SPRING NIGHT: HEARING A FLUTE IN LOYANG

From which house, fleeting, invisible notes
mingling with the wind and filling the city?
Hearing that tune, A Willow Twig for Parting,
who would not dwell on thoughts of home?
     --Li Bai, my tr.

UNTITLED

Meeting is hard and parting is harder.
The east wind slackens and flowers wither.
The spring silk worm spins silk till it dies.
The wax candle sheds tears till it's ash.
Morning mirror, fretting over disordered hair.
Midnight chanting, not feeling the cold.
Penglai, the faerie mountain, is somewhere near.
Bluebird, would you spy it out for me.
     --Li Shanglin, my tr.

PASSING THE TEMPLE OF TEEMING FRAGRANCE

The Temple of Teeming Fragrance
measureless miles in summit clouds.
Ancient forest, a pathless way.
Deep mountains, directionless bell.
Spring water over jagged rocks.
Yellow sun on cool green pines.
Twilight, winding pool.  Quiet sitting
uncoils the poison dragon round the heart.
     --Wang Wei, my tr.

Dark, chilly, and rainy all day.  Perhaps it was a day like this when Ono no Komachi wrote

Falling, the long rain,

the color from the flower,

the eye through the world.

A tanka that I've managed to render as a haiku.  In Chinese literature two people separated in space are connected by their gazing at the same moon.  Perhaps, separated in time from Komachi and her original readers, we can make a similar connection with them through contemplation of an instance of the same phenomenon that Komachi pondered. 

9/11/11: REWRITTEN ALL THESE TEN YEARS AND NEVER RIGHT

Bomb them with Bud Lite.

Fill their skies with holograms of Vanessa del Rio.
Jam their transmissions with Bishop Sheen, Soupy Sales, Madalyn Murray,
and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Drop Burqas over them from attack helicopters.
Put up posters of their ankles in every post office.
When they surrender, send them Care Packages from    
     schoolboys and schoolgirls filled with centerfolds and Business Suit
     Barbies.
Take wounded prisoners to Drs. Johnson, Hanson, Jansen,
     Habib, and Horowitz.
Staff POW camps with Hindus and Buddhists and Free Methodists
     who guarded their local mosques.
Torture them with the home movies of the Trade Center dead.
Offer them my library card if they talk.
Bomb them with Bud Lite.
We'll keep the High Life.

AT THE LAUNDERMAT, READING WANG WEI'S "PASSING THE TEMPLE OF TEEMING FRAGRANCE"

Not wandering on cloud peaks
or through ancient, pathless forests,
as easy here to pass it by,
watching the comforter whirl
in the porthole of the commercial machine.
As hard to hear the temple bell
in the multidryer hum.
As easy, just as easy, to sit
and pacify the poison dragon of the heart

SAILING INTO SOUTH LAKE

South Lake is the sum of three rivers.
Mount Lu is the master of all hills.
White sand cleans the river course.
Green pines color the crag heads.
When did the water begin to flow?
When did the mountain begin to be?
Human fate is ever changing.
These forms are alone enduring.
In all the nearness and distance of the cosmos,
present becomes past; this order lasts.
    --Chang Fangsheng, my tr.

TO AN OLD FRIEND LOST IN TIBET

Lost, a whole army,

        before the gates of a city,

the year before last

        fighting the Yuezhi.

Lost, the torn, scattered tents,

        with no one to collect them.

There were only the tattered banners

        on horses straggling back.

Lost, any news of you,

        along the way from Tibet.

What offerings can I make

        if your fate is unknown?  

Lost, you and I to each other,

        whether or not you still live.

I offer these tears

        from far, far away.

          --Zhang Ji, my tr.  

This road here runs

     up to white clouds.
Spring is as long
     as the clear stream.
At times fallen petals
     float by,
flowing off
     on scented water.
My door idles
     on the mountain path.
My study's deep
     in willow shade;
my sleeves, sunlit
     on sunny days.
       --Liu Shenxu, my tr.

ON THE RIVER, I SAW THE WATERS SURGING LIKE THE OCEAN: A SKETCHY ACCOUNT

I have always been peculiar,
      driven by love of well-wrought verse.
Seeking a word of startling rightness,
      I'd sooner die than rest.
In my reckless old age,
      my words and I overwhelm each other.
So you needn't fear, birds and flowers,
     for the secrets of your spring.
Just now, I've put in a pier
      to dangle a fishing line from.
Before, I was angling from an anchored raft
      in place of a boat.
Who could I get with the mind of a master
      like Tao or Xie
to help out with my writing
      and wander the nearby world with me?
--Du Fu, my tr.

The Cicada

In the first place,
however refined you are
and able to live on wind and dew,
they will never satisfy your hunger.
So why keep up your bitter cry?
By the fifth hour
your voice is weak and hoarse
in the green, indifferent tree.
I'm just a minor functionary,
a drifting twig.
And the old fields at home
lie wasted and full of weeds.
So thank you for reminding me
that my family has a long history
of pure character.
--Li Shangyin, my tr.

Thoughts in the Cold

My guests have all gone,
the river rises to my doorstep,
cicadas cease whirring,
branches fill with dew:
a time when you fill my heart,
the time that passes while I stand
still beneath the Big Dipper,
as distant as spring.
Here beyond the edge
of your Nanjing sky
no messenger comes.
I am left with only
my dreams to divine
if you've found a new friend.
--Li Shangyin, my tr.

Alone in My Cups

Drinking wine, unaware
of nightfall. Fallen flowers
fill the folds of my clothes.
Getting up and walking
to the moonlit river,
where no birds and few men
remain.
--Li Bai, my tr.

An Alternate Translation of "Deer Fence"

Empty Mountain.
Seeing no one.
Hearing someone's
echoing voice.
The late day sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.
--Wang Wei, my tr.

The life-affirming spirit of dangdut overcomes the glowering spectre of rap.

Deer Fence

Empty mountain.
No one is seen.
But, echoing,
someone is heard.
Afternoon sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.
--Wang Wei, my tr.

Autumn Song of Lady Night

Opening the window
to the autumn moon,
she puts out the candle,
slipping off her silk skirt.

And suppressing a smile
within the curtained bed,
she arches her body,
spreading orchid fragrance.
--Anon., my tr.

Another by Du Fu

Birds are whiter on the blue river.

Flowers flame up on the green mountain.

Spring, I see, has come and gone again.

What day--what year--will I return home?

--my tr.

In Answer to a Poem by Subprefect Zhang

In my old age, I want only peace.
The ten thousand things are not my concern.
I've no plan for the rest of my life
but to come back to this, my ancient woods.
Piney wind blows my girdle open.
Mountain moon lights upon the lute I play.
So where's the warp and weft of the world?
Fishermen's songs come far up the inlet.
--Wang Wei, my tr.

Playing the Zheng for General Zhou

While playing the zheng
with millet-gold posts,
her fair hands moving
over the jade frame,
hoping that Zhou Yu
will turn and look,
every so often
she plucks the wrong note.
--Li Duan, my tr.

Did you know that the U.S. conducts a yearly immigration lottery for people who want to come here but have no particular qualifying criteria for admission? Several million people apply for about 20,000 slots. Because of some error in the lottery process, in 2010 the government invalidated the results after the 20,000 winners had been notified. In trying to rationalize immigration policies, we must remember that those policies apply not just to those crossing the southern border from Mexico without having gone through the prescribed application procedure.

A Compromise with the Dead

Who wanted to rest
in her most-mended panties
was laid down instead
in her muddy garden shoes.

Know God by the Perfection of His Works

There once was a world with no God
Where poodles came already shod
And the value of pi
Was slightly awry
So wheels just sank in the sod.


There was another world with no God
Where all the girls got named Todd
And no one could hear
For they shit through an ear
And so would just smile and nod.

Why Didn't They Just Say So in the First Place?

Recently heard an interview with the imam who wants to build the "Ground Zero Mosque." It was mentioned pretty much incidentally that he's a Sufi. A Sufi fer chrissake! It's like being afraid of Quakers or Unitarians because they're Christian like the KKK. Sufis, who are much more mystical than grimly legalistic, are widely persecuted by Muslim fundamentalists. Sufis are Whirling Dervishes, the poet Rumi, the late, and truly great, qawwali singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

LI BAI: My Versions in English

Blue mountains to the north of town.
White water to the east of town.
We stop here for a last goodbye:
Thistledown flies a thousand li.
Now you must be a floating cloud,
and your old friend, the setting sun.
Waving, each goes his separate way.
Parting horses nicker and neigh.





As flowers bloom and leaves unfold,
my friend sets out, west for Guanling.
His solitary sail recedes,
vanishing where river meets sky.





Two versions of "Jade Stairs"

Resentment on the Jade Stairs

Midnight on the stairs of jade,
white dew soaks her silken hose.
Draw down then the crystal shade:
fall's moon glitters in its gems.



Stood Up on the Jade Stairs

Midnight on the stairs of jade,
white dew soaked your silken hem.
Draw down then the crystal shade:
moonlight glitters in its gems.




High Summer

Lazing in the mountain wood,
waving a white feather fan,
I get up, open my clothes,
hang my headband on a rock.
Green pine wind plays through my hair.




Wine with the Mountain Hermit

We drink amid the mountain flowers.
A cup, one more, and then another.
I'm in a stupor, you stagger off.
Come back with your lute, when you can.




Alone in My Cups

Drinking wine, unaware
of nightfall. Fallen flowers
fill the folds of my clothes.
Getting up and walking
to the moonlit river,
where no birds and few men
remain.

ONO no KOMACHI: My Versions in English of Three of her Poems

Imagining My Death and Cremation

Sad to end as just
a green haze drifting pale
over distant fields.




Falling, the long rain,
the color from the flower,
the eye through the world.




Should the stream whisper "come,"
like a severed reed,
I would float away,
adrift as my heart.

Reading George Will yesterday, I was reinforced in my opinion that, whatever NPR's putative bias, there is nothing it can do to satisfy a large segment of its critics on the right and remain a respectable news organization. Conservative commentators such as David Gergen do appear on public broadcasting and perhaps we should be hearing a bit more from people like David Frumm, Kathleen Parker, David Brooks, Mona Charon, Thomas Sowell, or Ron Paul. But there are those who think "the other side of the story" that NPR should be giving us will come from folks who will tell us that Obama is the Anti-Christ who was born in Kenya and who has been engaged in a life-long plot to get himself elected president in order to destroy the American Republic. We could no longer take NPR seriously if it asked us to consider ideas like this from its commentators.

Complaint from His Lady's Chamber

She, who was in her rooms without sorrow,
turned out for spring, ascends the jade tower,
and, struck by a willow green in the field,
sighs for sending him off to seek titles.
--Wang Chiang-ling

All being samsara, what does it matter on which level of illusion Shiva dances?...that is, unless you're looking for your gods to show up on your level to smite your enemies and help you win the lottery.

No System Can Account for Itself, So What's the Price of Money?

There are several ways to refute the idea that the price for which something is exchanged is the sole measure of its economic value. Try this: Human beings have lived most of their history without money. The invention of money has been a great lubricant for economic activity. The existence of money has value, therefore, for society that is exterior to the money system. What is the price--how much would you pay--for entry to the money system?

Days fly by, winter drags on.
A plow scrapes by in the night.

Whenever concerns are raised about the widening disparities of income and wealth in this country, there are warnings from the right about igniting class warfare. I suppose that there's a little truth in that, but the likelihood of marching hedge fund managers to the guillotine or forcing plutocrats into exile in Shanghai is pretty small.

In actuality, at this time the most virulent class hatreds are between strata of the working/middle class. And these are not fomented by liberals. Until a few decades ago, those ill-paid and ill-treated by employers could hope to emulate their better-off fellows in union jobs by organizing and bargaining collectively for better pay and better treatment. But now that the tide of unionization has gone out, there is little of this hope. What remains is a lot of bitter envy.

Abuses of power by unions--burdensome work rules, pensions that bankrupt companies, protection of incompetent workers--are constantly pointed to. Examples are not hard to find. When I was was growing up, the folks in my extended family were probably the only Republican factory workers in Toledo. And there were stories about Uncle Freddy going to work with a knife in his waistband to protect himself against against union thugs. But any individual or institution with power is quite likely to eventually abuse it. Examples are not hard to find. A employer of much size at all will have greater power than its individual employees. We cannot strip them of the countervailing power that organizing gives them.

What public employees in Ohio should sacrifice to help alleviate the state's fiscal distress can certainly be negotiated. But those who recently gained political power would seek to strip public employees of collective bargaining rights even in the best of times. Do not let them use the present crisis to persuade us to let them do it.

In Passing

I have myself
held a newborn son,
living,
but too young to live.

These grief trains
have no doors to open,
no common measure of their loads.
Just a wave, then,
through a clouded window,
from one passing
on a distant track.

Blueberry Smoothie

Shocking shard of glass
on my tongue that becomes ice
as it disappears.