Short Poems

The immortal with his bamboo cane
journeys far past Lin-ch'iung.
If he hangs the cane on the wall, a windstorm will blow,
and the cane turn into a dragon.

Early we set out from Ch'en-hsi ferry;
how pleasant to boat on the pure stream!
Mountain towns lean out with whitewashed walls;
river stops gleam with vermilion towers.
Rain drives down, sandbanks crumble off;
weather chills, land spits break the surface.
Barbaric accents get stranger as we go:
on and on, homesickness grows in me.

I lie beneath my patchwork blanket at the southern window,
comfortable in the natural warmth.
The neighbor's rooster knows the spring dawn;
the windbells at the eaves feel the night wind.
When you possess the Tao, a thousand cash seems valueless.
The mind serene, all worries disappear.
My meal done, there is nothing I must do:
I watch the children playing the games of peace.

Echo of insects where the lamplight thins;
the cold night heavy with medicine fumes:
because you pity a broken-winged wanderer,
through bitterest toil you follow me still.

If only I could pretend to be a bow woven with rattan
and hang on to the shoulders of a Bando lord!
Pretending I'm a bow I've fallen in love with a Bando lord!
Why doesn't my body go to him, as I wish?
Sheer beauty—that's what my Bando lord is!

Deep in the mountain, are you cutting trees, grandpa?
Are you carving trees, are you carving those trees,
carving trees, grandpa?

God will have all, or none; serve Him, or fall
Down before Baal, Bel, or Belial:
Either be hot, or cold: God doth despise,
Abhor, and spew out all neutralities.

As wearied Pilgrims, once possest
Of long'd-for lodging, go to rest:
So I, now having rid my way;
Fix here my Button'd Staffe and stay.
Youth (I confess) hath me mis-led;
But Age hath brought me right to Bed.

In this little urn is laid
Prudence Baldwin ( once my maid )
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.

Could mortal lip divine
The undeveloped freight
Of a delivered syllable,
'T would crumble with the weight.