Look, Jacob

-- Impression of Carpinteria






In the morning,
hidden amongst tall grass,
a trainless railroad sleeps by the bean field.
Farmers aren’t here yet,
but the field already awoke.
A mole sits quietly,
facing the sea.

The sea is as pale as an eye,
and it gets bluer as noon comes by,
blue and lucid
like some free-flowing blood.
Kelps arise in the sweetly fishy breeze,
under the distant islands
-- the long hair of mermaids fondles
airy paddleboards.

What are the red-beaked sandpipers in a tide
looking for, so hurriedly?
Half withered
stood a Eucalyptus by the Brewery.

And the sun’s about to set
by the edge of the ocean.
And the beach wetted by the waves turns gold,
all of a sudden;
And all the little birds are walking
on a warm mirror
when a fisherman yells out:
“Look, Jacob!”

Lab Report on Absinthe

All of a sudden, a silver spoon
reminded the green eye
of Paris.
When the wind lit the red candle,
up woke the night.

And Rimbaud gave a smile.
The instant my tongue was knotted,
the instant my throat caught fire,
the instant my breast was shredded,
the instant my flesh began to fester,
he gave a long quiet sigh, lifted a childlike brow,
and whistled at the Big Dipper.

The golden ear of Von Gogh,
the cold tulips of Wilde and the
vast woe Degas built
by a couple wooden tables –
these I have seen none.

But I always remember the chicken droppings
by the little fence,
the radio from the bedroom
sounded like lichen.
The wind grew white as
mother’s broom swept across the spring,
and the world stole away
during my nap.
When awake,
a wall amused me more
with its wavy ruggedness than a book.
There clearly was one year when
sounds, colors and words all whirled like dewdrops
on a sunlit gossamer.

I always dream about the lean eucalyptus on the shore,
a gray-eyed boy from the Middle Ages.
Locks of wormwood color
fondles his brow long paled by prescribed bleedings –
He struggles for life in the ocean mist,
beautiful as a yawn.

And how I wish when women express sympathy,
or when men show a sense of humor,
their teeth would fall off
one by one,
like mud drops in a rain,
so the emptiness in their mouths would finally match
the emptiness in their hearts.

-- But these images I have seen none.

As corruption would lend me no talent,
all I’m left with are:
a pale moon
a shrill fountain
a cold cat
and a silent lover.
The wind blew out the candle,
the night stayed awake.

They say that literary Romance, like all Romance
is but a wishful buzz, life
a hangover morning –
Such is the lab report on Absinthe.

The Young Rock Climber in Red

-- Song of Yosemite



’Twas a misty day and
the boy in red set out from underneath
a giant Sequoia crown.
Around his lean waist a coarse rope grasps,
the end
of which he cannot see, but along which can only –

ascend
high past the Fall
they call ‘Bridal Veil’. As in mid air he sensed
the watery fingers of the mist weaving
through pine tree tops
to reach her,
silently freeing her
of her wind-born vanity.

The Sequoia crowns have turned into dots,
drops of deep
green ink smudged the granite
cliff-edges defined by a stroke of glaciers
long, long gone.
Yet the boy is still in red.

He set out for a view of the shapeless clouds,
drifting through the world
just to rest on
Half Dome’s shoulder, they say,
where a dying sun sets her long burning glance
until it’s too weak.
And many a ghost of youth start weeping
on many a twilit creek.

Only mist ebbs and flows around
the boy in red.
Now he looks too small,
to either rise or fall.

Mosaic of Life

Tree


Heavenly bamboo stood by my door
wherever I move.
Sharp tiny leaves, spicate white flowers and the dangling red berries
are the flecks of her sun-burnt face.

I saw a peach tree the other day.
On the blackened cranky bones blooms such watery pink as
a teenage girl standing there
with rouge.

Yet the palm tree’s the last to go to sleep when
twilight comes.
With a hanging dead leaf, she touches herself repeatedly
in the ocean breeze.


Cat


If it weren’t for me
he’d be gazing at the hazy fire-flies under a
sharp crescent,
by a pond where grass grows high.
Now he’s sleeping on my lap, glancing at
my eyes.
I think of reincarnation, of its marvel and desolation.


Man


He doesn’t belong and was left
to meet her.
Life is lovely when she stops amidst a sentence
only to study his eyelashes.


Me


I open my night time window,
in flows the Gan River.
Your joke of scattering ashes there
remains in my heart.




* This poem was written after I went through Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood. The Gan River runs through my hometown, Nanchang.

Ellwood Butterfly Preserve

Butterfly

Cold keeps Eucalyptus awake

all night.

Silent giants crowded in their own shadows, waiting for

lazy morn to wake up, for her

fingers of sunrays warm and hum of breeze low

to put them at last to

sleep,

where clouds

form islands afar, ocean befogs

the mountain and leaves scatter into butterflies, all

in a gust of dream.

Yawn-borne dreams of Spring swirl as Carmen

once did. How

the edge of her skirt loud with

red and yellow sheds such

muted allure

no one awake knows.

So they swirl through many a past

life and life to come in me.

Streams of worlds bloom and fade at the

flutter of their wings.

Here's a movie I put together of the experience. Enjoy!



And a couple of more beautiful videos from youtubers with better video equipment than I have :) . . .

Kaleidoscope

A beautiful poem Sweeewawa composed on the Dr. Zhivago-inspired skating performance by the great Johnny Weir:

Kaleidoscope--for Johnny Weir



White

Everything was at a loss in this
bright new world.
A gust of wind arrived at Zhivago's window.
With the entire Moscow's snowflakes in her arms,
she flipped through the pages of his journal.

Upon the glass cast a fleeting shadow,
An angel soaring and singing
fell suddenly,
scattered to pieces.
Yet Adam did not stop
gazing up at the sky.
His hair dark,
His back lean,
Beside his bony ribs there still remains
a pair of pale white wings.




Red

Watery eyes clear and deep
stir up reflection of bliss and sorrow.
A spell of melodies lifts your arm,
while bending the waist of
a dancing soul.

The soul rests like a swan by the
ancient sea-side cliff,
inhaling the salty breeze and
stroking the damp feathers
with a peck of coral hue.




Black

I knew a tune about
youth and agony.

On the third floor of my old school building
stood an obsolete window.
I used to sit there everyday humming,
my legs dangling out of the sill.
I used to imagine leaping out whenever
a cooling breeze was coming.

I knew a tune about
magnificence and absurdity.

Woke up amidst the night,
Humming to myself I picked up
a charcoal black liner,
and a neon blue rouge.
I was painting so fastidiously
in the moonlight,
without a mirror.

Those sham and banal,
you pronounce as beauty.
True talent in your eyes,
is nothing but audacity.

I have been long abandoned by this world –
Then why bother withdrawing?
Wearing my tight black suit and
my flamboyant paint,
eyes simply shut,
I shall take a stroll in the daylight.




Epilogue

The glimmer of gold melting,
the thrust of light fleeting,
the still of a lonely night,
the quiver of a butterfly’s wings –
you expressed them one after another,
with free-flowing movements,
with ever-changing hues.

Zhivago dwelled on mishaps,
Rudin forever in exile.
Anna sought for extremes,
Asya too fragile –
You live in dreams, one joining another.
’Tis only the outermost one,
that could be woken up
by the thunderous clamor.

Lord Li's Lyrical Poems, #5

Evening makeup is ever so fresh,

when the lipstick gives her a rosy kiss.

Slightly shown is the clovelike little tongue,

as the cherry pops open,

with a spell of sweet, ripe song.


Wine stained the sleeve a crimson hue,

Grapes left the cup a mellow fume.

Chewing a scarlet puff of thread,

the languorous beauty has been leaning there for a while,

yet she suddenly spat out the pulp to her Tanlang,

with such a naughty smile.



Another love poem for his charming wife: Empress Zhou.

Among the millions of poems for beautiful women in Chinese literature, this one probably picked a most unique angle —— instead of describing her eyes, her face, her body or her dress, Lord Li’s pen simply followed the beauty’s mouth —— not a word more about anything else.

This poem is a great example of his rhetorical talent: for example, he described the tip of the beauty’s tongue as a slightly shown clove. This analogy not only left the reader a flirtatious image in such a graceful way, but also unnoticeably transcended your visual appreciation to smell —— you are not only seeing her alluring lips now, you are also smelling the aroma of fresh cloves, as the scent comes out with her sweet words.

Yet the most impressing thing is, the poet managed to capture a moving sense of beauty from the lady’s lips ——

Instead of putting her lipstick on, the lipstick gives her a rosy kiss;

Instead of opening her mouth and sing a song, her mouth, like a ripe cherry, burst open with a spell of song;

And the wine dyed her sleeve crimson, and the grape lent her cup fume… It is those details that had brought movements and life to the poem.

While a mediocre poet does his best to adorn the reality, a genius poet creates his reality. He touches scenes that would’ve appeared so lame in our eyes with a magic wand, and turn them into living beauty.

The last scene is so charming —— the beauty, languidly leaning against her bed, suddenly spat out the chewed up thread in her mouth towards her lover, referred to as Tanlang.

Tanlang is the nickname of a famous poet and calligrapher in Chinese history. Legend says that the young poet was so handsome, that when he went out hunting, thousands of young ladies in the entire city would gather around following his horse, tossing cherries and other fruits towards his carriage in hope to get one glance from him. (…the 2000 years ago version of Beatlemania, I guess…)

Another talented poet decided to be the copy cat, and rode around the city dressed like he was going for hunting as well. Unfortunately, this dude was an ugly fellow, and merely attracted a bunch of laughing kids throwing eggs and rocks to his head…(^_^)

From then on, the word “Tanlang” has been used by girls to address their lovers, or dreamlovers. Lord Li here used “Tanlang” to refer to himself. He did not use this reference just once either. In fact, this very reference appeared a few more times in his latter works. As we know, narcissistism exists among most artists.

—— “yet she suddenly spat out the pulp to her Tanlang, with such a naughty smile.”

This last line captured all the cuteness of the young Empress when she was tipsy and naughty, as while as lending you a vivid glimpse of their ten-year long sweet, lovie-dovie marriage.


(The painting above was done to depict the night life of one of Lord Li's ministers: Han Xizai. After Han had repeatedly missed early-morning audiences with the emperor, Lord Li was curious about what he was up to and sent some court painters to "spy" on him. Thus came the famous painting: Night Revels of Han Xizai, stored now in the Forbidden Palace Museum in Beijing.)

Lord Li's Lyrical Poems, #4

The Fisherman


1.

Thousands of rumpus waves azure

on the deck become a snow shower.

Yet down by the river a row of peach and bay

allege Spring in their tranquil way.


Wine in the jar,

line on the reel,

to trade this for anything else in the world,

would be an unsound deal.


2.

Like a leaf the boat drifts,

on a breeze the oar rests.

And the barely visible line,

through a puny hook it threads.


Flowers spread on the shore afar,

Wine joggles in the bottomless jar.

The path of freedom is hereby paved,

miles and miles on the endless waves.




In the collection of historic biographies written in the Song Dynasty (~ 1200 A.D), Lord Li’s life started as follows:

Lord Li, the sixth son of King Li Jing, was born dubbed dikoros. Handsome and talented, he was favored by his father from an early age. His extraordinary gift in literature extended itself into the fields of painting, calligraphy and music as well.

The young prince was born dubbed dikoros —— two pupils in one iris. This was the very first legend about him among many that were to follow in his short and mysterious life. Dubbed dikoros may be due to a normal variant that is extremely uncommon in human beings. One of the first Emperors in Chinese history, Shun, was said to be dubbed dikoros. Interestingly, Alexandre the Great and Anastasios the First from the Byzantine Empire were believed to be dubbed dikoros as well. Dubbed dikoros in more than one culture, because of its rareness and mystery, had long been viewed as an omen for Kingship.

What’s more, at the age of 18, Lord Li was engaged to the Prime Minister’s elder daughter, Zhou (later on referred to as Empress Zhou). Zhou’s nickname, Er Huang, happened to be the same as the name of Shun’s legendary wife.

Every omen seemed to be hinting that Lord Li, the sixth prince, was the one chosen by God for the Crown. Yet the truth was, the Royal Crown was one of the last things Lord Li had ever wanted.

For various reasons, King Li Jing appointed his younger brother, instead of his oldest son Prince Hong Ji as the crown prince. This aroused deep grudge between the two Princes.

Prince Hong Ji was a war hero and had served in the army for more than 20 years. The four younger princes after him all died of illnesses during their early childhood, and Lord Li was the very next one in line. Because of his born extraordinary look —— dubbed dikoros, and the excessive fondness he received from their Emperor father, Lord Li lived in the shadow of jealousy and suspicion from his older brother throughout his teenage life.

The young prince’s devotion to art and poetry might not have been completely voluntary. While he was, by nature, predisposed to art, Lord Li’s dream of being a hermit (as he referred himself as the ‘hermit in the palace’ in many of his works) and his deep resentment towards Politics was very likely due to the hardship he had to go through as a member of the royal family.

After all, it might have been his very disinterest in the crown that made him the only survivor during the merciless power struggles in Li’s family.

The two poems on the fisherman were written by Lord Li on a famous piece of painting, “Fisherman by the river in Spring” at the age of 20, when he was still a prince. The painting was brought to Lord Li for entitlement by the artist. Tradition had been that the person asked to entitle an artwork would usually leave a few lines in the corner. Thus came these two short poems.

In Chinese history, many a famous hermit made their living by fishing. Thus the image of a fisherman strongly suggests a hermitic lifestyle in literature works. There has not been a single word left by Lord Li that expressed his disapproval on his brother and uncle’s way of living openly. Yet the deep and eager craving for escaping from the Palace into a carefree world that leaked out from most of his early works betrayed him. A sensitive and innocent soul by nature, he was stifled almost to death in the palace, a place to which he did not belong.

Lord Li’s resentment towards Politics reached its peak at the age of 22, when his uncle, the crown prince of Nan Tang was poisoned to death by his elder brother, Prince Hong Ji. Prince Hong Ji himself died in that same year of a “sudden illness” as put by the history writers.

In 961, King Li Jing passed away. Lord Li, the 24 year old prince ascended to his enthronement. The mysterious omen of Kingship from his dubbed dikoros in early childhood eventually turned itself into reality. The responsibility of a King fell upon his shoulders —— the shoulders of the one whose only dream was to be a hermetic poet, with wine in the jar, line on the reel, idling his way in a long Spring day.


(The painting on top of the page was done by one of my favourite artists, Ni Zan, in Yuan Dynasty. I used it as an illustration for the one Lord Li signed on, as the two pieces belong to the same style and had a common theme. The original painting, 'Fisherman by the River in Spring' with Lord Li's handwriting on the top was among one of the numerous precious art pieces in his Royal Art Gallery that was burnt into ashes during the fall of the Kingdom of Nan Tang.)

Lord Li's Lyrical Poem, #3

This is a poem on Autumn. Some say that Lord Li wrote this for his first queen, Empress Zhou. The lines follow her from early in the morning, as she did her hair, to late at night that day, as she sleeplessly sat by the window making sighs.

Empress Zhou was a famous beauty at her time. She was engaged to Lord Li when they were both at the age of 18, she died at the age of 28. She was an extraordinarily good Pipa player and dancer, an expert on perfume making and was very interested in poetry as well. Their 10 years of marriage left us many a uniquely touching love poem. This is believed to be one of them.

But some commentators claim, that by describing the sleepless beauty, the poet was actually expressing his own worry and upset. The poem was written shortly after his enthronement in 962, when Southern China under his reign was facing severe military threats from the north, as well as numerous economic and political problems from within.

There had been a long tradition of using the image of a beauty to express the writer's own feelings and thoughts in Chinese literature. It is highly likely that Lord Li here did the same thing. He was an unmatchably talented poet and musician, yet he was barely competent as a politician, let alone a ruler. The passive attitude of avoiding the troubles and hiding into his own creative world comes up again and again in his works.

This romantic detour from reality inspired many of his famous poems, while leading to the fall of his Kingdom in the end.


Through your thick hair a jade pin goes by,

like a spindle,

weaving together the dark clouds in the sky.

You put on a light colored shirt,

and a thin silk skirt.

You paint your eyebrows dusky brown,

those gentle curves,

for some reason they always frown.


Across the thin bamboo curtain,

whistles the Autumn wind,

on the wide banana leaves,

echoes the Autumn rain.

And the raindrops trickle on,

throughout the sleepless night.

While all you can do my love,

is sitting by the cold window,

with a long and faint sigh.

Lord Li's Lyrical Poem, #2

:), Thanks, Dr. Kowawa:)

Here comes another one——


Fair as snow right after their evening makeup,

The court ladies swirl in and line up.

Flute’s melody echoes afar,

through clouds and wind it travels with ease,

Pipa sings tirelessly,

stanza after stanza with unprecedented beats.


Who is standing by the wind,

scattering the fragrant powder?

Tipsy with endless moods,

your finger taps gently on the baluster.

As the horse shoes step into the bottomless night,

the moon unveils her luminous mirror.

So put away the the candles with golden stands,

'tis the quiet moonlight

what I truly want to treasure.

Lord Li's collection of poems

Today Ms. Kowawa decided to take on a new task: to translate Lord Li's poems one by one in a chronological order into English.

Lord Li (Li Yu), 937-978, was one of the greatest poets in Chinese history. I wrote an introductory essay about his life a couple weeks ago. The essay can be found in the blog.

Lord Li's works were closely tied to his life, which can be seperated into mainly 3 parts: birth-age 25, Prince; Age 25-40, King; and age 40-41, prisoner.

This poem was written before his enthronement. Vividly describing a morning dance party , it casts a light on his earlier life as a worry-free young prince.



While the sun rises high above,

aroma from incense cones slowly wakes up.

The carpet of red silk wrinkles,

as she walks up step by step.


The gold hairpin slips in a swirl dance,

The scent of flower buds drives away the tipsiness.

Flute and drum’s fainting sound,

from other palaces it echoes around.

John Hartford

The song of the day comes from an album my sister recommended -- John Hartford's Aero-Plain. Love this instrumental track, and the whole album is making my Step 2 CS studying a little more tolerable . . .

Song of the Day: Presbyterian Guitar - John Hartford

Quote of the Day:

There's music in the sighing of a reed,
There's music in the gushing of a rill,
There's music in all things, if men had ears,
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

-- Lord Byron

Thought of the Day: It's cool that China and the USA are both in a way winning the Olympics right now. China counts # of golds, and it is the clear winner in that respect, whereas US pays more attention to # of medals, of which it has more. It's good for this multi-national household which is cheering for both nations!

Ode to Melancholy ----- the Story of Lord Li

Li Yu (936-978), known as the "Lord Li", among the countless number of renowned poets and writers in the 3000 years of Chinese civilization, is my favourite one.

He was born during the time of civil wars, when China was divided into mainly 3 parts: the North, ruled by the Song Dynasty, the West, ruled by the Shu Dynasty, and the South, which covered the richest provinces both economicwise and culturewise in the country, Tang Dynasty. Li Yu, the prince of Tang Dynasty, ascended to the throne at the age of 22. Both his father and grandfather's royal tombs are still in my hometown, JiangXi, and he himself loved spending summers in Lu Shan, where one of his villas still lies.

Li Yu has been considered as the first true master of Chinese lyrical poems. Before him, lyrical poems existed as a sugary hip-pop form of literature, used mainly as love song lyrics for Geisha's performances. Li Yu was the first one to express his own feelings, thoughts, philosophy, love and pain using the form of lyrical poems, and he did it with words that are so natural, so fluently and effortlessly arranged---as if improsvised on the spot---yet so deeply moving and thought provoking, that he brought this form of literature to life. He single-handedly changed the lyrical poem from being the toy of singsong girls to being a serious art which was to dominate the Chinese literature world for the 800 years that followed.

On the other hand, his poems gave you such a vivid sense of flowing music with melodies and pauses created by his ingenious arrangements of rhymes and structures, that no other poems were preferred over his by the singsong girls as well.

Asides from the talent in literature, he was also a famous brush painter, calligraphor, Gu qin player, and book collector. There were over 20,0000 rare books in the palace of Tang, each one picked by his own eyes and notated with his own handwriting.

Lord Li was also deeply interested in the philosophy of Zen and Buddhism. He spent vast amount of time and money inviting Zen masters from all over the country for talks as well funding their endless tours and temples.

In 977, The Dynasty of Tang was defeated by the North and China was united. Most of Lord Li's collections of books and paintings were burnt down in a fire set by himself---He had planned to die with his works and pride at the news of "enemy at the gates". Before doing so, he sent away all his concubines and servants to run for their own lives, instead of making them his Majesty's sacrificial objects as the tradition at his time suggested. The only person who stayed with him was his beloved queen---Empress Zhou.

Suicide requires enormous courage, a thing this sensitive artist probably lacked. Lord Li, at the age of 39, became the prisoner of the Emperor of Song. He had to move to the North now. He was put on a boat and left his hometown, Nanking, once and for good.

Lord Li quickly received enough pain and humiliation to make one question whether a suicide earlier would have been the wiser choice ---- locked up in a small yard with his wife and a few servants, he had to dress up as a servent to wait on the Song Emperor whenever a banqeut came up, his beautiful queen was often called in by the Song Emperor for "chats" and sent back after midnight, when all he could do was sitting in his small jail-like home, drunk, waiting for her to come back.

It was during this time, when he composed some of his most famous poems. Writing was the only world left for him to hide into. This personal pain of his moved millions of souls to tears in the 1000 years to come. Nietzsche once said: Among all the words, I only love those written in blood.

Lord Li, in this sense, is indeed a lovable writer.

July 7, 978 was Chinese traditional Valentine's day. It was also Lord Li's birthday. He composed a short lyrical poem, which, in a veiled manner, lamented on the loss his country. He was drunk, and asked a singsong girl to sing this poem for him. The music spread to the nearby Palace of Song, and the lyrics offended the Emperor.Lord Li was bestowed a poisonous cup of wine which ended his 41 years of legendary life.

He was posthumously created the Prince of South by the Song Emperor. His queen committed suicide two months afterwards. And that, was the story of Lord Li.

Here comes his last poem, the one for which he unreluctantly paid his life.




Ode to Melancholy


On pedals and leaves the moon gently cast,

her endless calls for the past.

East wind sighs on and on,

alluring you with sweet memories

of the desolate hometown.


Carved balustrates and jade steps

still await thither,

'twas only your own youth

that silently withered.


How long of a way does melancholy go?

Just like a river,

to the east it forever flows.



Sweewawa

Will Be Free

Here is a poem I wrote about a patient I encountered while on my Internal Medicine rotation:

Will Be Free

William whose big eyes see the sky
Looked for beauty low and high
Growing up in Mary’s land
He searched, was found by heroin

Thus began the tale of ‘prisonment
The lady lured him with her scent
And made him come to her sweet call
But William flew above it all

The fangs dug deep and drew his blood
The poisonous venom with humors entered
And as he opened wings to soar
A virus chained him down once more

William broke the chains and fled
And breathed fresh air and tasted bread
But then the law caught up with him
And placed him back in bonds again

He thought a lot within his pen
Two months and he’d be free again
And hopes once more took root and grew
But illness knocked him down anew

In guarded room in the E.D.
I met him, did my H & P
As those big eyes looked up at me
I saw him yearning to be free

On the wards he lay there sick
Seemed unfazed by his poor luck
Stoicly he bore the weight
But worsening illness was his fate

The blood flowed free like he could not
Into his brain it formed a clot
Though shackles were no longer there
He could not move, could only stare

Before the dawn I rap the door
Find him staring as before
His eyes move when I call his name
Please blink if you’re in any pain

After great deliberation
We have switched to palliation
William we have done our best
Now it's time for you to rest

Dear William as you look at me
I know you that you will soon be free
Free from the ills and free from prison
Upon god's grace you’ll fly to heaven