The Moon Pool

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The Moon Pool Page 11

by Alexander Goldstein

personality

  Is very like yours, but something

  Seems to separate between us, as well.

  I would wish to find in myself

  What there's in you, but I am not

  Able to do so. You now say to me,

  "Keep your body and soul tight

  And complete, hold your life

  In your close embrace, and do not

  Let your intents and thoughts

  Keep working anxiously, that’s all."

  With all my efforts to learn

  Your good method, your words

  Reach only my ears, and

  There is nothing better to be said,

  Pure and simple. I'd also retort:

  “Have you not heard

  How a true man deals with himself?

  He forgets that the liver is

  On the right side of his stature,

  While the spleen is on the left.

  He takes no care of ears and eyes;

  He seems completely lost

  And aimless beyond the dust

  And dirt of the mundane world,

  Enjoyed himself at ease

  In occupation untroubled

  By affairs of businesses and trades

  Run all around him by others,

  Not by himself. He may be

  Described as acting and yet

  Not relying on what he does,

  As being superior and yet

  Not using his superiority

  To exercise any sort of control,

  Dwelling on it for his private end.

  But now you'd make a display

  Of your wisdom to astonish

  All the ignorant; you'd cultivate

  Your personality to make inferiority

  Of others more apparent;

  You seek to shine as though

  You were carrying the sun

  And the moon in your both hands.

  That you're complete

  In your well-built frame,

  With your soul and flesh firmly tied

  And with all bodily nine openings,

  And that you have not yet

  Encounter any serious damage

  And calamity in the middle

  Of your age, such as deafness

  Or blindness or lameness

  Or HIV-positive, Heaven forbid,

  And can still take your place

  As a man among other men --

  In all this you are goodly fortunate.

  What leisure you have

  Putting yourself above other men

  And lecturing them to no purpose?

  Now grab your stuff and

  Wend your way to do what you do,

  As I am going my way to do

  What I have to do there and then.

  40

  On High

  These mountains hide many secluded wonders—

  All climbers always come to be struck with awes.

  The moon's disc shines in the transparent waters

  Of the mountain brooklets, the rapids are vying

  With each other in telling the cock-and-bull tales;

  The winds blow, waving and swaying the sedges.

  When the season passes the aged withered plums

  Become bloomed over again with snow; bare trees

  Are filled with pink clouds for their shaggy crowns.

  After the rain touch everything around is refreshed

  And vivid; if it is not a sunny day, no one come up

  To see me in mid air. My life stands still between

  Climbing up and climbing down, my delights and

  My woes, a nightingale’s warble and a tiger’s roar.

  41

  Daybreak of Parting

  Late at twilight I passed the grey slope

  Of the verdant hills, and the moon's face

  Followed me hotfoot, dogging my heels;

  Her eyes were fixed on me devotedly and

  In her eyes I discerned irredeemable woe --

  There were only a couple of small hours

  Till daybreak cut off our visual contact.

  42

  A Fair Lady of My Dreams

  A fair lady from my sweet

  And slightly childish dreams,

  Upon smartening herself up

  Near a window, looks out thru it

  To feel sad in the dying sunset.

  In the shade of the glossy willows,

  Just outside her window,

  She fears the wind might arise

  And tousle her lofty hairstyle.

  Before she speaks, she reddens,

  Like a cherry ripe-broken,

  Like an ice statue, molten;

  But in a moment she moves her lips --

  A string of notes -- scented,

  Tremulous and golden -- busts out

  To fill up the air with fragrance.

  When she turns sideways

  Her beauty may be a subject

  Of the following verbal painting:

  Sideways is inclining,

  Her jade hair-pin is declining;

  The dark arc of her brows curves,

  Like the new moon reclining and

  Into her velvet temples resigning.

  When she walks, her grace

  May be depicted in the following

  Parlance of delight:

  She moves her steps, cunning

  And pretty; her soft skin sounds,

  Like a babyish ditty;

  So gracefully tender

  And so helplessly immature,

  Like a weeping willow long twigs

  Before her twisting in a soft

  And gentle breeze giddying.

  Lightly dipping her gauzy scarf,

  The breeze entwines her slender waist

  With its caressing touch. . .

  Still, reddened and naked

  She shows herself

  When she's sure of being alone,

  In solitude,

  Soaring in mid air and beyond

  The fathomless azure of space.

  43

  Two Banks of One Stream

  When cuckoo had cried the fourth chilly watch

  Into these small hours of the dawn, then I rose,

  Lest the silkworms, short of the mulberry leaves,

  Hunger might. Lighting up then my way back,

  Who'd think that those young ladies and nobles

  Weren't yet through with their all night dancing.

  I looked at the sky and the silver moon shone

  Thru the willows under their mansion's windows

  That dropped the bitter sap into the ditch beneath.

  44

  On the Eve of Mid-Autumn Feast

  As usual, at my little pool's edge I drink

  Illumined by the pendulous moon’s disc;

  A pot of wine sinks into the thick grasses

  Because this evening hour alone I drink

  Without a boon companion of mine --

  My good compotator from the nearby

  Daoist Temple named 'Bamboo Grove'

  Who often shares my booze with me

  Once dropping in at my place to drink.

  Tonight, Her Majesty Moon,

  Reflecting brightly into the pool, I see,

  Does not drink from the wine-pot

  Whilst my shadow silently follows my hand,

  Now up, now down, pushing me forward

  A fit of my loneliness and blues.

  I am going to keep this silent company

  For some more time and then

  Wend my way to the nearby village

  To have a real gaiety throughout the night

  In high gear of the Mid-Autumn Festival,

  As only joys shared with the other men,

  They say, are more enjoyable, my friend!

  45

  Reminiscences

  So much of life is merely a farce!

  It’s sometimes as well as to standby

  And look at it a
nd smile, better,

  Perhaps, than to take part in it.

  Like a dreamer suddenly awakened,

  We usually see our life, not with

  The romantic colouring

  Of last night's dream but with

  A saner viewing. We are more ready

  To give up all the dubious, glamorous

  And mostly unattainable but

  At the same time to hold on

  To some few things that we know

  Could give us some happy moments.

  We always go back to Mother Nature

  As an eternal source of beauty

  And of the true and deep and

  Long-lasting fortunate state.

  But once deprived of any progress

  And of internal power, we yet

  Throw open our windows

  And listen to the chirr of cicadas

  Or to falling autumn leaves

  And inhale the fragrance

  Of the yellowish chrysanthemums,

  And over the top there shines

  The autumn moon's pendent brow --

  We are content for a poised while.

  For we are now in the late summer,

  The height of our farcical life.

  There comes a rare time in our routine

  When, as individuals, we're pervaded

  To the brim by the spirituals

  Of early autumn tune, in which

  The greenish tints are mixed

  With gold but sadness with joy,

  And all hopes are mixed with

  Reminiscences of the olden days,

  Stirring up the eerie affection for them.

  46

  The Charm of Early Autumn

  Inevitably there comes a time in our life

  When the innocence of spring is a memory

  And the exuberance of summer -- a song

  Whose echoes faintly remain in mid air;

  When, as we all look out on our life,

  The problem is not how to grow but

  How to live truly; not how to strive but

  How to enjoy the precious moments;

  Not how to squander our energy but

  How to conserve it in preparation for

  The coming winter, without dissipation.

  A sense of having arrived somewhere,

  Of having settled and found out desired;

  A sense of having achieved something

  Is also precious little compared with

  Its past plenty, but still it is something,

  Like an autumn mountain slope shorn

  Of the summer glory but retaining as it is,

  And what's more, will firmly endure.

  I would prefer spring, but it's too young;

  I'd like upgrowth of summer, but, alas,

  It's too proud of itself; therefore,

  I like best of all autumn, its starting phase,

  Because its leaves are readily yellowish,

  Its tone is mellower, its colours are richer,

  And it is tinged a little bit with sorrow,

  Granting us premonition of untimely end.

  Its golden ripeness and surplus richness

  Speaks not of the innocence of springtime,

  Nor of the power of summer but

  Of the mellowness and sagely wisdom

  Of approaching ageing and imminence --

  It knows the limits of life and is fully content.

  From a knowledge of those limitations

  And its wide experience, in the ascendant,

  A symphony of tints and colours emerges,

  Which is richer than of any others;

  Its green speaking of vigour and strength,

  Its orange speaking

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