Ballad Of The Old Cypress
In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches
are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty
spans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored top
rises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long since
paid their debt to time; but the tree continues to be cherished among men. When
the clouds come, continuous vapors link it with the mists of the long Wu
Gorge; and when the moon appears, the cypress tree shares the chill of the
Snowy Mountains' whiteness.
I remember a year or so ago, where the road wound east round my Brocade
River pavilion, the First Ruler and Chu-ko Liang shared the same shrine. There,
too, were towering cypresses, on the ancient plain outside the city. The paint-
work of the temple's dark interior gleamed dully through derelict doors and
windows. But this cypress here, though it holds its ground well, clinging with
wide-encompassing, snake-like hold, yet, because of its lonely height rising
into the gloom of the sky, meets much of the wind's fierce blast. Nothing but
the power of Divine Providence could have kept it standing for so long; its
straightness must be the work of the Creator himself! If a great hall had
collapsed and beams for it were needed, ten thousand oxen might turn their
heads inquiringly to look at such a mountain of a load. But it is already
marvel enough to astonish the world, without any need to undergo a craftsman's
embellishing. It has never refused the axe: there is simply no one who could
carry it away if it were felled. Its bitter heart has not escaped the ants; but
there are always phoenixes roosting in its scented leaves. Men of ambition, and
you who dwell unseen, do not cry out in despair! From of old the really great
has never been found a use for.
Another Translation:
In front of K'ung-ming Shrine
stands an old cypress,
With branches like green bronze
and roots like granite;
Its hoary bark, far round,
glistens with raindrops,
And blueblack hues, high up,
blend in with Heaven's:
Long ago Statesman, King
kept Time's appointment,
But still this standing tree has men's devotion;
United with the mists
of ghostly gorges,
Through which the moon brings cold
from snowy mountains.
(I recall near my hut
on Brocade River
Another Shrine is shared by
King and Statesman
On civil, ancient plains
with stately cypress:
The paint there now is dim,
windows shutterless. . .)
Wide, wide though writhing roots
maintain its station,
Far, far in lonely heights,
many's the tempest
When its hold is the strength
of Divine Wisdom
And straightness by the work of the Creator. . .
Yet if a crumbling Hall
needed a rooftree, Yoked herds would, turning heads,
balk at this mountain:
By art still unexposed all have admired it;
But axe though not refused,
who could transport it?
How can its bitter core deny ants lodging,
All the while scented boughs
give Phoenix housing?
Oh, ambitious unknowns,
sigh no more sadly:
Using timber as big
was never easy!
Related quotes
Ballad of the Old Cypress
In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches
are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty
spans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored top
rises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long since
paid their debt to time; but the tree continues to be cherished among men. When
the clouds come, continuous vapors link it with the mists of the long Wu
Gorge; and when the moon appears, the cypress tree shares the chill of the
Snowy Mountains' whiteness.
I remember a year or so ago, where the road wound east round my Brocade
River pavilion, the First Ruler and Chu-ko Liang shared the same shrine. There,
too, were towering cypresses, on the ancient plain outside the city. The paint-
work of the temple's dark interior gleamed dully through derelict doors and
windows. But this cypress here, though it holds its ground well, clinging with
wide-encompassing, snake-like hold, yet, because of its lonely height rising
into the gloom of the sky, meets much of the wind's fierce blast. Nothing but
the power of Divine Providence could have kept it standing for so long; its
straightness must be the work of the Creator himself! If a great hall had
collapsed and beams for it were needed, ten thousand oxen might turn their
heads inquiringly to look at such a mountain of a load. But it is already
marvel enough to astonish the world, without any need to undergo a craftsman's
embellishing. It has never refused the axe: there is simply no one who could
carry it away if it were felled. Its bitter heart has not escaped the ants; but
there are always phoenixes roosting in its scented leaves. Men of ambition, and
you who dwell unseen, do not cry out in despair! From of old the really great
has never been found a use for
Song of an Old Cypress
Before the Kongming Temple
lies an ancient cypress
With boughs of bronze
and roots of rock.
Its frosty skin rains down,
encircling the span of forty arms;
Its dark green leaves can reach
some two thousand feet of sky.
Ministers and rulers
had set a time to meet
And the trees they left behind,
the locals revered.
Clouds are coming now, bringing an air
that sits about the Witch's Gorge
While the moon sends a cold that passes
the mountain’s snowy white.
I recall in former times the path
around the Brocade Pavilion, to the east—
Lord Liu Bei and Kongming,
both enshrined, now reside in that hall.
On a lofty mountain, the trunks and
branches reach the ancient plains;
And there are paintings, sweet and graceful,
shown through the windows of an empty shrine.
Sinking, dropping, seizing land,
as though he holds the earth;
Tall, alone, among a sky
that’s vast and deep, with many winds.
A power sustaining him,
brilliant and divine,
Standing upright—a primal source—
a feat of Nature.
A great building will tilt
without its pillars and poles
But ten thousand pulling bulls can turn
their necks—for he is a heavy mountain.
He did not show his culture
yet has already startled the world;
And he cannot avoid being cut down,
but who will do it?
How can his bitter core escape
the crickets and ants?
A phoenix passes through
the sweet smelling leaves to rest.
Men of purpose and those withdrawn
do not complain—alas!
Since ancient times, those of great talent
have found it hard to be of use.
poem by Du Fu, translated by Frank Watson
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Ode to the bird in the cypress tree
Ode to the bird in the cypress tree
~
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
shaded from the heat of the midday sun
yet still free to ride upon the ocean breeze
whenever it chooses to blow from time to time
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
and chirp my own little song aloud to the world
or to fly amongst the clouds so high above
and look down to watch the world below
I wish to be like the bird in the cypress tree
for all my wishes and day bought dreams
I am here and I am still me writing a poem
about that lucky bird perched in the cypress tree
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Naturally Superior
An ancient Cypress tree still stands
Beside a ruined monument.
Outlasts the works of human hands.
Nothing man made is permanent.
The tree is self sufficient.
It needs no other maintenance.
Apart from the nourishment.
The soil provides and rains enhance.
The builders of the monument.
Erected by them to impress
Are long since dead that's evident.
Outlasted by this grand Cypress.
The ancient tree's content to be.
Just what it is a simple tree.
Saturday,03 March 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Leaves Turning Grey
Like a carcass lays, an ancient tree,
he tried to pray, through celestial seas,
but his spirit flew just like a bee.
Everyday he gazed at crying clouds,
the wind through his branches was so loud.
He looked for listening ears
as he stood in a sea of tears.
O tree, do you still wade?
Why have you lost your will to change?
O tree, leaves turning grey,
your roots have lost their range.
But how can one ask for help,
when you're not helping yourself?
And so this tree founded on sand,
with the wind tumbled to land.
He's an arboreal fool,
in a world that pulls
his heart and blood apart.
O tree, you've lost your blood,
your dead branches lay in the mud.
O tree, leaves turning grey,
your roots in such ground won't stay.
poem by Soren Valentine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Granite And Cypress
White-maned, wide-throated, the heavy-shouldered children of
the wind leap at the sea-cliff.
The invisible falcon
Brooded on water and bred them in wide waste places, in a bridechamber
wide to the stars' eyes
In the center of the ocean,
Where no prows pass nor island is lifted ... the sea beyond
Lobos is whitened with the falcon's
Passage, he is here now,
The sky is one cloud, his wing-feathers hiss in the white grass,
my sapling cypresses writhing
In the fury of his passage
Dare not dream of their centuries of future endurance of tempest.
(I have granite and cypress,
Both long-lasting,
Planted in the earth; but the granite sea-boulders are prey to no
hawk's wing, they have taken worse pounding,
Like me they remember
Old wars and are quiet; for we think that the future is one piece
with the past, we wonder why tree-tops
And people are so shaken.)
poem by Robinson Jeffers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As the Pine Cypress tree would say
I want to be like the Cassia tree-
The Cassia tree by the river side
I want to be like the Cassia tree
firmly rooted in the soil inside
so when the winds play its tune of tempest
I will sway left and right as it would have me sway
Sway and not break or lose a footing
as the pine cypress tree would say
I want to be like the Cassia tree-
The Cassia tree by the riverside
I want to be like the Cassia tree
firmly rooted in the soil inside
so when the clouds gather and dress the sky in
dark clothing, for the ritual of the rain
I will stand its pour to the rage of the thunder
Stand and not break or lose a footing
as the pine cypress tree would say
Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 81
A sage was asked: ‘Of so many notable, high and fertile trees which God the most high has created, not one is called free, except the cypress, which bears no fruit. What is the reason of this?’ He replied: ‘Every tree has its appropriate season of fruit, so that it is sometimes flourishing therewith, and looks sometimes withered by its absence; with the cypress, however, neither is the case, it being fresh at all times, and this is the quality of those who are free.’
Place not thy heart on what passes away; for the Tigris
Will flow after the Khalifs have passed away in Baghdad.
If thou art able, be liberal like the date tree,
And if thy hand cannot afford it, be liberal like the cypress.
No Tree Can Stand Tall Without Roots Spread!
Every seed sends roots first,
Finding for soil and ground
where it can stand firm and tall,
stand firm and tall if roots go
deep,
Spread wide to find The sap! single cell that carry life,
Give life to cells and tissues,
Shoot, barks, branches and
leaves,
feed the leaves exposing leaves
to light, Visible tree stands on exposed
roots, not roots visible, Man made boundaries, fence and
compound,
Can't prevent or limit roots or
branches,
Sometimes absorbing soil here,
Branch will extent to neighbouring house,
How one can limit the nature,
or confine growing tree to
narrow circle drawn by man?
So is every life on Earth!
Mankind is like forest of different trees,
Yet all roots of autotrophic trees
deep in the soil,
Only parasitic have those roots,
pierce other tree's heart! Dive deep into yourself,
O man! Can you survive without
Your roots?
know how you are here,
Is it the mortal parent brought
you here, Or your fate,
Only be grateful to their love and
care forever!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Diamond Mountain
Wind blows.
Rattled an invocation
two thousand years old
from bronze temple bells.
Brushes a susurrus
from ten thousand oak leaves.
Draws from their branches
the moaning
of two hundred year old wood,
the dry sound
of a long forgotten oboe.
Causes a seventy year old man
on a slatted bench
to tug a scarf across his chest.
Wind drops,
and slips back
into eternal silence
of measured decay.
Wind undefiled
speaking in many voices.
Diamond Mountain is
one hour high,
one hour wide,
one hour deep.
Every hundred years
a small bird comes
and rubs its beak.
When the whole mountain
is quite worn away,
the first second of Eternity
has passed.
poem by Brian Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet – Don’t Be
Don't be the fallen leaves, so young and green;
Don't be the buds that never can flower;
Don't be the twigs that always remain lean;
Don't be the flow'rs that dropp with each shower.
Don't be the branches growing very long;
Don't be the tree that never blooms at all;
Don’t be the nests that disallow Bird-song;
Don't be the fruits that hit the Earth by Fall.
Don't be the trunk hollowed by Birds, white-Ants;
Don't be the crown that can't get Sun or Rain;
Don't be the tree that grows not straight but slants;
Don't be the roots that prop the tree in vain.
Don't be the tree that grows on marshy-land;
Just be a tree secure in Maker's Hand.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Venetian Life
1
The meaning of somber and barren
Venetian life is clear to me:
Now she looks into a decrepit blue glass
With a cool smile.
2
Refined air. Blue veins of skin.
White snow. Green brocade.
They are all placed on cypress stretchers,
Taken warm and drowsy from a cape.
3
And the candles burn, burn in baskets,
As if a pigeon had flown into the shrine.
At the theater and the solemn council,
A man is dying.
4
Because there is no salvation from love and fear,
Saturn's ring is heavier than platinum,
The block draped with black velvet,
And a beautiful face.
5
Your headdress is heavy, Venezia,
In the cypress mirror frame.
Your air is faceted. In the bedroom,
The blue mountains of decrepit glass dissolve.
6
Only in her hands are the rose and the hourglass --
Green Adriatic, forgive me.
Why are you silent, Venetienne,
How can I escape this solemn death.
7
Black Hesper glimmers in the mirror.
Everything passes, the truth is dark.
A man is born, a pearl dies.
And Susannah has to wait for the elders.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of Hiawatha VII: Hiawatha's Sailing
'Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float on the river,
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily!
'Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white-skin wrapper!'
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,
By the rushing Taquamenaw,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, 'Behold me!
Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!'
And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
'Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!'
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
'Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!'
Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!'
Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
Like two bended bows together.
'Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
My canoe to bind together,
So to bind the ends together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!'
And the Larch, with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow.
'Take them all, O Hiawatha!'
From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
Closely sewed the hark together,
Bound it closely to the frame-work.
'Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
Of your balsam and your resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!'
And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
'Take my balm, O Hiawatha!'
And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.
'Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!'
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
'Take my quills, O Hiawatha!'
From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,
Stained them red and blue and yellow,
With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews;
And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily.
Paddles none had Hiawatha,
Paddles none he had or needed,
For his thoughts as paddles served him,
And his wishes served to guide him;
Swift or slow at will he glided,
Veered to right or left at pleasure.
Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Saying, 'Help me clear this river
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.'
Straight into the river Kwasind
Plunged as if he were an otter,
Dived as if he were a beaver,
Stood up to his waist in water,
To his arm-pits in the river,
Swam and scouted in the river,
Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
With his feet the ooze and tangle.
And thus sailed my Hiawatha
Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
Sailed through all its bends and windings,
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
Up and down the river went they,
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain,
Made a pathway for the people,
From its springs among the mountains,
To the waters of Pauwating,
To the bay of Taquamenaw.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An uncreative medicine
no hope
no friend
no family
no home
no nativity
no nationality
no fame
no name
no future
no points
no market
no identity
no possessions still a tree without roots
no relationship still a tree without roots
no anarchism still a tree without roots
no hiearchy still a tree without roots
no country still a tree without roots
no colours still a tree without roots
no degrees still a tree without roots
no certificates
no imaginations
no dream
no poetry
no fiction
no story
no news
no media
no happiness still a tree without roots
no genre still a tree without roots
no labels still a tree without roots
no names still a tree without roots
THE FOURTH EYE
of
A post-conceptual poet.
The Stringy-Bark Tree
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.
And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.
Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.
Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hiawatha's Sailing
"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,
That shall float on the river,
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily!
"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,
For the Summer-time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white-skin wrapper!"
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha
In the solitary forest,
By the rushing Taquamenaw,
When the birds were singing gayly,
In the Moon of Leaves were singing,
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up and said, "Behold me!
Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!"
And the tree with all its branches
Rustled in the breeze of morning,
Saying, with a sigh of patience,
"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"
With his knife the tree he girdled;
Just beneath its lowest branches,
Just above the roots, he cut it,
Till the sap came oozing outward;
Down the trunk, from top to bottom,
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,
With a wooden wedge he raised it,
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.
"Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!
Of your strong and pliant branches,
My canoe to make more steady,
Make more strong and firm beneath me!"
Through the summit of the Cedar
Went a sound, a cry of horror,
Went a murmur of resistance;
But it whispered, bending downward,
'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"
Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,
Shaped them straightway to a frame-work,
Like two bows he formed and shaped them,
Like two bended bows together.
"Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!
My canoe to bind together,
So to bind the ends together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"
And the Larch, with all its fibres,
Shivered in the air of morning,
Touched his forehead with its tassels,
Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow.
"Take them all, O Hiawatha!"
From the earth he tore the fibres,
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,
Closely sewed the hark together,
Bound it closely to the frame-work.
"Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!
Of your balsam and your resin,
So to close the seams together
That the water may not enter,
That the river may not wet me!"
And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"
And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the Fir-tree,
Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.
"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!"
From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"
From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,
Stained them red and blue and yellow,
With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.
Thus the Birch Canoe was builded
In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch-tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews;
And it floated on the river
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water-lily.
Paddles none had Hiawatha,
Paddles none he had or needed,
For his thoughts as paddles served him,
And his wishes served to guide him;
Swift or slow at will he glided,
Veered to right or left at pleasure.
Then he called aloud to Kwasind,
To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Saying, "Help me clear this river
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars."
Straight into the river Kwasind
Plunged as if he were an otter,
Dived as if he were a beaver,
Stood up to his waist in water,
To his arm-pits in the river,
Swam and scouted in the river,
Tugged at sunken logs and branches,
With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,
With his feet the ooze and tangle.
And thus sailed my Hiawatha
Down the rushing Taquamenaw,
Sailed through all its bends and windings,
Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,
While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,
Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.
Up and down the river went they,
In and out among its islands,
Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,
Dragged the dead trees from its channel,
Made its passage safe and certain,
Made a pathway for the people,
From its springs among the mountains,
To the waters of Pauwating,
To the bay of Taquamenaw.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the Rushing Wind
The wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.
The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time,
And lie a golden heap or fly away,
As if the butterflies had left their wings
Behind, when love's short summertime had gone,
And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower
Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves
Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless,
That you can hardly tell what formed that mould,
That never-ending burial-place of leaves.
And then the wind will shake and bend the tree,
And twist its branches off, burst it asunder,
Uproot the giant and bring low his head,
Upheave the granite block round which the roots
Had taken hold for countless centuries.
On goes the wind! The corn is green and soft--
Earth's wavy fur. It does but ripple lightly
In childish laughter at the harmless fun
That was a death-blow. But the sea awakes
And frowns and foams and rises into anger
So wild with wrath, and yet so powerless,
As if a thousand chains had chained it down,
To howl, to suffer, to rebel against
The heartless merriment of stronger powers.
On goes the wind, to shake the rock, to blow
Into a flame, the wild incendiary,
And never doth he look behind, to see,
To feel, to understand the horror he
Hath worked. The breath--the robe of Destiny--
Sweeps on, sweeps past, and never lists that hell
And heaven have awaked, in shrieking anguish,
But blows the clouds away, laughs at the sun,
And falls into unconscious, dreamless sleep.
poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Foreign Roots In Desert Fall
Foreign Roots in Desert Fall.
It is sad to watch the big tree wearing a vast crown of hubris,
casting demonic shadows it allows nothing else to elevate.
Blows leaves of steel and stop anything that may help a small
bush grow. Once this tree was admired, an example how fast
arid land, fit only for the native Arabs, olive trees and goats,
grew into ten thousand blood dripping roses. In time,
countries far away came to fear this tree’s voraciousness its
boughs try to strangle the world; it is as it needs to govern us
to feel safe. Until we saw its weakness: ” This is a frantic tree,
a foreign plant in agony it has lost its purpose, has no ethics.
Worse of all its bark is scabby, roots are shallow; the tree can
tip over if our anger and disgust get to be a lashing hurricane,
which upend the tree; and its leaves will forever restless rustle
on the road to nowhere.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song of the Fifth River
Where first by Eden Tree
The Four Great Rivers ran,
To each was appointed a Man
Her Prince and Ruler to be.
But after this was ordained
(The ancient legends' tell),
There came dark Israel,
For whom no River remained.
Then He Whom the Rivers obey
Said to him: "Fling on the ground
A handful of yellow clay,
And a Fifth Great River shall run,
Mightier than these Four,
In secret the Earth around;
And Her secret evermore,
Shall be shown to thee and thy Race."
So it was said and done.
And, deep in the veins of Earth,
And, fed by a thousand springs
That comfort the market-place,
Or sap the power of King,
The Fifth Great River had birth,
Even as it was foretold--
The Secret River of Gold!
And Israel laid down
His sceptre and his crown,
To brood on that River bank
Where the waters flashed and sank
And burrowed in earth and fell
And bided a season below,
For reason that none might know,
Save only Israel
He is Lord of the Last--
The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
He hears Her thunder past
And Her Song is in his blood.
He can foresay: "She will fall,"
For he knows which fountain dries
Behind which desert-belt
A thousand leagues to the South.
He can foresay: "She will rise."
He knows what far snows melt
Along what mountain-wall
A thousand leagues to the North,
He snuffs the coming drouth
As he snuffs the coming rain,
He knows what each will bring forth,
And turns it to his gain.
A Ruler without a Throne,
A Prince without a Sword,
Israel follows his quest.
In every land a guest,
Of many lands a lord,
In no land King is he.
But the Fifth Great River keeps
The secret of Her deeps
For Israel alone,
As it was ordered to be.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Battle of Red Cliff
The Yangtze flows east
Washing away
A thousand ages of great men
West of the ramparts --
People say --
Are the fabled Red Cliffs of young Chou of the Three Kingdoms
Rebellious rocks pierce the sky
Frightening waves rip the bank
The backwash churns vast snowy swells --
River and mountains like a painting
how many heroes passed them, once ...
Think back to those years, Chou Yu --
Just married to the younger Chiao --
Brave, brilliant
With plumed fan, silk kerchief
Laughed and talked
While masts and oars vanished to flying ash and smoke!
I roam through ancient realms
Absurdly moved
Turn gray too soon --
A man's life passes like a dream --
Pour out a cup then, to the river, and the moon
Translation 2
The endless river eastward flows;
With its huge waves are gone all those
Gallant heroes of bygone years.
West of the ancient fortress years
Red Cliff where General Zhou Yu won his early fame
When the Three Kingdoms were in flame.
Jugged rocks tower in the air
And swashing waves beat on the air
Rolling up a thousand heaps of snow.
To match the hills and the river so fair,
How many heroes brave of yore
Made a great show!
Translation 3
The great river surges east,
Its waves have scoured away
Since time began all traces of heroic men.
The western side of the old fort
Was once, so people say,
Known as the Red Cliff of Zhou of the Three Kingdoms.
With piled-up rocks to stab the sky
And waves to shake them thunderously
Churning the frothy mass to mounds of snow,
It's like a masterpiece in paint.
Those ages hide how many a hero!
Think back to those old days;
that first year when Zhou Yu had just married the Young Qiao.
Then, what a hero he became!
With waving fan and silken cap
He talked and laughed at ease
While masts and oars were blotted out in smoke and flame!
My wits that stray to realms of old
Deserve the scorn of all who feel;
Years pass, and hair grows white so soon.
Though a man's life is like a dream,
One toast continues still -- the River and the Moon!
poem by Su Tung-po
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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