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rejectomorphIf I worked at it for days, I could not correct all the errors that I've found in those few dozen Wikipedia articles I've read. I did fix a couple of them tonight, since I didn't feel like doing anything actually useful. In between bouts of frustration occasioned by the sight of egregious errors, I went outside and observed the rain and fog. I'm glad the frogs are happy, at least.
Happy Year of the Dog. Remember, in seven days everybody gets to be a full year older (see the "Everybody's Birthday" section on this page.) If we'd followed this tradition in the U.S., I could have gotten legally drunk only a few days after my 20th actual birthday. I feel cheated.
Naturally, the Chinese New Year calls for Chinese poetry.
Sunday Verse
by Han Yu (768-824)
The path up the mountain is hard
To follow through the tumbled rocks.
When I reach the monastery
The bats are already flying.
I go to the guest room and sit
On the steps. The rain is over.
The banana leaves are broad.
The gardenias are in bloom.
The old guest master tells me
There are ancient paintings on the
Walls. He goes and gets a light.
I see they are incomparably
Beautiful. He spreads my bed
And sweeps the mat. He serves me
Soup and rice. It is simple
Food but nourishing. The night
Goes on as I lie and listen
To the great peace. Insects chirp
And click in the stillness. The
Pure moon rises over the ridge
And shines in my door. At daybreak
I get up alone. I saddle
My horse myself and go my way.
The trails are all washed out.
I go up and down, picking my
Way through storm clouds on the mountain.
Red cliffs, green waterfalls, all
Sparkle in the morning light.
I pass pines and oaks ten men
Could not reach around. I cross
Flooded streams. My bare feet stumble
On the cobbles. The water roars.
My clothes whip in the wind. This
Is the only life where a man
Can find happiness. Why do I
Spend my days bridled like a horse
With a cruel bit in his mouth?
If I only had a few friends
Who agreed with me we’d retire
To the mountains and stay till our lives end.
-translated by Kenneth Rexroth
Happy Year of the Dog. Remember, in seven days everybody gets to be a full year older (see the "Everybody's Birthday" section on this page.) If we'd followed this tradition in the U.S., I could have gotten legally drunk only a few days after my 20th actual birthday. I feel cheated.
Naturally, the Chinese New Year calls for Chinese poetry.
Sunday Verse
Amongst the Cliffs
by Han Yu (768-824)
The path up the mountain is hard
To follow through the tumbled rocks.
When I reach the monastery
The bats are already flying.
I go to the guest room and sit
On the steps. The rain is over.
The banana leaves are broad.
The gardenias are in bloom.
The old guest master tells me
There are ancient paintings on the
Walls. He goes and gets a light.
I see they are incomparably
Beautiful. He spreads my bed
And sweeps the mat. He serves me
Soup and rice. It is simple
Food but nourishing. The night
Goes on as I lie and listen
To the great peace. Insects chirp
And click in the stillness. The
Pure moon rises over the ridge
And shines in my door. At daybreak
I get up alone. I saddle
My horse myself and go my way.
The trails are all washed out.
I go up and down, picking my
Way through storm clouds on the mountain.
Red cliffs, green waterfalls, all
Sparkle in the morning light.
I pass pines and oaks ten men
Could not reach around. I cross
Flooded streams. My bare feet stumble
On the cobbles. The water roars.
My clothes whip in the wind. This
Is the only life where a man
Can find happiness. Why do I
Spend my days bridled like a horse
With a cruel bit in his mouth?
If I only had a few friends
Who agreed with me we’d retire
To the mountains and stay till our lives end.
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Date: 2006-01-30 12:00 am (UTC)