A. White Sun and Bright Moon
White sun and bright moon
Run their course day and night.
How could we, humble mortals,
Live on leisurely on this world?
I learn that in the sea
There is fairly Peng-la hill
Where Angels often climb over
To pick green leaves of the jade tree,
Which, once being eaten, make their heads too dark
And they live in eternal youth.
I’ll go there, I’ll go there
To live and die in fairyland.
B. Lovely Woman
A lovely woman rolls up
The delicate bamboo blind;
She sits deep within
Twitching her moth eyebrows.
Who may it be
That grieves her heart?
On her face, one sees
Only the wet traces of tears.
Monday, July 5, 2010
GROWTH RINGS
Deng Hainan
The arc lines
Grow in layers imprisoned within the bark,
With a seed at the circle’s center,
Rings spreading like ripples across the lake.
In the end they are set hard by the chain-saw’s incision.
No sighing, no growing,
Silence.
Yet annulations have not been erased.
Like a cerebrum,
Everything that has been experienced has been stored in these whorls
Though they can neither sing nor tell tales.
The rain’s moisture,
The snow’s caress,
The chirping from the bird’s nest in the branches
The roar of the thunder and lightning overhead,
The black bear’s embrace,
The woodpecker’s kiss.
And more,
Much more…
Memories like air
Melodies like spring,
But there is only
Silence.
As the glade rotates,
It spins the record around
If only there were a needle
Which by tracking the grooves
Could excavate, resuscitate
The song of life that should not be silent.
Grow in layers imprisoned within the bark,
With a seed at the circle’s center,
Rings spreading like ripples across the lake.
In the end they are set hard by the chain-saw’s incision.
No sighing, no growing,
Silence.
Yet annulations have not been erased.
Like a cerebrum,
Everything that has been experienced has been stored in these whorls
Though they can neither sing nor tell tales.
The rain’s moisture,
The snow’s caress,
The chirping from the bird’s nest in the branches
The roar of the thunder and lightning overhead,
The black bear’s embrace,
The woodpecker’s kiss.
And more,
Much more…
Memories like air
Melodies like spring,
But there is only
Silence.
As the glade rotates,
It spins the record around
If only there were a needle
Which by tracking the grooves
Could excavate, resuscitate
The song of life that should not be silent.
A LITTLE INCIDENT
Lu Hsun
Six years have gone by, as so many winks, since I came to the capital from the village. During all that time there have occurred many of those events known as “affairs of the state”, a great number of which I have seen or heard about. My heart does not seem to have been in the least affected by any of them, and recollection now only tends to increase my ill temper and cause me to like people less as the day wears on. But one little incident alone is deep with meaning to me, and I am unable to forget it even now.
It was a winter day in the sixth year of the Republic, and a strong northernly wind blew furiously. To make a living, I had to be up early, and on the way to my duties I encountered scarcely anyone. After much difficulty, I finally succeeded in hiring a rickshaw. I told the puller to take to me to the South Gate.
After a while, the wind moderated its fury, and in its wake the streets were left clean of the loose dust. The puller ran quickly. Just as we approached the South Gate, somebody ran in front of us, got entangled in the rickshaw, and tumbled to the ground.
It was a woman with streaks of white in her hair, and she wore ragged clothes. She had darted suddenly from the side of the street, and directly crossed in front of us. My puller tried to swerve aside, but her tattered jacket, unbuttoned and fluttering in the wind, caught in the shafts. Fortunately, the puller had slowed his pace, otherwise she would have been thrown head over heels, and probably injured. After we halted, the woman still knelt on all fours. I did not think she was hurt. No one else had seen the collision. And it irritated me that the puller had stopped and was apparently prepared to get himself involved in some foolish complication. It might delay and trouble my journey.
“It’s nothing,” I told him. “Move on!”
But either he did not hear me or did not care, for he put down the shafts and gently helped the old woman to her feet. He held her arms, supporting her, and asked:
“Are you alright?”
“I am hurt.”
I thought, “I saw you fall and it was not all rough. How can you be hurt? You are pretending. The whole business is distasteful, and the rickshaw man is merely making difficulties for himself. Now let him find his own way out of the mess.”
But the puller did not hesitate for a moment after the old woman said she was injured. Still holding her arm, he walked carefully ahead with her. Then I was surprised as, looking ahead, I suddenly noticed a police station, and saw that he was taking her there. No one was outside, so he guided her in through the gate.
As they passed in, I experienced a curious sensation. I do not know why, but at the moment, it suddenly seemed to me that his dust-covered figure loomed enormous, and as he walked farther he continued to grow, until finally I had to lift my head to follow him. At the same time, I felt a bodily pressure all over me, which came from his direction. It seemed almost to push out from me all the littleness that hid under my fur-lined gown. I grew week, as though my vitality had been spent, as though the blood had frozen in me. I sat motionless, stunned and thoughtless, until I saw an officer emerge from the station. Then, I got off from the rickshaw as he approached me.
“Get another rickshaw,” he advised. “This man can’t pull you anymore.”
Without thinking, I thrust my hand into my pocket and pulled forth a big fistful of coppers. “Give the fellow these,” I said.
The wind had ceased entirely, but the street was still quiet. I mused as I walked, but I was almost afraid to think about myself. Leaving aside what had happened before, I sought an explanation for a fistful of coppers. Why had I given them? As a reward? And did I think of myself, after my conduct, fit to pass judgment upon the rickshaw puller? I could not answer my own conscience.
Till now that experience burns in my memory. I think of it, and introspect with pain and effort. The political and military drama of these years is to me like the classics I read in childhood: I cannot recite half a line of it. But always before my eyes, purging me with shame, impelling me to better myself, invigorating my hope and courage, this little incident is reenacted. I see it in every detail as distinctly as on the day it happened.
It was a winter day in the sixth year of the Republic, and a strong northernly wind blew furiously. To make a living, I had to be up early, and on the way to my duties I encountered scarcely anyone. After much difficulty, I finally succeeded in hiring a rickshaw. I told the puller to take to me to the South Gate.
After a while, the wind moderated its fury, and in its wake the streets were left clean of the loose dust. The puller ran quickly. Just as we approached the South Gate, somebody ran in front of us, got entangled in the rickshaw, and tumbled to the ground.
It was a woman with streaks of white in her hair, and she wore ragged clothes. She had darted suddenly from the side of the street, and directly crossed in front of us. My puller tried to swerve aside, but her tattered jacket, unbuttoned and fluttering in the wind, caught in the shafts. Fortunately, the puller had slowed his pace, otherwise she would have been thrown head over heels, and probably injured. After we halted, the woman still knelt on all fours. I did not think she was hurt. No one else had seen the collision. And it irritated me that the puller had stopped and was apparently prepared to get himself involved in some foolish complication. It might delay and trouble my journey.
“It’s nothing,” I told him. “Move on!”
But either he did not hear me or did not care, for he put down the shafts and gently helped the old woman to her feet. He held her arms, supporting her, and asked:
“Are you alright?”
“I am hurt.”
I thought, “I saw you fall and it was not all rough. How can you be hurt? You are pretending. The whole business is distasteful, and the rickshaw man is merely making difficulties for himself. Now let him find his own way out of the mess.”
But the puller did not hesitate for a moment after the old woman said she was injured. Still holding her arm, he walked carefully ahead with her. Then I was surprised as, looking ahead, I suddenly noticed a police station, and saw that he was taking her there. No one was outside, so he guided her in through the gate.
As they passed in, I experienced a curious sensation. I do not know why, but at the moment, it suddenly seemed to me that his dust-covered figure loomed enormous, and as he walked farther he continued to grow, until finally I had to lift my head to follow him. At the same time, I felt a bodily pressure all over me, which came from his direction. It seemed almost to push out from me all the littleness that hid under my fur-lined gown. I grew week, as though my vitality had been spent, as though the blood had frozen in me. I sat motionless, stunned and thoughtless, until I saw an officer emerge from the station. Then, I got off from the rickshaw as he approached me.
“Get another rickshaw,” he advised. “This man can’t pull you anymore.”
Without thinking, I thrust my hand into my pocket and pulled forth a big fistful of coppers. “Give the fellow these,” I said.
The wind had ceased entirely, but the street was still quiet. I mused as I walked, but I was almost afraid to think about myself. Leaving aside what had happened before, I sought an explanation for a fistful of coppers. Why had I given them? As a reward? And did I think of myself, after my conduct, fit to pass judgment upon the rickshaw puller? I could not answer my own conscience.
Till now that experience burns in my memory. I think of it, and introspect with pain and effort. The political and military drama of these years is to me like the classics I read in childhood: I cannot recite half a line of it. But always before my eyes, purging me with shame, impelling me to better myself, invigorating my hope and courage, this little incident is reenacted. I see it in every detail as distinctly as on the day it happened.
THE ANALECTS OF CONFUCIUS
The Master said –
A plausible tongue and a fascinating expression are seldom associated with true virtue.
Let loyalty and truth be paramount with you. If you have faults, shrink not from correcting them.
Learning without though is labor lost. Though without learning is intellectual death.
In the mourning, it is better to be sincere than to be punctilious.
The faults of men are characteristic of themselves. By observing a man’s faults you may infer what his virtues are.
The commander-in-chief of an army can be carried captive, but the convictions of even the meanest man cannot be taken from him.
A youth should be filial at home, respectful abroad. He should be earnest and truthful. He should overflow in love to all, but cultivate the friendship of the good. Then, whatsoever of energy may be left to him, he should devote to the improvement of his mind.
A disciple having asked for a definition of charity, the Master said:
LOVE ONE ANOTHER!
Having been further asked a definition of knowledge, the Master said:
KNOW ONE ANOTHER!
Someone asked Confucius, “Master, what think you concerning the principle that good should be returned for evil?’ The Master replied:
What then will you return for good? No, RETURN GOOD FOR GOOD; FOR EVIL, JUSTICE.
A disciple having asked for a rule of life in a word, the Master said:
Is not reciprocity that word? WHAT YOU WOULD NOT OTHERS DO UNTO YOU, DO NOT DO UNTO THEM.
A plausible tongue and a fascinating expression are seldom associated with true virtue.
Let loyalty and truth be paramount with you. If you have faults, shrink not from correcting them.
Learning without though is labor lost. Though without learning is intellectual death.
In the mourning, it is better to be sincere than to be punctilious.
The faults of men are characteristic of themselves. By observing a man’s faults you may infer what his virtues are.
The commander-in-chief of an army can be carried captive, but the convictions of even the meanest man cannot be taken from him.
A youth should be filial at home, respectful abroad. He should be earnest and truthful. He should overflow in love to all, but cultivate the friendship of the good. Then, whatsoever of energy may be left to him, he should devote to the improvement of his mind.
A disciple having asked for a definition of charity, the Master said:
LOVE ONE ANOTHER!
Having been further asked a definition of knowledge, the Master said:
KNOW ONE ANOTHER!
Someone asked Confucius, “Master, what think you concerning the principle that good should be returned for evil?’ The Master replied:
What then will you return for good? No, RETURN GOOD FOR GOOD; FOR EVIL, JUSTICE.
A disciple having asked for a rule of life in a word, the Master said:
Is not reciprocity that word? WHAT YOU WOULD NOT OTHERS DO UNTO YOU, DO NOT DO UNTO THEM.
THE WONDERFUL PEAR TREE
A Chinese Folk Tale
Once upon a time, a countryman came into the town on market day, and brought a load of very special pears with him to sell. He set up his good barrow at a good corner, and soon had a great crowd round him; for every one knew he always sold extra fine pears, though he did also ask an extra high price. Now, while he was crying up his fruit, a poor, old, ragged, hungry-looking priest stopped just in front of the barrow and humbly begged him one of the pears. But the countryman refused. He called the priest bad names.
“Good sir,” said the priest, “you have hundreds of pears on your barrow. I only ask you for one. You would never even know you had lost one. Really, you need not get angry.”
“Give him a rotten pear; that will make him happy,” said a man in the crowd. “The old priest is quite right; you’d never miss it.”
“I’ve said I won’t, and I won’t, and I won’t” cried the countryman; and all the people close by began shouting. The constable of the market, hearing hubhub, hurried up; and when he had made out what was the matter, pulled some cash out of his purse, bought a pear, and gave it to the priest. For he was afraid that the noise would come to the ears of the mandarin who was just being carried down the street.
The old priest took the pear with a long bow, and held it up in front of the crowd, saying, “You all know that I have no home, no parents, no children, no food, because I gave up everything when I became a priest. So it puzzles me how anyone can be so selfish and so stingy as to refuse to give me one single pear. No I am quite a different sort of man from this countryman. I have here some perfectly exquisite pears, and I shall feel most deeply honored if you will accept them from me.”
“Why on earth didn’t you eat them yourself, instead of begging for one?” asked man in the crowd.
“Ah,” answered the priest, “I must grow them first.”
So he ate up the pear, only leaving a single pip. Then he took a pick, dug a deep hole in the ground at his feet, and planted the pip. Which he covered all over with earth. “Will someone fetch me some hot water to water this?” he asked. The people, who were crowding around, though he was only joking, but one of them ran and fetched a kettle of boiling water and gave it to the priest, who very carefully poured it over the place where he had sowed the pip. Then, almost while he was pouring, they saw, first a tiny green sprout, then another, pushing their heads above the ground; then one leaf uncurled, then another, while shoots keep growing taller and taller; there stood before them a young tree with a few branches and few leaves; then more leaves; then flowers; and last of all, clusters of huge. Ripe sweet-smelling pears weighing the branches down the ground! Now the priest’s face shone with pleasure, and the crowd roared with delight when he picked the pears, handling them with a bow to each man present. Then the priest took pick again, hacked at the tree until it fell with a crash. He carried the tree, leaves and all, and with a final bow, he walked away.
All the time this had been going on, the countryman, quite forgetting his barrow and pears, had been in the midst of the crowd, standing on the tips of his toes, and straining eyes to try to make out what was happening. But when the old priest had gone and the crowd was getting thin, he turned to his barrow and saw with horror that it was empty! Every single pear had gone! In a moment he understood what had happened. The pears the old priest had been so generous in giving away were the countryman’s. What was more, one of the handles of his barrow was missing. He was in a towering rage, and rushed as fast as he could after the priest. But, just as he turned the corner, he saw lying close to the wall, the barrow-handle, which without any doubt, was the very “pear tree” which the priest cut down. All the people in the market were simply splitting their sides with laughter; but as for the priest, no one saw him anymore.
“Good sir,” said the priest, “you have hundreds of pears on your barrow. I only ask you for one. You would never even know you had lost one. Really, you need not get angry.”
“Give him a rotten pear; that will make him happy,” said a man in the crowd. “The old priest is quite right; you’d never miss it.”
“I’ve said I won’t, and I won’t, and I won’t” cried the countryman; and all the people close by began shouting. The constable of the market, hearing hubhub, hurried up; and when he had made out what was the matter, pulled some cash out of his purse, bought a pear, and gave it to the priest. For he was afraid that the noise would come to the ears of the mandarin who was just being carried down the street.
The old priest took the pear with a long bow, and held it up in front of the crowd, saying, “You all know that I have no home, no parents, no children, no food, because I gave up everything when I became a priest. So it puzzles me how anyone can be so selfish and so stingy as to refuse to give me one single pear. No I am quite a different sort of man from this countryman. I have here some perfectly exquisite pears, and I shall feel most deeply honored if you will accept them from me.”
“Why on earth didn’t you eat them yourself, instead of begging for one?” asked man in the crowd.
“Ah,” answered the priest, “I must grow them first.”
So he ate up the pear, only leaving a single pip. Then he took a pick, dug a deep hole in the ground at his feet, and planted the pip. Which he covered all over with earth. “Will someone fetch me some hot water to water this?” he asked. The people, who were crowding around, though he was only joking, but one of them ran and fetched a kettle of boiling water and gave it to the priest, who very carefully poured it over the place where he had sowed the pip. Then, almost while he was pouring, they saw, first a tiny green sprout, then another, pushing their heads above the ground; then one leaf uncurled, then another, while shoots keep growing taller and taller; there stood before them a young tree with a few branches and few leaves; then more leaves; then flowers; and last of all, clusters of huge. Ripe sweet-smelling pears weighing the branches down the ground! Now the priest’s face shone with pleasure, and the crowd roared with delight when he picked the pears, handling them with a bow to each man present. Then the priest took pick again, hacked at the tree until it fell with a crash. He carried the tree, leaves and all, and with a final bow, he walked away.
All the time this had been going on, the countryman, quite forgetting his barrow and pears, had been in the midst of the crowd, standing on the tips of his toes, and straining eyes to try to make out what was happening. But when the old priest had gone and the crowd was getting thin, he turned to his barrow and saw with horror that it was empty! Every single pear had gone! In a moment he understood what had happened. The pears the old priest had been so generous in giving away were the countryman’s. What was more, one of the handles of his barrow was missing. He was in a towering rage, and rushed as fast as he could after the priest. But, just as he turned the corner, he saw lying close to the wall, the barrow-handle, which without any doubt, was the very “pear tree” which the priest cut down. All the people in the market were simply splitting their sides with laughter; but as for the priest, no one saw him anymore.
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