with a keener sting --
 I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
 When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, --
 When he beats his bars and he would be free;
 It is not a carol of joy or glee,
 But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
 But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings --
 I know why the caged bird sings!

“The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [w/ Audio]

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Half a league, half a league,
   Half a league onward,
 All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
 "Forward the Light Brigade!
   Charge for the guns!" he said:
 Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
   Was there a man dismay'd?
 Not tho' the soldier knew
   Some one had blunder'd:
 Their's not to make reply,
   Their's not to reason why,
 Their's but to do and die:
   Into the valley of Death
     Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
   Cannon to left of them,
 Cannon in front of them
   Volley'd and thunder'd;
 Storm'd at with shot and shell,
   Boldly they rode and well,
 Into the jaws of Death,
   Into the mouth of Hell,
     Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
   Flash'd as they turn'd in air
 Sabring the gunners there,
   Charging an army, while
 All the world wonder'd:
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
 Right thro' the line they broke;
   Cossack and Russian
 Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
   Shatter'd and sunder'd.
 Then they rode back, but not,
   Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
   Cannon to left of them,
 Cannon behind them
   Volley'd and thunder'd;
 Storm'd at with shot and shell,
   While horse and hero fell,
 They that had fought so well
    Came thro' the jaws of Death
 Back from the mouth of Hell,
   All that was left of them,
      Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
   O the wild charge they made!
 All the world wonder'd.
   Honour the charge they made!
 Honour the Light Brigade,
   Noble six hundred!