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I Run my Carriage through the High East Gate
(From the Chinese: Anonymous, 1st / 2nd centuries BC)

I run my carriage through the high East Gate
and see, afar, the grave-mounds by the northern wall
…white poplars whisper desolate and drear
and pine trees line the whole expanse of road…
Beneath are the dead of elder times.
In the dark beyond, arrived at the longest night.
In hidden sleep beneath the barren earth,
a thousand years, and they will never wake.
In a never-ending tale, the cosmic cycles shift;
a life’s duration’s as the morning dew.
A human life is like a short sojourn;
it lacks the fixedness of metal or of stone.
Ten thousand years may come and go again;
the wise and wealthy cannot vie with them.
With philtres and with potions some seek ‘life’,
but many suffer poisoning through such means.
Better be it by far to drink good wine,
And dress in garments silken, white, and fine.

Note: Line 1, ‘carriage’: The ancient Chinese carriage was typically a lightweight vehicle drawn by a single animal. It might be open (chariot-fashion, and on certain occasions sporting a  large, fixed, shallow-pitched umbrella), or more often enclosed by an open-work wooden box-frame and fabric canopy. The two, spoked wheels were high (large in diameter), often with substantial, heavily-straked felloes and rims. This type, of which examples survive, persisted into the twentieth century.

Line 7: ‘the barren earth’ has, for a Western audience, been substituted for the original ‘the Yellow Springs’ (= the ancient Chinese Netherworld).

Lines 10 and 11: ’a life’s duration’s as the morning dew. / A human life is like a short sojourn;’  –  a universal theme which has, naturally, often been treated with in literature, ancient and modern. A well-known example from 7th century Europe is the story which, according to Baeda / ‘Bede’ (Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation) was supposed to have been told by a counsellor of King Edwin of Northumbria at the Synod of Whitby in 664CE, in which the life of man, compared to all that comes before and which continues after, is likened to the swift flight of a sparrow from out of the winter night at one end of the king’s fire-warmed mead-hall and directly out into the vast cold night again at the other. The name ‘Bede’ I take to be something of a literary conceit in order to elevate the venerated cleric in the Latin fashion (as in Livius = ‘Livy’, and Plinius = ‘Pliny’). 


Those Passed Away Fade Day by Day
(From the Chinese: Anonymous, 1st / 2nd centuries BC)

Those passed away fade day by day.
Those with us day by day feel closer.
Through the city gate the immediate view
is solely one of mounds; of burial mounds;
of ancient tombs ploughed into fields;
of pine and cypress axed for their wood.
White poplars rustling in the wind…
their constant sighing, a sadness that kills.
I long to return to my old village home.
I long to return, but there is no road.

Note: This is essentially a continuation of the previous poem. In lines 1 and 2, the fading away and the feeling of closeness refer to the inevitable lessening and strengthening of past and present in personal relationships. There is a similarity, from another perspective, in Sam. Johnson (Rasselas, Ch.XXXV): ‘Distance has the same effect on the mind as on the eye, and while we glide along the stream of time, whatever we leave behind us is always lessening, and that which we approach increasing in magnitude’.


The Weary Road Sequence
(From the Chinese of Pao Chao, ?421-?465AD)

Haven’t you seen how the riverside grass
will wither in winter, and how it will die –
but in spring will envelop the road?
And haven’t you seen how the sun on the wall
will decline and then vanish completely each evening –
yet each morning appears again?
Now how can we get what is best in our time?
Once gone we are gone, forever and ever, to enter
through one set of Gates or the other.
Life offers much anguish, but is meagre with gladness;
and only in youth are we full of its zeal.
So to get what is best make firm friends, and retain
enough cash at your bedside for wine day by day.
Recording one’s ilk on bamboo or silk
should not be our foremost endeavour.
As for life, or for death, disappointment, success –
just leave the whole business to Heaven.

Note: Lines 8 and 9: ‘to enter / through one set of Gates or the other’
has, for a Western audience, been substituted for an original phrase    
in the Chinese which I cannot at present locate in my notes – but the
sense is maintained.


Lives
(From the Chinese of Ts’ao Ts’ao, 155-220 AD)

The wise old tortoise might live long,
but in the end must die;
and dragons, through time’s mists, rise up –
but dragons too must turn to dust.

Yet in his stall the ancient steed
will dream of miles to go.
And heroes, though their end is near,
show grit, and face the foe.

And all that we would wish to attain
runs not to Heaven’s decree:
for strength of spirit, heart and mind
bring worth that seems to transcend time.

Note: Ts’ao-Ts’ao (155-220 AD) was the ruler of the kingdom of Wei. This type of poem is from the transitional phase between that derived from the oral / folk tradition and that of the literati. The final two lines are not an especially exact rendering of the Chinese characters, but one which in a case of particular translational difficulty retains both their sense and spirit.


Gold-threaded Garments
(From the Chinese: Attributed to Du Ch’iu Niang, early 9th century AD)

I caution you – don’t value greatly
clothes of woven gold.
I counsel you to cherish more
the hours of your youth.
When flowers bloom they may be picked,
and should be, straight away.
Don’t wait until the bloom has passed,
and just an empty stem remains.


The Contentment of Solitude
(From the Chinese: Anonymous, c.600BC)

By my rough wooden door
I take ease as I please.
By this rippling spring,
though hungry, I’m free.
Why must we, for dinner,
have bream from the river?
And in choosing a wife
seek a trophy to woo?

Note: This example of early old-style poetry, which has had differing interpretations, is from the Shijing (The Book of Songs), ‘Airs of the States’, No.138. It has been slightly simplified for a modern audience, and to avoid a good deal of characteristic repetition has been condensed from three four-line stanzas to a single stanza of eight lines. It is an early representative of the theme of Eremetism / Solitude / Reclusion.


To Cheer Oneself
(From the Chinese of Lo Yin, 833-909AD)

When things are good I sing, carefree;
when things go wrong, I stop.
And there’s many and many a sad thing
to keep me in sorrowful thought.
But today I drink. And today I get drunk.
If tomorrow’s wine brings sorrow –
then let it be for tomorrow.


From ‘Beneath the Silver River: Translations of Classical Chinese Poetry’

Adversity

I’ve tried to look at it
in a number of
different ways,
but it seems to me
that life is one
long continuous struggle
against bastardry.
I wish I didn’t
have to think of it
like this,
but they’re there,
everywhere,
peeping from behind
their Berlin Walls
and juggling us
other poor buggers
around.
I don’t want to
kick against the pricks,
as the prophet says,
but I don’t want to be
kicked around.
And all the bastards
seem to be wearing
big boots.
I don’t want to
make a fuss,
and I don’t want
to be a martyr:
I just want to
get on with it,
and quietly.
But it really is
a game sometimes
of Jesus Christ,
or Cool Hand Luke,
or Jack flapping over a
cuckoo’s nest.
Might even be a hand of
Butch and Sundance
or the Great Unwashed 
Not-nice Brigade,
for all I know.
I’ve tried to look at it
in a number of
different ways,
but
the unicorn evils do
run you through,
and it is
hard to dance
with a devil on your back.


Fantaseuphoria

I want to be
a busker  –
put a tambourine
around myself
get rid of
the clutter of life
sell the wife
tell the boss
to stuff his job
to hell with
the mortgage
on the dog just
get a drum and
strap it on my back
and go to town  –
hum a tune
jump up and down
hail a crowd of
people round
listen to the ring
of cash against
my soul
the wail
of my harmonica
the clash of cymbals
round my heart
and let it sing
in a one-man
freedom band
and let it play.
Thank God for
troubadours,
I say.

(From ‘Musings on the Merry-go-Round: A Medley of Verse for us Riders of the Earth’)


Note: I suppose that most of us must have gone through a period in our lives when all the odds, for various reasons, seemed stacked against us, and we felt like bucking against the whole damn system in which we found ourselves ensnared and/or victimized – in any way that we could. ‘Adversity’, is what emerged from such a period, a long time ago, for me. Writing it gave me some relief, and later I was able to look back on that bad time and laugh, especially over having exacted a measure of retribution which served to very much balance the scales. (A discreet triumph; when you have beaten the system, you must keep quiet about it). The piece itself caused chortles, too, among others who read it, colleagues who had shared that time with me and given me their sympathy and support. The second poem, ’Fantaseuphoria’ is vaguely related, but is a wholly ‘spur of the moment’ reaction to the daily humdrum – crystalized in a flash and given direction in a flight of fancy (‘What am I doing here? I should grow long hair and beard, and be off painting ladders to the stars!’) There is a decided mischievousness about the seventh line, no need to add).

I remember clearly the exact situation which gave rise to the feelings which resulted in ‘Fantaseuphoria’. The scene? The oak-panelled, chandeliered ground-floor gallery of a mansion in Westphalia, northern Germany, commandeered at the end of WWII (as were a host of other select properties) by the British Army of the Rhine; this residence, built during Germany’s 19th century Imperial period, served the area as its Garrison Officers’ Mess. It was a magnificent old building of grey stone in an idyllic setting – and is the same which features also in ‘View from a Window’ in the list of poems to the right of your screen. Yes, it was  a bitter evening in the Winter of ’74; inside all was warm, brightly-lit, and Christmassy; outside, where the street lamps wavered like spirit lights behind a lattice of branches, snowflakes the size of Smith’s Crisps were floating gently earthward…

Dinner had finished over an hour ago, and I had just come down again after doing a little reading in my room. As I descended the open stairway to the long ground-floor gallery, I noticed that there was an unusual amount of hubbub (it was normally pretty quiet down there). There came waves of assent and bursts of laughter. Some dozen resident officers were seated or standing around a circular card-table at the far end of the room, and the conversation there was dominated, I saw, by a newcomer, an RAMC (Medical Corps) Major. He was a robust, silver-haired man of about fifty years, and was engaging all-comers with his flamboyant talk. Next to him, on the table lay a pack of cards, and I guessed he had been entertaining those gathered round with card tricks. I joined the melée, and stood among the onlookers, a little to his left. After just a few moments it became evident that I was listening to a ‘Glamorgan boy’. All that he talked about I cannot remember, now, but that it made me smile a lot and exchange glances with the others. One detail in all of this has remained quite vividly in my mind, and that is that as he talked he held in his hand a book – a paperback – with which he emphasized his words, now waving it this way and that in front of him, now pointing it toward the particular person to whom he was making a point. Then he slapped it down on the table, and I saw that it was a cheap novel of the pulp-fiction kind (like the ‘Weird Tales’, etc., magazines which once enjoyed popularity). On its cover was a picture of a woman in a backless dress. It was black. She was slumped over a roulette wheel; and protruding from her back was a dagger. At that moment prim Neddy Armitage, the only other Mess member who was Welsh (although you would have never guessed it in a million years) suitably horrified at the quality of this invasive reading material, grimaced and shot me a glance of disapproval. But who was this newcomer? He had not been at dinner. This, ladies and gentlemen,  was Major Jac Davies, Cardiffian extraordinary, and reserve army doctor currently engaged on a short tour of duty of the area’s medical facilities and quartered in our Mess for that night only.

The group broke up, and I introduced myself to Major Jac as a native of Wales’ rugby capital. We had hardly exchanged more than a few words when I realized that unusual activity was going on around us; there was a bustle as tables were drawn aside and chairs were being arranged in rows. ‘What’s going on?’ I muttered. ‘Don’t you know?’ said  Major Jac, ‘There’s a show on here tonight’. (He knew, of course!). And sure enough, within ten minutes the musicians entered with all their gear – two young men and a young woman, and took their position at the end of the room. Major Jac motioned to me, and led the way to the stairway, where we sat down on the sixth or seventh step, with a commanding view of the scene. Pretty soon the steps below were occupied too, with a small scattering above us.

The two young fellows were drummer and guitarist; the girl (I say ‘girl’ quite comfortably as she could hardly have been more than about nineteen or so) was the vocalist. I recall that she was an attractive, long-haired redhead wearing black jeans and a white top. ‘Oooh, look at her… ‘  murmured Major Jac at my side. The band struck up. I recall that the singer, at an early stage, stopped singing to cast an impatient look at the drummer, whose playing had evidently inhibited her style, but on they went, and it was very enjoyable to listen to; there were a couple of Joan Baez numbers in the repertoire. Again, Major Jac murmured ‘Look at her… ‘,  leaning across and asking me ‘Do you know she?’ the grammar of which puzzled me until he added ‘She’, by Charles Aznavour?’ It was a fairly recent release; I said that I had heard it. ‘What a song!’ he said, ‘She…’. When the show ended the crowd broke up. Major Jac excused himself, and I wandered about, mingling to chat about the performance with the odd knot of friends. After some minutes I noticed Major Jac in earnest conversation with the redhead, eliciting a long series of hearty giggles from her until she eventually couldn’t help collapsing like a sheaf of corn into a big bear-hug. How does he do it? I wondered. Anyway, the band departed; it was late, and within a short while everyone climbed the wooden hill. As I climbed into bed in my garret at the top of the house, I thought what a lad this Major Jac was. He was there at breakfast the next morning, and after many a bonhomous word between two compatriots at table we shook hands warmly before each went his way. And so ended my personal acquaintance with Jac the Lad.

On a hot summer’s day about eight months later I was home in Wales, watching TV over a snack. Switching channels, I stopped to look at one of those ‘police’ type programmes. The subject was domestic murders. The lady interviewer was uncharacteristically smiling rather a lot, I thought, considering the seriousness of the discussion. Then the camera switched to the interviewee, and I could scarcely believe my eyes – it was Major Jac! Completely relaxed, leaning back in a comfy chair and now in civilian clothes, of course. I had caught only the last few minutes of the programme, during which Jac the Lad took from a table at his side one of those broad-bladed kitchen knives, the kind we use for carving the Christmas turkey. He held it up, saying to the interviewer ‘This is the knife commonly used in most domestic murders’. Then he turned to face the camera, and said, with the dead-pan, infectious humour and that almost imperceptible glint in his eye which had incited myself and so many others to more than a smile that night in the Mess the previous winter,  ‘If I had known this years ago, I would have invested in this company’.

The Tambard and the Maricet
(Araleyn’s Song)

The tambard wore Rohalion’s crown
where wide and deep the Anvar wound
through farm and village rich with kine
to seas beyond them, silverine.

In Xanthace sat the maricet
in broad estate and land bedecked
in soils and sunshine where the vine
embraced the Forest Ylandine.

And these two things beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.

The tambard royal nightly played
to lords and princes rich arrayed,
captains renowned on land and sea
in arts of puissance, valiancy.

Noble, the maricet, designed
for lords and ladies high refined,
skilled in all philosophy,
art-exquisite in courtesy.

and these two things beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.

The tambard’s note was sunlit streams
clear and bright, yet brushed with dreams
of stars upon the midnight sea,
upon the waves, eternally.

The maricet dropped notes of dew
in morning grass. Who heard them knew
the secret of the winds; could see
unknown and fragile ecstasy.

And these two things beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.

Rohalion lauds the maricet;
in Xanthace, the tambard is well met.
Such beauty must truly, by consent,
not vie in art, but complement.

Together, they beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.


Remembering the Autumn Skirmish
(Softfoot’s long ride home)

The snow falls still;
white on the plain,
the plain, white
with snow.

The leaves fell then;
red on the road,
the road, red
with leaves.

The snow falls,
white on the skin;
The skin,
white like snow.

And blood fell too
from hearts strong and brave;
from hearts brave and young
fell blood long ago.

The snow drives
hard on the hill.
Imprisoned is the hill
by still falling snow.

And tears fell warm
on long flowing tresses;
dressed were the tresses
in warm falling tears.

The snow drives
hard against my heart.
Engulfed is my heart
by the still falling snow.

For my heart fell then
among the red leaves.
Among the red leaves,
for my friends, long ago.

The snow fills the world
hard and cold like my heart.
Hard and cold is the world,
like my heart, from the snow.

But rain will fall soon
fresh from the heavens;
and the world will be leavened
by the good, falling rain.


The Lure of the Naiad
(Being the First Part of ‘My Pallid Queen’)

‘Twas in the brook Lieti
I first beheld my lady;
she gazed upon the waters
           running green.

Her kirtle held she to her thighs,
and dreamland’s mists were in her eyes
as gazed she at the freshet
           flowing free.

She was a sprite, a slender reed,
a graceful water bird, I deemed,
an airy nymph, this maid
           upon the stream.

A faery vision pale, and all
my lifelong hopes were hers in thrall
that moment, when I saw her
           in the stream.

The water plashing those fair limbs
pronounced she knew no earthly sin;
and all the world as innocent
           as she.

And as I held her face, her form,
I knew her holy as the dawn
that smiles upon the earth
           afresh and clean.

In her I saw all women fair,
all tenderness, all love, all care,
the sum of all that maidenhood
           could mean.

I moved a mite so she would note
this wan and callow youth’s approach,
and prayed that breath would not
           disturb the dream.

And as my glance about her played
she shook her hair to disarray,
and lowered eyes, and smiled
           upon the stream.

Oh! Dare I cross the water green,
to see her close, to touch my queen?
(Her lovely eyes uplifted
           from the stream.)

My pounding heart, my breathing taut
betrayed my feelings, as I sought
to stand among the ripples
           at her knee.

And O, the glory when that gaze
lit to my eyes, and I, amazed,
flushed o’er and mumbled words
           as in a dream.

I wound her in a shy embrace,
and placed my palms about her face;
her kirtle fell awash
           amid the stream…


From ‘The Lost Manuscripts’

Saramine
(Thus she remained, always, in the mind of Torcebrand)

And I would watch you brush
your fair, long hair,
that sleek fair hair which fell
down past your waist and, from behind you,
see it kiss the velvet skin
about your hips. How it would part
and coalesce with each stroke of the brush,
and I would listen to the sound,
the silky, rustling sweep,
all but inaudible, as that brush
would journey with repeated, swift insistence,
yet meet with such a shy, negligible resistance…
And in the looking-glass you’d catch my eye
and smile, and that would say
you knew just why I watched and could divine
what I was thinking.
You were so right.

And though you’re here no more
your brush still rests upon your shelf,
laid there by you, soft bristles everlastingly inclined,
shaped by those bewitching strokes of long ago.


Saraduen’s Song

Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one’s eyes;
light
as the sea-borne breeze
his touch for mine.
Should years roll by
I love him
and waves roll by
I love him…
Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one’s eyes.

Higher than highest
stars of night
my loved one’s trust;
long,
that the sea-girt bight
should turn to dust.
Should years flow by
I love him
and winds blow by
I love him…
Higher than highest
stars of night
my loved one’s trust.

Stronger than strongest
winter tide
my loved one’s faith;
firm
that horizons wide
would bend and break.
Should years go by
I love him
and dreams may die
I love him…
Stronger than strongest
winter tide
my loved one’s faith.

Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one’s eyes;
light as the sea-borne breeze
his touch for mine.
Though years roll by
I love him,
and waves roll by
above him…
Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one lies.

From ‘The Lost Manuscripts’

The Wakened Rose
(Nemõné’s Song)

She awoke to the night,
walked the darkened room,
in the light of the moon
set a hand to her cheek.
Tears shed in sleep
lay wet on her face,
and she strove to recover
the dream – again to find
that vanished vision
of her mind.
‘Come, sit we where the roses glow’.
No more. No more remained.
What could she make of it?
The dream had flown.
‘Come, sit we where the roses glow’:
that sole refrain in place of it…
and the redolence of roses
at the window. Her hand reached out –
one faded flower fell in petals
at her feet. She took its heart,
and held it in her palm.
The heart remained, complete.
And calmed, she knew.
One morning, slow to dawn,
every rose would stay a rose,
and not become a thorn.


Seasons with my Lady
(Senerys’ Elegy for Nemõné)

I loved you
and you pitied me
for loving you so much.
I touched you
and you came to me
not trembling at the touch.
I kissed you
and you honoured me
as paper honours pen…
I watched you,
and you smiled at me –
and loved a little, then.
And only then I read your heart.
In its pages I could see
a calendar of quiet pain
had marked your days with me.
And only when I read your heart
and quiet seasons passed,
you loved me – and I pitied you
for loving me at last.

From ‘The Lost Manuscripts’

The grass grows long among the graves
but paths have been beaten between, narrow and rank,
like animal trails, trodden by those respectful souls
who have searched and pacified in parts
islands in that encroaching overgrowth of green.
How well I know each carven name
upon the older stones – a face, each one, to me.
And I despise the stubborn grass,
allowed to grow so wild; am saddened
by so many stones left listing, cracked,
or ivy grown, protective railings
rusted through, sagging on their sunken plots
where thorns and nettles thrive,
and saplings, too, reach down their desecrating roots
to test what lies beneath the soil.
Brambles clamber over some; luxuriant berries
gleam in autumn sun – but no-one picks from here.
And everything succumbs.
Some older headstones have been hauled away
and lean against the chapel wall;
I pause. I put a face to each. I knew them all.
But oh, they’ve faded year by year… become forgotten,
and I feel that I myself am out of place, have been – mislaid.
Black marble, new, shines here and there,
with crisp incisions, rounded metal lids
like colanders, with holes for flowers; surrounds of
scattered calcite glisten white,
laid there to keep away the weeds, but were,
in days no longer here, sought keenly by
marauding teams of boys intent on scavenging
for five prize pieces, each of a chosen size
with which they’d play their ancient game.
I have quietly approached quite close, and halted
at their side; looked on. But never a need to say a word.
They would stand and stare with frightened eyes
and scatter like small birds.
They come no more. What fun in stones?
Perhaps, these days, they’ve more substantial toys.
I stand in the gap in the graveyard wall, where the stones
have tumbled down, and look along the grey back lane
to slate roofs stretching out for miles…
my up-and-down, my terraced town, with the
sleeping hills beyond. But it changes,
changes, year by year, in ways I cannot understand.
Not many walk the narrow lane these days.
I’ve heard it said by those that do there’s ‘something about’
this old back lane flanked by the graveyard wall,
some ‘presence’ hereabouts. I smile.
In all the bygone years I’ve encountered no such thing.
But superstition will abound.
When the wind blew chill one winter day
and snow lay heavy on the graves, I sought
the chapel’s sanctuary. And in the dark interior
ran my hand where the light fell weak
upon the pulpit’s wood, the old oak box
from which – how long, how long ago? – I’d sermonised.
My empty old oak box…
The heavy doors of my retreat were suddenly pushed wide.
Snow sped through and in the gloom
two women bearing pail and broom stopped dead;
they stared; they blanched; their buckets clashed upon the tiles
as they sought each other’s hands.
I wondered what could cause such fright, and turned round in surprise.
The empty flatness of the wall. No more.
And none stood there but I.

From ‘Journeys in Time’

Ewozzaspan ishnei tovowld
oozorswoz sordaboni.
Izlan swozrusti anizelm,
anewoz Donkey Hotey.

From ‘Of Poetry and Song’

Whatever, then.
The birds will still be busy by the window,
the grass still grow too fast along the path;
within it and above small things
will chirp and flutter, and on the twigs
young buds will form and break.
The Goppa will remain aspiring skyward
(and cheeky, leaping downward, Nant-yr-Allt )
with fields that fasten close, and blackthorn
scrambling up it; and silly sheep will wander
on its sides. And the ancient wind
will whisper by them always, and sun or stars
look down upon them all. The east
will still be where it was this morning,
and evening rose and gold lie in the west.
Whatever, these will be the same as always –
and nothing else will matter, will it, then?

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

A Farming Family
(From the Chinese of Fan Ch’ang-ta, 1126-1193AD)

In daylight they go to hoe the fields;
at night they spin their flax.
Every village lad and lass
is busy at some task.
And tots who can’t yet understand
how to plough or weave
can practise planting melons
by the shade of mulberry trees.


The Farmer’s Day Begins
(From the Chinese of Mei Yao-ch’en, 1002-1060AD)

The cock crows thrice. The sky’s getting light.
Fixed up, flasks of tea, bowls of rice.
Good people, all anxious for an early start ploughing.
I pull up the window blinds. Dawn stars still gleaming.


Bamboo in Rock
(From the Chinese of Chang Hsieh, 1695-1765)

Holding firmly to the mountain,
not loosening that grip
from the first time rooted, fixed
in fissures of the rock.
Though stricken time and time again,
such strong and sturdy stems;
the winds of all four quarters
of no concern to them.


Chi Le Plain
(Anonymous, 420-589 AD)

Chi Le plain, below Yin Shan.
Sky like a tent, envelops the land.
Sky darkest grey, steppe so vast.
Wind beats grass low. See the herds pass.


Grass on the Ancient Plain
(From the Chinese of Pai Chu-yi, 772-846AD)

Grass spreads across the plain.
Each year the same recession and rebirth.
Wildfire cannot burn it up entirely –
when spring winds blow, it grows again.
From far away its scent will reach the ancient road,
its new, fresh brightness hug the ancient Wall.


From ‘Beneath the Silver River: Translations of Classical Chinese Poetry’

Upon Reflection

There is a touch of frost,
I see, among my curls.
So one would imagine that by now,
whatever gods there be
might have shown a little kindness,
and endowed me with a measure of integrity.
But they have not  – 
the churls. No… inwardly, I fear
I have not changed.

But outwardly…
Again, that winter-tinged,
that sullen gaze
stares out at me.
One thing, at least, is plain:
They don’t make mirrors
like they used to
in the good old days.


To be Gonzales

I never thought I’d see the day,
and Lord, I ask you why
I totter around the geraniums
while my grandson whizzes by.

From ‘Musings on the Merry-go-Round: A Medley of Verse for us Riders of the Earth’