Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet) ---
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
Oh, the Yew tree --
Such a beauty!...
But on that Yew,
You'd best not chew:
It'll kill you painfully.
With no god, but with spirit;
With no mass of tiny things;
Up on high, with the white clouds --
Borne aloft on breezy wings.
From afar all seems in place.
When you arrive it's not there.
Just like acting with the Way
Leaves customs beyond repair.
Chaotic mountain woodlands,
Sweet green moss in the sunshine.
Keep reciting your mantra,
Till it's lost among the pines.
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 (二十四诗品.) 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 twenty-first of the twenty-four poems. This poem’s Chinese title is 超诣 and it’s been translated as “The Transcendental” and “Super”
Hiking to the hilltop
To get a better view,
I found myself in clouds
That edged the sky of blue.
Standing upon a cliff,
(How high? I cannot know,)
I doubt cloud would catch me,
If I'd let myself go.
But it looked so fluffy,
Like it could bear my weight,
But then the sky 'd looked clear
From down the valley strait.
I guess the moral is:
One just can't trust the sky;
If you leap into the clouds,
It's certain that you'll die,
& when you think the sky clear
You may be denied.
Crumbling is not an instant's Act
A fundamental pause
Dilapidation's processes
Are organized Decays --
'Tis first a Cobweb on the Soul
A Cuticle of Dust
A Borer in the Axis
An Elemental Rust --
Ruin is formal -- Devil's work
Consecutive and slow--
Fail in an instant, no man did
Slipping -- is Crashe's law --
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.”
Fish mill about the koi pond --
No hooks or fishnets;
Just falling leaves to break up
Hours into minutes.
The stone Bodhidharma,
Meant as more than likeness.
It tries to copy Damo's
Stillness & uprightness.
Turtles sun on pier foundations
at the very edge.
So that upon the merest glance
They can slip the ledge,
And sink down into the pond's depths
To hide amid the murk.
Those who aren't shy can never know
Just how hard is its work.
What ancient tower sits
Under the patch of blue...
Exposed by tearing clouds
To give a boundless view.
Well, however ancient
And however stately,
I view it with less awe,
Or even quite sedately.
For it's a babe below
The ever-spreading sky;
Its edges - broad and tall -
Exaggerate -- They lie!
Tiger Riding for Beginners 