Cruelty has a Human Heart,
And Jealousy a Human Face;
Terror the Human Form Divine,
And Secrecy the Human Dress.
The Human Dress is forged Iron,
The Human Form a fiery Forge,
The Human Face a Furnace seal'd,
The Human Heart its hungry Gorge.
The crescent moon hangs on a barren tree.
The water clock has stopped and all is still.
Who sees the sad man pace the shore alone?
His shadow slants and curls into a swan.
The startled man stiffens and turns to look;
His grief remains unseen by anyone.
He passes on a seat of fallen log,
And plops down on the wet and cold sandbank.
NOTE: The original title is: 卜算子.
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet filling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O, how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.
Strong winds ripple water;
Forest trees are laid low...
A bitter urge to die --
One can't come; one can't go.
Ten decades flow, stream-like;
Riches are cold, gray ash.
Life 's a death procession --
Unless you're adept and brash,
And can take up the sword
To hasten the anguish...
No rustling dry leaves, or
Leaky roof as you languish.
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 nineteenth of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 悲慨, and it has been translated as: “Despondent,” and “Sorrowful.”
No. It’s not that I’m insufficiently petty, but rather that I lack the requisite memory and passion for such things.
I once read about a psychopath who claimed that when he was wronged, he would hold onto it, bide his time, and get his nemesis with a commensurate reply at a later date — often years later when other person had completely forgotten about the matter. Quite frankly, I don’t know how he had the mental energy.
Mac-n-Cheese.
But seriously, I don’t think I’m acquainted with the experience.
For example: being punched in the face and swimming in open waters.
As for how, to my knowledge there’s only one way to overcome any fear and that’s exposure to the fearful stimulus. e.g. One loses (at least greatly reduces) fear of being hit by sparring.
One bitter winter afternoon --
Locked under skies so low and gray --
The city slowed in cold cocoon
As what verve remained slid away.
And then the clouds, they broke apart,
And frozen souls began to thaw.
But some needed not the sun's kickstart
To free themselves of winter's maw.
What was their secret? I wish I knew.
To be happy sans the skies of blue.
The maples have grown old;
Orchards have begun to wither.
The reds and greens have faded.
Climbing the heights, I
Feel the chill of late Autumn.
A ceaseless pounding sound
Drowns out the setting sun.
Remembered sorrows flock
To mind, making new sorrows.
We are separated
By a thousand miles;
From our two distant places
We can't even meet in dreams.
The rain stops, and the sky clears;
One can see the twelve green peaks.
Speechless, who could understand
My angst, as I stand cliffside.
I can write of my grief, but
Will the clouds bring a reply?
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 