On the Lake (1)
Mountain monks facing chess sit
Board on bamboo dark quiet
Shine bamboo no person see
Sometimes hear down chess piece sound
Two monks sit facing, playing chess on the mountain,
The bamboo shadow on the board is dark and clear.
Not a person sees the bamboo's shadow,
One sometimes hears the pieces being moved.
Related quotes
Bamboo Bimbo
Well he caught his first whiff in the jungles
Ofnam
That slant-eyed catfish tasted better than mom
Now every single night she drops her big bomb
Cause hes a bamb00 bimbo
Those hook marks really show
Cause hes a bamboo bimb0
He went for it now everyone knows
Hes a bamboo bimb0
He caught his first glance in field and stream
That salt water taffy was a fishermans
Wet dream
Now every single night hes still gettin
That big ream
Cause hes a bamboo bimb0
He fell it and everyone knows
Hes a bamboo bimbo
Just a monkey with a ring in his nose
Hes a bambo0 bimbo
Cant say I never told ya so
Hes a bamboo bimb0
It go on and on and on
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mountain Lovers
See the winding path
Like a thousand connecting boas
Frozen in false stillness
Leading to the foot of the mountain
And there
Hear the quick fall
Of a ripe mango
And the stringing
Of the bamboo leaves
The cracking
Of a bamboo stairway
Antiquity
Leading to a cogon-masked
Door
Walling in a masterpiece
Of a man
And a woman
In love
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The North Window: Bamboo and Rock
A magisterial rock windswept and pure
and a few bamboo so lavish and green:
facing me, they seem full of sincerity.
I gaze into them and can't get enough,
and there's more at the north window
and along the path beside West Pond:
wind sowing bamboo clarities aplenty,
rain gracing the subtle greens of moss.
My wife's still here, frail and old as me,
but no one else: the children are gone.
Leave the window open. If you close it,
who'll keep us company for the night?
Chess Piece Face
Whats gonna happen to chess piece face
There go I but for my face
All I know could be defaced by the facts in the life of chess piece face
I dont know where he lives
Or if he knows to sail
Or if little schemes like this one ever cross his trail
But I dont believe hes dreaming
Or if he cares to know
So I shudder* in my lampshade
So, whats gonna happen to chess piece face
There I go but for my face
All I know could be defaced by the facts in the life of chess piece face
Chess piece face
Chess piece face
Chess piece face
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Man Beside Me
now we are sailing on a
bamboo raft
floating on a silk river
bound to the other
side
except for the man
with a long bamboo pole
to touch the floor
and push us more
there is this man
beside me murmuring
his face is covered
by the shadow of his
big straw hat
the natives respect
him thinking that he
is god sent
knowing the words of
the mountain gods
who give them rain
after the drought
he chatters the song
of the cicadas
he murmurs the heaves
of the rain
finally he stops and
hands in the silence
of the rocks
that protrude in the
middle of the river
the waters rise
flood rages on
and i begin to hear
another song
of the incoming storm
then we arrive at the other
side of the river
this time we have become
one in the fold of the
fury asking the protection
of the mountain's belly
the morning news shall
tell about two men who
are fuming the seeds of
discontent of the plains
and the city
we have no names here
just coincidences
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bamboo Tunes and Cat Eyed Girl
In the murmuring evenings,
Cat eyed girl, worn ear-rings,
Stands by bamboo cluster,
Putting down pots of water.
Gilded bamboos sing and sway,
And the tired path becomes gay.
Bamboo hearts throb ever;
Unnamed tunes cease never.
Her bamboo throes resounded
In the gloomy wind unbounded.
Melodies of earth does shower
On her soul that does hover.
Finger tip of the wind brings
Sweet tunes from bamboo strings.
Music enters her inner grove,
Where the forlorn dreams rove.
Cuddled bamboos swing and say
What the lovers failed to say.
Never dying natural music
So keeps her hopes rhythmic.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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After that, Kasparov stepped back from chess which is, and I want this to be clear, not good for chess in general at all. As a whole, the current situation in the chess world leaves a lot to be desired.
quote by Anatoly Karpov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bamboo Tree Poem
see the coming of the wind
from the prairies
see how it is playing with the
leaves of the bamboo tree
see how a bamboo leaf falls
to the ground
withered by the sun
and now flip-flopping
like an Olympic diver
see how it finally touches
the womb of the earth
silently it lies there
soundlessly it appears
like any other leaf
beside a woman now
sleeping
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bamboo Adobe
I sit along in the dark bamboo grove,
Playing the zither and whistling long.
In this deep wood no one would know -
Only the bright moon comes to shine.
poem by Wang Wei, translated by Liu Wu-chi
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Bamboo is not a weed, it's a flowering plant. Bamboo is a magnificent plant.
quote by Steve Lacy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flute - a triolet
Hollow and holes of bamboo played with air.
Most natural, magical, musical instrument.
Makes melodious the complete atmosphere
Hollow and holes of bamboo played with air.
In hands of Lord Krishna, Hindus wish to be flute.
In tranquillity, ears sense celestial experience.
Hollow and holes of bamboo played with air;
Most natural, magical, musical instrument.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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God can be realized through all paths. All religions are true. The important thing is to reach the roof. You can reach it by stone stairs or by wooden stairs or by bamboo steps or by a rope. You can also climb up by a bamboo pole.
quote by Ramakrishna
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Seeing You...
On Seeing You...
The body that so far felt
Like a hollow shell
Thrown on the beach
By a vagrant child
The body that so far felt
Like an empty piece of severed bamboo
Fallen on an untread forest path
No longer felt hollow or empty
The shell vibrated with the roar of the sea
The bamboo set ripples of mystic music on the waves
Strangely enough, even the half-moon
Sprayed brightness on the dark niches
Your joy resonated in my heart
Sealing all the crevices and pushed the body
Towards the one loved…
Ah, the stuff dreams are made of
13 May 2011
Evening
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Drop In Game
Two curious monkeys sat up in a palm tree
watching two Russian men playing chess.
Everyday they watched the Russians play
until a winner was declared the best.
The next day a Russian sat alone at the table
with the chess pieces set out to play.
A monkey dropped in and sat opposite him
and a game of chess got under way.
For over a week they played each other
until the monkey won five games to three.
The next day a lone monkey sat at the table
until its friend dropped down from a tree.
For two weeks they played each other
with every game resulting in a draw.
The monkeys that sat around watching
applauded and wanted to see more.
Two more weeks passed without a winner,
but then the tropical rains began to pour.
A hurricane blew the chess set out to sea,
now chess is played on the ocean floor.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Avoid the crowd. Do your own thinking independently. Be the chess player, not the chess piece.
quote by Ralph Charell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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But it's also because of something personal. My mother and father met while playing chess, so I've always had a fondness for the game. If it weren't for chess, I might not be here.
quote by Dorothy Dunnett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eating Bamboo Shoots
My new province is a land of bamboo-groves:
Their shoots in spring fill the valleys and hills.
The mountain woodman cuts an armful of them
And brings them down to sell at the early market.
Things are cheap in proportion as they are common;
For two farthings, I buy a whole bundle.
I put the shoots in a great earthen pot
And heat them up along with boiling rice.
The purple nodules broken – like an old brocade;
The white skin opened – like new pearls.
Now every day I eat them recklessly;
For a long time I have not touched meat.
All the time I was living at Lo-yang
They could not give me enough to suit my taste,
Now I can have as many shoots as I please;
For each breath of the south-wind makes a new bamboo
Miscellaneous Feelings in the Sui Garden
1
Joy and anger are not caused by outside things:
they simply happen to arise in the heart.
Rising and falling are not matters of fate:
one simply happens to encounter them.
Reading a book and finding nothing there,
I drop the volume, get up, and take a walk.
I think I'll go to the bamboo grove
where I can listen to the springtime water flow.
2
Let them knock at the bramble gate —
the host is in a dream!
Startled awake, I search for my socks;
I must have lost them east of the thatched hut.
At night, with nothing on my mind,
in dream I watched the bamboo growing tall.
Should guests arrive now at my garden,
barefoot I will see them off.
3
Classics, Histories, Philosophers, Belles-Lettres:
these the four branches of literature.
Pavilions I have built, libraries —
one for each kind in four different spots.
In each one I have placed an inkstone
as well as several brushes to write.
Mornings I rise, wash my face,
then let my feet lead me where they will.
Circulating among all four,
happily I pass the day's twelve hours.
4
When they hear me stop reading out loud,
the farmers come from all around.
The healthy ones shoulder hoe and plow,
the fragile ones wear their hempen shoes.
The happy ones bring piles of bamboo mats,
the tired ones have bundled firewood.
They invite me to sit with them under the trees:
we all open our hearts to each other!
"This year we've suffered from wind and rain,
and still can't plant good sprouts.
We hear you chanting out loud from books:
could it be you prepare for exams?"
I love these people, their true, sincere nature,
and the way they speak, like little children!
Each one drinks a cup of wine
and we lie in a heap on the moss.
5
Do not mock me for building this tower tall:
of course a tower should be tall!
If you approach from three miles away,
already I'll see you from here.
When you visit, come not in a carriage:
the carriage's racket will terrify my birds.
And when you visit, don't come on a horse:
the horse's teeth will decimate my grass.
Also, when you visit, please, don't come at dawn:
we mountain folk hate to rise too early.
And when you visit, don't wait until dusk:
by then the flowers will all have withered away.
6
The Master of Sui Garden in the past
first built buildings here beside these hills.
Terraces, pavilions summoned clouds and mist;
wine cups glittered in the candlelight.
The old men here all say to me
that this Master was no vulgar man.
He took this garden and passed it on — to whom?
How could he know it would be me!
Long, long the thirty years;
and now I come, to help the flowers and bamboo.
"Follow Garden" : the meaning timely now;
no need to change the garden's name at all.
Consider my present-day happiness
continuation of the Master's joy.
Does it really just all "pass away"?
Past and present, still the same chess game!
And who will follow after I have left?
I ask the mountain, but it does not say.
poem by Yuan Mei, translated by Jonathan Chaves
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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An Arrangement
.. and so we went to her place
in a house where her only furniture
is a bamboo bed
she holds my face
she kneels down
she kisses my hand
as though she is my slave
... and so something which should not have happened happened
there's that tinge of guilt
i wanted her to say she loves me
but she didn't
she made me happy all the way
all way through that lonely night
on that bamboo bed
that following morning
when she was still fast asleep
i kissed her hair
put something beside her
that she loves most
it will make her survive perhaps for a month
even without love
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A House
rusty galvanized iron
as roof
barely a third of the space
mixed with the
nipa shillings
this is the house
by the side of the sea
with bamboo slats
as walls
the sea is not calm today
the bamboo fences are shaky
to the strong wind
i am inside a house of glass
i see all these
but i hear nothing
leaves of the jackfruit are blown
to the other side of the
fenced area
beyond this frame of mind
i cannot say anything
i am caged.
Our vision is caged.
We do not see
the whole picture
and people think that
we are wrong
that we are blind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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