O soft suspension—beyond
the street-screens of noise,
beyond the whirling dust—
there—is it still
poetry and love,
radiant, revealed—
a painting made of breath,
gladly at rest in a gentle glide?
How could anyone
who has once tasted
this strange, other
pomegranate
ever run out
of bedded notes—
but, in rapture, return
to who one always was?
When Su
Shi was born,
his father Su Xun wrote
“On Naming Two Sons,”
knowing a name can be
like a single note—
drawn
from a lyre string
and let go by some god—
which, if rightly struck,
may sound as deep as anything
that resonates with the soul—
And so he
wrote:
What is Shi?
A small crossbar
at the front of a carriage,
which
accords balance
to the charioteer—
as does the nameless measure
to a musician and her melody
between sound and silence.
A slight bar preventing
Autumn birds gather into flocks,
and flocks into waves and scarves,
disclosing little, hiding much—
whoever is mortal
commonly strives
for the measure,
straining against it—
but gods—gods alone,
if true—may be at ease,
themselves bearing the measure,
though they did not set it;
and yet both mortals and gods
cannot but admire, deep down,
musicians and poets—those who hone,
their whole lives through, measure’s clear tone,
never turning away from sounding
it,
ever seeking to bring it forth—
like the soul’s own pulse,
with the husk removed:
for flower and fruit.
