#tu fu

I decided to write a little poem in the style of Tu Fu, aka Du Fu (712-770), the great poet of T'ang Dynasty China. I've been reading his work in the superb translations of David Hinton, and it's been making me wish I could read the original -- even in the less-than-ideal medium of English, Tu's work is stunning in its timelessness. His laments of social unrest, militarism run amok, and personal alienation might have been written yesterday rather than thirteen centuries ago. Anyway, I hope you like this. Have a good Sunday, everyone.

TEXT:

HOMAGE TO TU FU

Aching limbs propped on a goosefoot cane, I return home at dusk, the sky afire.

Cranes have no farther south to fly: They wade with care in icy waters.

When will it end, this time of war? Letters vanish on dusty roads--

Poem Written on Tanzaku, Emperor Go-Tsuchimikado, Kamakura period, circa 12th-14th century, Harvard Art Museums: Calligraphy

Harvard Art Museums/Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Bequest of the Hofer Collection of the Arts of Asia Size: H. 34.8 x W. 5.3 cm (13 11/16 x 2 1/16 in.) Medium: Tanzaku (long, slender poem slip) mounted as a hanging scroll; ink on indigo-dyed paper with cloud pattern

* * * * * *

"Ten thousand / Atoms of sorrow whirl away / In the wind."

This ever-constant interrogation of the self. I wonder, sometimes, how much of my nightmares have anything to do with me or if somehow they are instead a result of weather, a lack of sun, something beyond the subconscious which is, itself, so similarly beyond my reach as the rest is. One night, I wake up sobbing. The dream itself not even so bad.

Anyway, we believe, now, that dreams are a working-out of all we encounter + have encountered. People go to sleep after playing a game, wake up + score better the morning after. The mind reorganizing + solidifying the input into what can then be made an output. Interesting things, + all of them besides the point. My dreams I see more as a trade-off. The subconscious protecting the rest of me from what could have resulted in volatility or an inability toward self-restraint, toward moderation. Which is also besides the point as there are many things I'm wholly against the moderation of; however, harm is not one of those + that is the real point. I do very little harm now, to myself, to others. Within his poem "After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard", Charles Wright advises us this one simple practice: "Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every day, / Go quietly, quietly." + so I think of my nightmares as the byproduct of all I've come to withstand: symbol, not punishment. + at their very best, they provide me with all sorts of great big ideas I can use in stories, + so I try to listen to them. These vivid images. But I fail often to record them + think perhaps I should stick a journal by the bed.

I really dislike the winter. The dark. The cold. The wet, rain. I am weak in the sense that the weather + months wear down on me more heavily than perhaps they should. + I know it is a skill issue in that it is a perspective issue. One must shift the way they see it. But I'm stubborn about this one. + I don't like the dark. The cold. The wet, the rain. I want a world of warm sun + melting ice cream, which is slightly a lie itself as there is a sense of being too hot that is much more miserable than the sense of being too cold. There's a pragmatist argument to be had where one can always put more clothes on but can only ever take so many off before hitting skin + having to stop.

What I do not dislike though are the Holidays. Christmas especially. I've placed half of the decorations all around today + have to go out tomorrow to purchase more before attending some ceremony or another, various festivities. I want to get some garland + lights to weave around my bed + I've purchased a king-size duvet + gingham covers to assuage the fact that, here in the UK, most bedding doesn't hang luxuriously from the bed + is instead all sized to 'fit'. I do not want it to fit. I want it to flop over the sides like the stems of a willow tree + at the very least cover the sheets for fuck's sake. The gingham will look quite nice though. One set leans more toward the shades of rust while the other lies in the land of green. Very Christmassy, either set, if you think about it, but still in an understated way.

Evenings ago, I stumbled about one of the town's next-door to my own, scuffing my boots against the cobblestone alleys + admiring little shops + cafes. I mused on if I should open my door again to some new others to share things with, + I thought perhaps in spring if I still feel like it then, as I might just be feeling a bit bruised, whether it is fairly or unfairly so, + that is never a good time to make changes or decisions that one can feel proud of or at least unregretful of. Let things sit behind the sternum for a bit + the rest can wait for longer days + clearer hours to make their way back around. One, after all, would never want to lose one's own discernment.

The lives of many men are

Shorter than the years since we have

Seen each other. Aldebaran

And Antares move as we have.

And now, what night is this? We sit

Here together in the candle

Light. How much longer will our prime

Last? Our temples are already

Grey. I visit my old friends.

Half of them have become ghosts.

Fear and sorrow choke me and burn

My bowels. I never dreamed I would

Come this way, after twenty years,

A wayfarer to your parlor.

When we parted years ago,

You were unmarried. Now you have

A row of boys and girls, who smile

And ask me about my travels.

How have I reached this time and place?

Before I can come to the end

Of an endless tale, the children

Have brought out the wine. We go

Out in the night and cut young

Onions in the rainy darkness.

We eat them with hot, steaming,

Yellow millet. You say, “It is

Sad, meeting each other again.”

We drink ten toasts rapidly from

The rhinoceros horn cups.

Ten cups, and still we are not drunk.

We still love each other as

We did when we were schoolboys.

Tomorrow morning mountain peaks

Will come between us, and with them

The endless, oblivious

Business of the world.

(Tu Fu – Rexroth, trans.)

Tu Fu (712–770), from Random feelings