70 LINES FROM THE CHINESE Waning moon. I tune the lute Away & become like you in The coiling wind. The wine- Glass wakes me. I hear the Rattle of the endless, oblivious Drunk. Everywhere I go, I owe The pain in my heart to wine. * Rattle in the sky. A whirlwind Breaks white birds into a grey- Er river. I lift my cup & flow- Ers sleep. I cannot sleep. I rub My heavy eyelids across the cur- Tain. Old, ill and tired, blown Hither and yon. Clouds pile up. * The mating swallows embarrass Me, flying two by two outside My window. I hate them. I go Out to smell the perfume of the Flowers, but they bring me no Pleasure, and I hate them, too. This minor magistrate is drunk. * The moon, sad enough to tear The bowels, tears my bowels With sorrow. Incense coils o- Ver the screen: hopelessness. Amongst scattered & broken Hair ornaments, I lie prostrate & insensible. I try to grow old. * I am sick. My eyes hurt. Insects Whistle in my old clothes. They Have no fear of man. My limbs Swell without limit. Knife in Hand, I scrape off the scales. I have lost the ability to write. Why do the birds all hate me? * I wander in this pleasure garden Until my drunkenness wears off. One by one the stars go out, & Sound drains down the river. I Cannot write. Tears of loneli- Ness rattle on the banana trees, Frozen & sad. I am frozen, too. * I no longer know where I am. I am still alive, and longing For death. Mute, friendless, & Feeding the crumbling years, I Sit on the grass & start a poem. It'd be better for me if I took a Sword and cut open my bowels. * Wind passes. I tuck my head Away, and wonder where you Have gone. My poems are dry & dull, & insects circle about Them. Seeking pleasure, they Find only sickness. Who cares? We'll be together in the tomb. * In bed, asleep, I'm empty, with- Ered with pain. My teeth decay. Locusts lay their eggs in my thin- Ning hair. I cannot stop them. I Wish them long life & promise Never to pick them. As long as I am flesh I will never find rest. * No wind blows. My heart is not Beating: it is useless. My skin Is like sticky pudding, my bones Yellow powder. My spirit hangs On its little rack: there is no Place it wants to go. Alone, Nothing can make it disappear. Volume Two Index |
The East Village Poetry Web Gary Sullivan |