A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

[1967]

540. «Somewhere…»

Somewhere
there is a gate that I must find and open,
take out the bolt and lilt the latch and push,
and then the road ahead will stretch away
smooth, clear and safe for me to walk at leisure;

a small white gate, wrought in a low white fence,

along the outskirts of this great dense wood.

There must be somewhere

in the tall brush and thicket on my trail
a mark, a sign, perhaps a broken twig,
a tree peculiarly bent, a stone
lying against another;

there must be somewhere

an indication, maybe even arrow
pointing that way, so that I may follow;

it cannot be that I have not remembered

those previous markings,
and have lost the trail.

[1960s]

541. «High in the air, the high blue air above us…» [242]

High in the air, the high blue air above us,
where birds and men fly peacefully together,
for endless centuries, the long lost notes
of many songs have floated by, unheard
to living ears.

We have not yet

become quite strong enough to catch those songs
and hear and tame them for the world to know,
but they are there, for they were never lost
completely. And if sometimes, in the haze
along the fringes of this life
we think we meet
a sudden melody that we have never known,
barely distinguished words, perhaps a rhyme
that we reach out to touch —

we vainly strain, but all that we can feel

is some vague sense of beauty
created somewhere once, and waiting for us,
not quite completely lost,
nor yet recaptured.

[1960s]

542. «Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger…»

Can it be true, in hours of grief and anger
that all one's past will disappear afar
just like the soft sound of some forgotten music,
like in the dark of night a fallen star?

[1980s]

543–561 My China [243]

543. «I put my brushes carefully, one by one…»

Arranging the brushes, and picking the right

one to write a poem.

I put my brushes carefully, one by one,
into their respective cones
in the brass brush stand,
meticulously smoothing each sensitive tuft with my fingers,
to make a pinpoint end.

I pull out the small white bone latch

of my ink box,
lifting its black and gold silk lid.

The ink tablet, half covered with carved inscription,

lies before me.

I pull out the two white bone pieces

latching the powder-blue silk covers
of a small thick volume.
The ivory-white rice paper page
is blank.

The moon has set over the western horizon

and night fragrance is drifting into my window.
I pick a brush of the needed thickness,
touch the surface of water in a porcelain cup
and caressing the ink tablet gently,
write down a poem.