On "A Pear Blossom in the East Wing" by Qiu Wei

 

An old Chinese poet with sights set

on imperial favors and a job

found a way of putting in

a vision of the emperor’s harem

via the orchard of the pears nearby

and the fruit’s sweat-undarkened skin

 

so that, like pear’s scent of bloom,

his own poetic courting

would soak through the robe

of the Son of Heaven.

 

For how else would any

decent concubine

which wants to lay

with majesties and power

prove that she mastered

 

the proper art and science

and the proper wooing etiquette,

 

rending herself as the best—

as glories’ and greatness’

perfectly trained mirror

or a spotless, prostrated pool?

 

Or like a pear plucked,

a kowtowed figure—

knocking off

and losing

both her legs

and head even?

 

And isn’t there even for transience

of freshly snowing scents

written in the finest of the fonts

a certain kind of poesy

qua science as well as art

by which both the author

and the audience could extract

such favors or as much as they can

even from Hades’ incessant forgetting?

 

Just as there must be both art and science

the name of which too might as well

be a sentence—a sort of sine qua non?

The “Fresh and Cool” Look Romantics Adored, Others Saw as a Jail for Their Freedom

 

Cardinals, dragonflies, and titmice

Abound in these woods—

Beauty falling from the air.

But these odonates, 

Don’t they love to prey and feast

On their young, immature males 

Al fresco or fuori

 

Before they grow turquoise

Like calm and clear coral seas?

 

But who is a poet who would mind

The religious and mystic sound

Of those lofty names

 

Which these swift and nimble flyers

Apply to the art of their life and even death

They so ardently press—a fresco—

 

If it comes to eastern pondhawks,

Erythemis simplicicollis,

Onto freshly laid-down flesh

 

So that, in one sudden swoop,
One becomes fused with another—
A brilliant and lasting finish.

I Will Be Grateful to Anyone Who Would Ask: "So, What Do You Think of Those Carolina Frogs?"

 

How to study harmony itself is for us
the perennial question itself (Phaedrus 268e).

 

Here beneath the pines
Seeded on the ancient dunes,
Reposed upon the shores
Of primeval seas, 

Stretching far inland
Toward blue-misted mountains,

Puny, black-masked Pseudacris ocularis,
The smallest of North America's frogs,
Begin to inundate
The Outer Coastal Plain

With swarming choruses
Of leaping voices.

They fit with ease
Upon one's fingertip,

Yet are quick to spring away.

Their mating call—
A pure tone
Followed by a train of pulses—

Resembles the crickets
Whom Socrates invoked
While teaching Phaedrus
Why one should love the Muses.

For that mimetic chirp
The little frog even bears
Its distinguished Latin name.

And to me—
Like Socrates' cicadas—

These amphibian hosts
Surely fill the role
Of Platonic messengers,

Secret emissaries
In the clandestine employ
Of Mnemosyne's daughters,

Reporting to each Muse
How well—or poorly—
Whether knowingly or unwittingly,

Each of us
Has honored her
Throughout the day.

For who knows
Whether these pseudo-cicadas,

Left behind
By the long-receded sea,

Were not once human,
Like Socrates’ own dog-day singers
(Phaedrus 259b),

Or whether
Their panoramic vigil

Is not itself
Their apprenticeship

For the day
They become human,

As they hop
From element to element,

Ascending
The ladder of being,

Yet never forgetting
How small they once were—

And therefore,
Unlike us,

Always remembering
How puny the ego is
Beside the soul.

A Parable of the Regal Peacock and the Plebeian Rice

 

Among all the leaves and stalks of rice,
How can one endure
The countless promises
Of such sweet and gentle white?

 And even more—

If one is a lone peacock,
Suddenly wandering lost
Through this vast, oceanic awe,

Running and rustling
With the breeze—

And still more,
If that peacock
Once had been a mighty king,

Now burdened
With a long and luxuriant tail
That impedes both step and flight.