for Po Chui, Liu Tsung-yuan & Low McClendon
The traveler at a loss: to go or stay... - Liu Tsung-yuan [773 - 819]
Ah! I am so forsaken I will worship at any shrine impulses toward perfection. - Artur Rimbaud
Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men. - Po Chui [772 -846]
So I would hear out those lungs... - James Dickey
I would rewrite the whole thing
withdraw every word without ado
with no undue pressure release
even these mountains upon which
within which I turn sleepless in
the dark beneath laurel the
rhododendron pungent in cold
spring air wondering just where
this all goes how it all ends
this life where thunder rolls
between this valley where I lay
with heat lightening teasing
presences I cannot name though
the old masters have forever
tried and try yet again on each
thinning page in this worn book
the collected songs which have
finally crossed an ocean have
made it over the Eastern hills
to some of us here far far on other-hill
such singing long arrives traveling
to me to hear but whispers now
such is their weariness my only
companions in this old house
of dust which is yet an inn
for these old singers
*
He's gone crow said one poet of another
No longer do I madly sing
though an earned madness
clings a shroud a fog a
suggestion of the sublime
I shall no longer try to
name such much less ken
but extend myself only
toward that which portends
my young brow long gone old
and creased matches the map
my finger traces on yellowed
pages' brown edges these smeared
mountains ages ago drawn by a
forced palsied hand indentured
that remains uncredited diluted
ink smudged dried into elegant
interlaced stains that sing to
the eye - 'no choice but to try'
Dear painter I should live in
such hills where perhaps the
bones of your trembled hand
point beyond kingdoms
beyond fences your painted
image has so long outlived
*
I see that a face can at least retain
some semblance of former glory if a
face is a mountain once sung
now written only now suggesting rhythm
now melody only now a shrine lonely on
tips each peak this my brow now theirs
too sings of silver a dew a scent up from
worn paths beside valleys rivers streams
their banked ferns wet do cloy and
bend
now it pleases me to read of these
and so sing by the reading
*
still in this night I am turning
and turning on the hard pallet
these old pages that I have turned
now over 40 years in starry exile
as if my tongue could matter less by day
than my thoughts could mean more by night
these constant companions the good few
who lend voice to all that goes on
inked between and upon ledges high and in
canyoned depths what continues seen or not
such are strayed
ponies bending their heads to
finer blades tender shoots green or in winter
without complaint chew brown tufts brittle
shadowing snow, a pair of boot tracks
veering off and up or down
alone trail into other fields or
upon remote peaks
only song's
a traveler's companion
*
[photo is of Warren Falcon. All rights reserved]
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Some info on the poets the poem is dedicated to:
Po Chui lived 76 years, a long life in comparison to his contemporary poet Liu Tsung-yuan who died when he was 46. Who knows if they knew of each other. Po Chui lived long in exile. Tsung-yuan lived long enough to feel old age coming on while enjoying fine wine with the one's he loved and singing alone the old hymns accompanied by distant geese. I honor both singers.
Madly Singing In the Mountains - Po Chu-I (772-846)
There is no one among men that has not a special failing;
And my failing consists in writing verses.
I have broken away from the thousand ties of life;
But this infimity still remains behind.
Each time I look at a fine landscape,
Each time that I meet a loved friend,
I raise my voice and recite a stanza of poetry
And marvel as though a God had crossed my path.
Ever since the day I was banished to Hsun-yang
Half my time I have lived among the hills.
And often, when I have finished a new poem,
Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.
I lean my body on the banks of white stone;
I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch.
My mad singing startles the valleys and hills;
The apes and birds all come to peep.
Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world,
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men.
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Feeling Old Age - Liu Tsung-yuan [773 - 819]
I've always known that old age would arrive,
and suddenly now I witness its encroach.
This year, luckily, I've not weakened much
but gradually it comes to seek me out.
Teeth scattered, hair grown short,
To run or hurry, I haven't the strength.
So, I cry, what's to be done!
And yet, why should I suffer?
P'eng-tsu and Lao Tzu no more exist',
Chuang Tzu and K'ung Tzu too are gone.
Of those whom the ancients called 'immortal saints'
not one is left today.
I only wish for fine wine
and friends who will often help me pour.
Now that spring is drawing to a close -
and peach and plum produce abundant shade
and the sun lights up the azure sky and
far, far, the homeward goose cries,
I step outside, greeting those I love,
and climb to the western woods with the aid of my staff.
Singing out loud is enough to cheer me up;
the ancient hymns have overtones.
(TR. JAN W. WALLS)