Having said most of what I wanted to say about traveling, I've wondered what to do with this space for blogging. I've debated whether or not to make the transition into comments about ordinary life but didn't want to start something I couldn't, or wouldn't, continue for a while. Maybe I'll give it a go and see what happens ...
A friend sent a little quip about my posting only Ryokan's poetry because she has seen some of my verse and has said before I should express myself in my own voice. Fair enough. I used the word "verse" here to refer to whatever it is I write because "poetry" sounds entirely too ... something. And then I was having a conversation with a colleague's spouse, who writes poetry, and she asked to read samples of mine.
Here's how I responded to her:
Sure, I can share a poem or two, but I can't resist giving some background.
Although I love language and writing, I paid little attention to poetry in school. I just didn't find anything in Western poetry that spoke to me.
That changed when I stumbled across the poetry of Ryokan, a Japanese poet, recluse, and Zen monk who wrote verse in both Chinese and Japanese. Here's a translation of one of my favorites of his, a haiku:
Left behind
By the thief --
The moon in my window
When I show or recite that to others, I usually get a blank stare. But it speaks to me.
From Ryokan I "found" Tang dynasty poets like Li Bai, Bai Ju Yi, Wang Wei, and (my favorite) Han Shan, a somewhat obscure early Tang poet. Here's a translation of one of his:
I think of all the places I've been,
Chasing from one famous spot to another.
Delighting in mountains, I scaled the mile-high peaks;
Loving the water, I sailed a thousand rivers.
I held farewell parties with my friends in Lute Valley.
Brought my zither and played on Parrot Shoals.
Who would guess I'd end up under a pine tree,
Clasping my knees in the whispering cold?
And here's one by Yang Wanli that I love:
Afraid that the autumn wind might be jealous of the peonies
I cut a branch and put it in a porcelain vase.
The heavy curtains are drawn, the doors are closed --
Why do the petals keep falling off?
My Chinese friends say that translations lose the true meaning. That may be so. But these poems still speak to me in a way that Western poetry does not.
So about 5 years ago, during a time of personal grief, it was in Chinese and Japanese poetry that I found some comfort. It was literally the only thing I could read. And since then I have read a great number of translations, and I have tried to learn a little Chinese with the help of friends and http://www.zhongwen.com (a great website).
Not long after that I started writing verse to capture and intensify little experiences that I wanted to "save." So my tiny verses are almost like a journal of little occurrences ... they're simple, direct, and without structure or ornamentation. Then some friends at a Buddhist temple I attend mentioned their poetry group and invited me and I've been meeting with them for a couple of years now. They're actually quite talented.
This was the first verse I wrote:
Spring comes
The woodpecker returns
Every year
Until now
Here are some others ...
Bluebird on a branch --
Unknown
My affection
Putting the blanket away --
Her faint scent
All that remains
My pinestraw
Is better than my neighbor's --
Two crows nest-building
Three hundred
miles away --
someone.
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