It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness —
I'm so accustomed to my Fate —
Perhaps the Other — Peace —
Would interrupt the Dark —
And crowd the little Room —
Too scant — by Cubits — to contain
The Sacrament — of Him —
I am not used to Hope —
It might intrude upon —
Its sweet parade — blaspheme the place —
Ordained to Suffering —
It might be easier
To fail — with Land in Sight —
Than gain — My Blue Peninsula —
To perish — of Delight —
Alone, the hermit returns home to sleep.
He's cleansed of cares by way of solitude.
He gives thanks and praise to the geese on high
For lifting feelings to grand altitude.
Day or night, his mind holds no intentions,
Who can sense his energy, so subdued?
His flight and submergence self-limited,
Where can he find calm, and still be renewed?
This is the third poem in 300 Tang Poems [唐诗三百首] as well as the third of a quartet of poems entitled Gǎn Yù [感遇] that open the collection. The original in Simplified Chinese is:
幽人归独卧， 滞虑洗孤清。
持此谢高鸟， 因之传远情。
日夕怀空意， 人谁感至精？
飞沉理自隔， 何所慰吾诚？
Sitting alone -- secluded bamboo grove:
I whistle or pluck my zither;
People don't know my deep forest;
Moon and I shine on each other.
Original in Simplified Chinese:
独坐幽篁里
弹琴复长啸
深林人不知
明月来相照
I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down
from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there
uttering joyous leaves of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made
me think of myself,
But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous
leaves standing alone there without its
friend near, for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain
number of leaves upon it, and twined
around it a little moss,
And brought it away, and I have placed it in
sight in my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own
dear friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than
of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it
makes me think of manly love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens
there in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat
space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a
friend a lover near,
I know very well I could not.
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by the day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
“If one conforms to the world,
Kamo no Chōmei, Hōjōki; [Stavros Trans.]
He’s bound to suffer.
If he doesn’t,
He’s considered mad.
But nothing ever bores me. So much the worse for those who are moulded of boredom.
Salvador Dalí, Hidden Faces
All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.
Blaise pascal
I am in no way interested in immortality, but only in the taste of tea.
Lú Tóng (Poet of the Tang Era)
The man who wears the shoe knows best that it pinches and where it pinches, even if the expert shoemaker is the best judge of how the trouble is remedied.
John Dewey
Bonus Quote:
If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.
Marcus tullius cicero
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all, --
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
The Stranger in the Woods: The extraordinary story of the last true hermit by Michael Finkel
let us now pray
for short people with no one
to reach the top shelf
moon-gazer
sitting on a rooftop
hugging knees
silent morning
awakened by the sounds
that aren’t
closing eyes
seeking faces forgotten,
sadly failing
what void
holds the millions
unseen
[Since it’s National Poetry Month (NaPoMo,) I’m trying to do a different form each day. So far: limericks, a sonnet, and haiku. If you know of any obscure forms, I’d be glad to hear of them, because I don’t think I know 30 flavors of poetry, presently — relatively short form, of course, I don’t have the time or skill to do an epic narrative in a day. (Though micro-narrative will certainly be a thing.)]
Tiger Riding for Beginners 