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The word is the power;
poetry, the clandestine complicity
that to all opposes,
to life and to death;
the poet, the informer.
To meditate on all this and sign Shang Tong*,
is almost aggression.
Still, I reaffirm every word, every letter.
Even the sound of flapping butterfly wings.
* Shang Tong, pseudonym of Li Tuan (circa 1390-1420), was a basket-maker as a child. In addition to the fond memory, he kept the grateful pleasure of still today, at age 79, making rocking chairs. He never put it in his CV, though, which includes, in his own words, three long short stories, six short long novels, and one still unseen book of poems that he expects will be published post-mortem.When we were there, surrounded by friends, I hardly knew that the language I articulated couldn't amount to a coherent theoretical defence, but it formed, fundamentally, the poetics of poetry. Here, from a distance, I feel estranged from that defence.
I leave to your judgment the possibility of understanding.
Half-world away, the harp is expression.
I sketch, weave the staccato, the soft and insidious silk of wings of cocoons of wild blackberries.
Nothing else matters.
The word is the power, and the poet its prophet.
to the mountain, the man, the poet. The whisper of butterfly wings, so soft, so powerful... Well done.
jim : )
They don't show a thermometer with 95...
Not everything from a Master can be a masterpiece, but almost everything will show mastery. This is very nice.
The footnote (why is it placed where it is?) aided my understanding. I felt that the last lines were particularly powerful and thought-provoking.
At one point, I felt I hit a bump in the road and was bounced out of the poetry truck onto the road of essay: "I hardly knew that the language I articulated couldn't amount to a coherent theoretical defence, but it formed, fundamentally, the poetics ..."
At that point I experienced some minor disappointment I guess. Yet, the contrast fits with the rest of the poem. Thanks for the enjoyment.
LOL - I'll start with the easy one.
Eve:
All of it is my own words. But there was a Chinese poet named Li Tuan who lived between 1390 and 1420 and who sometimes used the pseudonym of Shang Tong, who was supposed to a 79 year-old poet, formerly a soldier, formerly a wickerworker.
Sack:
Yes, all is as I indented (except there should be an extra line between the smaller print and the paragraph/stanza that follows it). As for your doubt of how can he expect to have something published post-mortem if he's already dead, note that the dates (1390-1420) refer to Li Tuan, the person, and not to Shang Tong, the persona. That should explain the small incongruences you noticed. ;)
Thanks for the comments, everyone.
can't claim with all truth that I understand every single word, but the overall impression was very deep, left me feeling like I just read something so profound and revealing, like I need to look up some stuff and go to bed tonight a smarter person. ;)
Is this part your own words? Sorry, if the question is lame. I have a feeling it is. lol
* Shang Tong, pseudonym of Li Tuan (circa 1390-1420), was a basket-maker as a child. In addition to the fond memory, he kept the grateful pleasure of still today, at age 79, making rocking chairs. He never put it in his CV, though, which includes, in his own words, three long short stories, six short long novels, and one still unseen book of poems that he expects will be published post-mortem.