a lyric, a poem, and two doggerels

judebox

斗胆造次，肯盼同好台鉴！娱人愉己，或博一笑耳耳。

The Primaeval Love
To warm a hoary day in its course,
Takes for ONE, SINGLE Sun but hours.
An unworthy world,
For Him a diurnal cruise.
Oh, the mighty Phoebus!
In the cotton-high Summer, when
we are like lice and fleas
In His furnace of mane.
we moan, we curse,
Hiding in our fluorine-ridden cool rooms,
Lest our glazed-cowardice should melt
Under His casual glance.

To ease the trudge off a nocturnal journey,
Alors, UNA Luna SOLA, ça bien suffit.
Should there be a pond,
Then Heaven’s been remade.
Lo, in the Moon-cooled breezes,
The pilgrim bathes greedily, bodily
In the tinkling Lunar droplets.
The night breathes Starry whispers,
Dries the bather with Her ebony caresses.
Way-farer, with heart in bliss and
Soul in peace,
What more can the voyage bequeath?

we,
burn tons of atoms,
to escape in vain
the frozenness inside.
we,
load the world with lights,
to avoid in failure
the shadows haunting our life.

She (Once I Saw her in the Street)
She was amused.
Maybe rare in her life of puberty,
But then, she was so amused by the old beggar woman,
A haggard-looking urban scavenger, then clapping an empty tin—
Vain and mechanic, but in somehow pensive obsession.

She gazed up at that groundless immersion.
Her deep, moist eyes with long lashes widened smoldering
With a recovered trace of living passion.
Her full and pouting lips, revived by the occasion,
Attempted to retrieve the pattern of a smile in the corners,
Though saliently scornful and bitter.

But that was it—all ended there—
The vagary, the unknowing witness, the stir smothered before sensed.
She palmed her way sidewise to get sheltered by more cool shade from trees.
The sweat wound in beads along her swarthy yet tender neck,
Leaving trails of greasy filth plowing all the way to her bare chest.


Her burgeoning body was revealed rather than concealed by her soiled blouse,
Under which her plump figure already began to mould the feminine curves.
The inferiour brassiere seemed to give away under her round, sensuous breasts—
There she sat, on the street, in the sun, amid the crowds,
Like a life's worn-out doll, a forlorn Hebe with her empty urn,
With puny, atrophic legs crossed awkwardly beneath her, and a face of mortal lethargy.

She was a also a beggar.
Her legs had long been twisted to life-long deformity to solicit trade.
She was now a puppet in her furious puberty—delicate but desperate, fragile yet futile, fervent even forsaken.

—Terrible, terrible,
Another terrible beauty we had yet made born!

A Poetry Doggerel
(Bemusement over Certain Contemporary Chinese Poetry)
Some profess the visions of Wordsworth,
Other profuse of aphorisms as if by Pope.
Fuddled reverie, with fickle imagery flirts
To claim the poetic altar’s Ultra-Hope.

But lo, beneath the swelling sponge of letters,
Holes and hollows do smirk aloud.
Behind the sophistry that clatters,
Sophists are piling smoky cloud.

“What is it, Poets, that sets you a-musing?”
Inquires the much bemused Muse.
“Your output does appear amusing,
But seem to my name a misuse.”

Poems are blooms of the Sense,
Sentiment their hue and fragrance;
Reveal the Cosmos minute or immense,
That to Life bears true reference.

Hence, minds ready to sound thy words,
Deeper, I plead thee to yet probe;
Lest do render poetry Void’s Worth,
Or naught save poets’ Hanging Rope.

A Farm Doggerel
“The sun doth his full majesty unfurl,
At the calling of this handsome rooster.”

“How flattering!” says the farm cock,
While he is listening
To the farmer’s son, kept away from the sport,
These words wearily reading.

“Yet how life-like,” the cock continues,
“—'Tis the portrait of me self;
For such is my power, my force, my sinews,
And it’s written in the books on the shelf.
It’s indeed, my proof of life,
And a life-long proof!”

“The world needs me; on me it shall rely;
Around me should it pivot.
For I give it the sun; I show it to light;
Or in dark be there still panic, chaos, riot!”

“One should see method in this, and method only!”
The cock gets more fervent, strutting the roof,
“For my age is coming, and it comes soonly.
Let it be known by all that stand on foot, claw, and hoof:
It’s indeed, my proof of life,
And a life-long proof!”

“Ye hens, sow, and cow with your mouth
Full all day, behold, and mark me well!
You live your life, not knowing North from South,
Hardly deserve the truth I’m going to tell.”

“From now on, rid your head of that ungrateful ignorance,
And imbue the heart with this solemn belief
That I’m the one solely chosen by history and providence,
To grant you here guidance and relief!
It’s indeed, my proof of life,
And a life-long proof!”

Zealous is the cock; he can’t stop:
“None other save I can in turn you save.
My place is, and remains on the top,
Then, to victories, and victories more, the way I’ll lead you to pave!”

The cow is chewing; the pig is snoring; and the hens mutely awaiting;
At the back of their minds, some sentences keep resounding:

“The hour your frame and fame rot to mush
Will not the rivers’ timeless billows hush.”

This is something we’ve heard from the book,
And will be swiftly proved by the cook.

Tonight there’ll be a feast; and you are invited.
On the table’s top a place for you, close to the loaf,
With flowers to deck your throne, kindles lighted;
While you would warm the victory speech up in the stove.
Sorry you may miss your date with the sun tomorrow on the roof.
Let’s hope she will still then around us kindly revolve.
For, after all, it’s indeed, your proof of life,
And a life-long proof!