Meditation on the Road [4/6]

Six Wartime Sonnets (IV)

Huiwen Zhang

Unlike the three sonnets discussed before (cf. No. 15, 16 & 2), No. 6 is narrated by “me,” an observing, speculating, and contemplating individual.  It’s “I” who crystallize into a poem the objects of “my” observation, the airy flights of “my” speculation, and the branching shades of “my” contemplation:

6

I often see in the fields

A village boy or peasant woman

Crying to the clear, wordless sky.

Is it over some punishment or

A broken toy?

Is it over a husband’s death

Or a son’s illness?

Crying like that, never stopping,

As if their whole life is laid

In a frame, and outside the frame

There is no life, no world.

I feel that they through all time

Have been letting tears roll

Over a desperate globe.

 (tr. Huiwen Zhang)

Clouds of Suspicion

The first three lines build a scene as the point of departure; this, however, is no ‘naïve’ scene that can and shall be accepted without suspicion:

Do “I” see in reality, in memory, or in dreams? 

Why “often?”  How “often?” 

What’s the relationship between the “village boy or peasant woman” and “me?”  Am “I” a passerby, a stranger, or an acquaintance—even relative—of theirs? 

If this happens in reality, and “I” am just a passerby, what brings “me” to this strange field?  What is “my” initial destination?  Do “I” stop to observe or observe while walking on?  Does it make a difference?  Anyhow, the fact that “I” observe indicates “my” interest, but why do “I” keep distant from those “I” care for and refrain from initiating a dialogue?

If this happens in memory or dreams, does the chance increase that “I” am an acquaintance or relative of the boy or the woman—that the woman is actually “my” mum and the boy is “my” younger self?  Why do “I often” remember or dream the crying scene of “my” mum and “myself?”  What makes it such a haunting moment to “me?” 

Expansion of the Clouds

Contingent upon our responses to the “clouds of suspicion”, lines 4-7 reveal different meanings:

They are nothing but the speculation of the “I” who happen to pass across a field and catch sight of the scene.

They are more than “my” speculation because the scene immediately reminds “me” of something that happened to “my” family and “myself” years ago.

They are no speculation, but the most practical reasons remembered by “me” who carry the scene—and every cause behind it—through all these years of wandering.

They are neither pure speculation nor pure memory, but a belated explanation to “myself” of an old scene that “I” did not understand when it first happened.  Its frequent recurrence in “my” memories and dreams thereafter makes “me” eventually recognize a series of stories behind the scene.

The First Leap

Whatever the real meanings of the crying scene, lines 9-11 lift the sonnet to a new level by a leap: “As if their whole life is laid / In a frame, and outside the frame / There is no life, no world.”

What do we associate with the “frame?”  A painting or photo frame; a door or window frame; a perspective or camera frame?

What is the primary function shared by these frames?  To limit our vision to a specific picture—view, focus or orientation—and lock it up?

What happens with the frame in the sonnet?  It seems to “me” (and us, the reader) that the boy or the woman’s vision is limited to one of the causes of their cry and locked up: at that moment, they see nothing but a “punishment or a broken toy,” “a husband’s death or a son’s illness.”

Are they, therefore, to blame?  Why do we not blame van Gogh for seeing and painting only certain objects at one time?  What does his concentration bring about instead of narrowing down?  How does an ordinary person’s concentration differ from that of an artist?

Is it a sad perception or a sad truth that “outside the frame there is no life, no world?”  Does the boy perceive the punishment or broken toy as the end of his world or are they indeed?  Does the woman take her husband’s death or her son’s illness for the end of her world or are they really?  Is there truth that is not perception?

Am “I” (and we, the reader) at that moment not “laid in a frame” as well?  What else do “I” see besides the boy and the woman in the fields?  What else do we see apart from the boy and the woman in “my” eyes?  Who of us can ever escape that universal frame—the limit of human vision at a specific moment of our life?

Is it worth trying to escape it?

A Curious Contrast

Before proceeding to the last stanza, let’s zoom in on two points that build a curious contrast and deserve more attention.

The first is “the clear, wordless sky” in line 3.  Does this imply an indifferent and stoic cosmos that has no ears to human cry, remaining “clear and wordless” despite witnessing human suffering?  Or does it indicate an attentive and empathetic cosmos that unfortunately has no voice or gesture to express condolence and in fact suffers itself to remain “clear and wordless?”  Or does it suggest an initially attentive and empathetic cosmos, which, tired out by continuously witnessing human suffering, realizes the futility and absurdity of condolence and decides to become indifferent and stoic, and remain so? 

Why does the boy not cry to his mum, his grandpa, or even to a dog or a cow, but to this “clear, wordless sky?”  Why does the woman not cry beside her husband’s coffin, her son’s bed, or even in front of a shrine, but to this “clear, wordless sky?”  Whether it is unwilling or unable to react, the sky looks untouched and cool.  What’s the point of crying, then, if it yields no response? 

The second is line 8: “Crying like that, never stopping.”  As much pointless as a human cry to an inhuman sky is or seems to be, the village boy and the peasant woman do it, and they do it so persistently, sincerely, and vigorously. 

Where does this fervent, inexhaustible energy come from? —From despair?  From concentration?  From the unstained innocence and increasing fortitude of a boy?  Or from the frightened motherhood and sacred motherly love of a woman? 

Where does the energy go? —Into “the clear, wordless sky” and becomes an expressive cloud?  Into “the fields” and moistens the roots of all that is growing?  Into the wood, iron, or copper of “the frame” and makes it even solider and more inescapable?  Or into the eyes, ears, and mind of the “I,” a wanderer, and awakens “my” memory or inspires “me” to wild speculations and serene contemplations?

The Second Leap

Following the first leap in lines 9-11, lines 12-14 lift the sonnet by a second leap: “I feel that they through all time / Have been letting tears roll / Over a desperate globe.”  

Instantly, a random moment of crying is transformed into the absolute perpetuity of crying: not only at that moment is “their whole life laid in a frame,” but “through all time;” not only at the moment of passing across a field is “my” vision limited to a certain scene and locked up, but through all “my” years of wandering.  And the same to us, the reader: not only while reading “my” sonnet is our sight—and mind—limited to what “I” see and think, but at no single moment of our life are we perfectly free from any frame. 

In addition to this temporal transcendence of the universal frame, the last stanza also raises a chain of questions that leave the sonnet open:

Why do “I” feel that “they through all time have been”—instead of crying—“letting tears roll?”  Do tears have their own will, and the boy or the woman just let them go?  Is the human cry a state of activity or passivity?  Does it suggest a complaint or an acceptance, a surrender or a rebel?

And then, why do they let tears fall “over a desperate”—not despairing—“globe?”  Does the globe—planet, cosmos, or universe—have its own mental, spiritual, and emotional capacity and can be, like a human being, driven mad, ecstatic, or desperate?  What does it have to do with “the clear, wordless sky” in line 3?  Are we accordingly compelled to reevaluate the sky and its attitude towards the human cry?

Finally, is the “desperate globe” the origin and cause of the human cry, as the preposition “over” indicates?  Or is it rather the consequence—the development and climax—of the human cry, as the adjective “desperate” (in contrast to “despairing”) suggests?  Or is it neither of these, but instead, a mirror or parallel of the human cry, for the desperation of both the earth and the life on it is eternal, as the temporal transcendence—“through all time”—implies?

(to be continued)

Ozzy and Me (III)

A Life without Thinking

I ceased to write for four days.

I ceased to think.

Instead, I established a new schedule with Ozzy excluding all mental activity:

Get up together—breakfast together—play toys in the backyard—morning walk—lunch for me and snack for Ozzy—play toys in the backyard anew—afternoon walk—brush and clean Ozzy—dinner together—gymnastics in my study—go to bed together

 

Night Gym in My Study

It is the first time for me to live with another being; I am afraid I’ve even gone so far as to live for another: Ozzy has become everything to me. 

I can hardly tell whether I enjoy this new life: physically I feel better than ever; mentally worse than ever.  

A Scene

Today I made an exception—an experiment: I left Ozzy alone in the backyard after our morning walk and sat by the window watching him through the curtain’s crack.

He was first confused and anxious, standing at the back door waiting for me to show up.  After half an hour, he turned to the fence gate and did the same thing, in vain.  So did he run back and forth for several times, until he got exhausted—not physically, I could tell.  He then selected a place in the sun from where he thought he could look into the house and see me—if I came back—through the window, although it’s impossible during daytime.

He sat there in sad silence, looking at the window from time to time.  Then he lay on his side with his head still toward the window.  Then he fell asleep...  After a while he woke up and sat staring at the window again—in weary longing.

 Longing Eats the Soul

A Thought

While Watching Ozzy Sitting Lost in the Yard

I saw myself in Ozzy.

My first Christmas in the Midwest turns out to be brutal: school is over; the crowded campus has become no man’s land.  All my students are gone; most of my friends and colleagues celebrate the holiday season elsewhere, and the few who stay are committed to family.  Wherever I go, I encounter the emptiness—and within the emptiness a heavy despair gathers.

This is strikingly different from my Christmas in Germany: there I never spent the quietest time of the year alone, which magically transformed the utmost quietness into a rare opportunity of reunion and das gegenseitige menschliche Sich-näher-Kommen.  In retrospect, I guess that was why I had been mentally unstoppable and inexhaustible. 

A noble friend and exquisite interlocutor in Bonn spontaneously commented on my character in contrast to his own following our first conversations in Wolfenbüttel:

Ob ich auch mal nicht denke? Das ist eher die Regel als die Ausnahme! Erstens bin ich nicht so ein Überflieger wie Du (ich sage das ganz ohne jede Koketterie, und gerade das ist für mich sehr wertvoll, v.a. in Sachen Demut), und zweitens versuche ich mich manchmal ganz bewusst Von der schweren Krankheit des Denkens (so der Titel einer herrlichen Rede eines Südseehäuptlings) zu befreien, aber das ist ein anderes Thema...

Dein Geist dagegen ist ein Feuer, das unaufhörlich brennt, und allein die Funken sind manch kleinerem (oder weniger energiegeladenem) Geist wie mir schon Wärme genug.

I was honored and humbled by his comments; but I failed to recognize that the observer himself contributed decisively to what I was: Nur unter der einen Bedingung kann mein Geist, das scheinbar bedingungslos unaufhörlich brennende Feuer, unaufhörlich brennen, daß mir ein vortrefflicher Gesprächspartner—ein ebenbürtiger Gegener—nicht fehlt.  

Otherwise I am just as bored, idle, and lost as Ozzy when left alone in a fenced backyard.  Sunshine, water, fresh air, pig ears, and even his favorite toys are not enough: he needs somebody to play with.

I need somebody to talk to.

It’s frightening to realize how dependent I am on infinite inspirations and constant challenges.

The School of Athens on the Way

I wish I could take a photo of Ozzy and myself when we two explore the neighborhoods at the dawn of day and in the dusk of evening: he always looks down for every particle beneath his feet; I always look up at the sky—the sun, the moon, the clouds, the stars—rising from a fringe of the tops of trees, and the few birds on the tops of trees.  

Birds on the Tops of Trees

I don’t understand his passion for sniffing the earth; he doesn’t understand my ardor to reach the unattainable.  Ozzy and I are at once so close to each other, and yet so far away from each other.

I suddenly recall Raphael’s depiction of Plato and Aristotle in Scuola di Atene:

These two central figures gesture along different dimensions: Plato vertically, upward along the picture-plane, into the beautiful vault above; Aristotle on the horizontal plane at right-angles to the picture-plane, initiating a powerful flow of space toward viewers.  It is popularly thought that their gestures indicate central aspects of their philosophies ... However Plato’s Timaeus was, even in the Renaissance, a very influential treatise on the cosmos, whereas Aristotle insisted that the purpose of ethics is “practical” rather than “theoretical” or “speculative”: not knowledge for its own sake, as he considered cosmology to be.

(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_School_of_Athens, 9pm today)

“How are you going to remember me?”

Two months ago I saw a Hong Kong film, Echoes of the Rainbow (literally Time, the Thief): a young man tells his first love during their date at the aquarium that goldfish are never bored because their memory only lasts 3 seconds, which makes each turn at either end of the glass the start of a completely new adventure.  They hence wonder whether human beings could be permanently happy as well if they had the goldfish’s memory.

I wonder how long a dog’s memory lasts.

Last Thursday our department secretary paid a brief visit to Ozzy, whom she took care of and got acquainted with some time ago.  To my surprise, Ozzy barked at her as she showed up and made every effort to prevent me from getting closer to her.  “He is just overprotective of you,” the secretary tried to relieve my embarrassment.  But I nonetheless had to see her off immediately.  “We’ll see what happens when your friend comes back,” she said before her departure. 

I, too, am curious about it. 

In “A Few of My Favorite Things” I talked about the unconventional and unconditional brotherhood between Vinnie (an undercover FBI agent) and Sonny (the leader of Atlantic City Mafia) in Wiseguy, an 80s TV show.  In the climactic scene of the final episode, No One Gets Out of Here Alive, Sonny bumped into a Moody Blues record and played it; it was “Night in White Satin.”  In that music and mood, he turned to Vinnie:

“Remember the 60s, Vinnie?”

“Yea.”

“How are you going to remember this?”  

(Silence)

“How are you going to remember me, Vinnie?”

Upon my friend’s return, I’d like to ask, “How are you going to remember me, Ozzie?” 

  "How are you going to remember me, Huiwen?"

"It Used To Be A Vacant Lot..."

This afternoon I received a note from a friend:

I’m at the computer in my home office. My home office has a view of what has been, for longer than the eight years we’ve lived here, a vacant lot. But just a few weeks ago the builders started. It is quite a show watching the Mexican crew build a house unlike Mexican houses (much use of wood in the framework of the house, in this country, but Mexican homes use cement blocks and rebar. American homes seem quite fragile in comparison.) Today, in addition to the men finishing off the top floor’s wood frame, I can see a carpenter building the stairs inside what will be the front door. This takes some getting used to after eight years...

This note instantly intrigued me because it contains two moments I experienced myself.  The first is the ridicule of the scene where the Mexican crew build a house unlike Mexican houses.  During my 2009 visit to Beijing, I watched the Chinese crew build mansions, shopping malls, grand hotels, office towers, etc., unlike Chinese architecture, which ruined the harmony and uniqueness of the city and would ultimately, I dare say, turn it into Die Stadt ohne Eigenschaften.   

The second is the change of view from an (at least) eight-year-old vacant lot to a wood house within just a few weeks.  I left China in 2002 and revisited it every one to three years thereafter; each homeward journey, as far as the environment is concerned, reinforced the impression that I no longer belong there: my kindergarten and elementary school both permanently vanished from the planet; my high school’s new look is grandiosely artificial and hardly recognizable; the rebuilt campus of my university has become a labyrinth to me despite the 8 years I spent there—day and night.  When I wandered through the city of Beijing I got the feeling that it’s a relative of mine after numerous plastic operations.

“An infinite ocean turns into a mulberry field in the twinkling of an eye.”

—This is one of my favorite Chinese idioms (Canghai Sangtian, literally “infinite ocean, orchid field”).   I love it because it illustrates in a poetic way the awful truth my friend and I have learnt; both the ocean and the mulberry field are serene and immensely potential.  Changes in real life, however, are far less poetic and soothing.

I always encourage my students who want to study abroad in China to do so as soon as possible; I am afraid otherwise they would miss even the last few traces of what it used to be like. 

In thirty years my friend’s children will have their own children.  If they happen to ask about the wood house viewed from his home office, what would my friend say, after telling them that “it used to be a vacant lot...?”

Ozzy and Me (II)

Ozzy and Me (II)

A Rotkäppchen Story Reversed

No blog entries last weekend; I fell ill. 

On Saturday morning, the first day I took Ozzie under the shelter of my roof, a friend of mine invited me to attend a dog party in a park.  Both Ozzie and I are curious; the only difference is that he has thick fur, and I have not.  After standing outside for ca. 80 minutes watching dogs play, I felt chilly and feverish.   The same afternoon I had to lie down.

It turned out to be a long, difficult night: I woke up four times to take liquid herbal medicine and use the bathroom; everytime Ozzie woke up immediately and followed me quietly wherever I went. 

As the alarm clock rang the next morning, I, half awake and half dreaming, felt a soft hand stroke my left cheek.  I opened my eyes and saw the face of a chocolate labrador with human eyes looking into mine.  That was Ozzie—caring and careful, as if he had taken me under the shelter of his roof.  I felt grateful, yet strange: Ozzie’s face reminded me of something I could not clearly recall.  

In retrospect I realize that it’s a dramatic scene in the fairy tale Rotkäppchen: the ‘little red cap’ confronts the ‘false grandmother’—the big bad wolf—in bed.  However, in my case the story was double reversed: first, the bad wolf became a good dog; second, das Rotkäppchen was lying in bed, and it was the dog who took care of her.

 

A Cry & a Rock

My courtship of Ozzy began one week ago—simple and cheap: I walked him every afternoon for an hour or so.  Yet he became fond of me just this way.

On Thursday evening I took him back to the backyard as usual; my friend came out and saw me off.  As we talked to each other, Ozzie stood behind the fence watching us.  The fence is pretty high; but Ozzie is so big that, while standing on tiptoe, his head is right above the top of the fence. 

The moment I was about to go, both my friend and I heard a curious cry; we looked in that direction and saw Ozzie sobbing from behind the fence.  This was almost a tragicomedy: on the one hand his sadness was genuine and contagious; on the other it was really amusing to see a dog sob in that posture—standing on tiptoe, with the protruding head sticking out beyond the top of the fence.   

A Chinese legend suddenly fell into my mind.  It’s the story about a gracefully shaped rock: once upon a time a boy bid farewell to his girl and left the village.  The girl waited for him day after day, in vain; eventually she turned into a rock, looking in the direction of his walk back to the village.

I wondered for a while whether Ozzie would stand like that from here to eternity—and become a rock.

Dinner Date

As much as Ozzy had become fond of me, he refused to eat in the first hours after moving into my house on Friday morning.  This worried me; I thought he might be homesick.   

On that evening, however, I made a cheering discovery: he refused to eat until I started to eat myself.  Seeing me enjoy my meal whetted his appetite right away!

As my friend called from California later, I told him about the secret.  His wife commented spontaneously: “Huiwen is Ozzie’s dinner date.”

Yes, I am.

(to be continued)

Meditation on the Road [3/6]--Resonance

 (Continued from Previous Post)

Resonance

Huiwen Zhang

My description of Sonnet 2 as “a floating labyrinth beneath the tranquil surface” not only applies to the strategies and approaches of the poem, but also to the structure and dynamic of the broader context within which the poem resides and glides.

On the one hand, Sonnet 2 resonates with at least three texts by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), the German poet who decisively reshapes Feng Zhi’s view of life and poetry:

1.      “Der Auszug des verlorenen Sohnes”:

    Nun fortzugehn von alledem Verworrnen,

    das unser ist und uns doch nicht gehört,

    das, wie das Wasser in den alten Bornen,

    uns zitternd spiegelt und das Bild zerstört;

    von allem diesen, das sich wie mit Dornen

    noch einmal an uns anhängt – fortzugehn

2.      “Von der Landschaft”:

     So hatte man den Menschen empfunden zur Zeit, da man ihn groß malte; aber der Mensch war schwankend geworden und ungewiß, und sein Bild floß dahin in Verwandlungen und war kaum mehr zu fassen. Die Natur war dauernder und größer, alle Bewegung war breiter in ihr und alle Ruhe schlichter und einsamer. Es war eine Sehnsucht im Menschen, mit ihren erhabenen Mitteln von sich zu reden wie von etwas ebenso Wirklichem, und so entstanden die Bilder von Landschaften, in denen nichts geschieht. Leere Meere hat man gemalt, weiße Häuser in Regentagen, Wege, auf denen keiner geht, und unsäglich einsame Wasser. Immer mehr entschwand das Pathos und je besser man diese Sprache verstand, in desto schlichterer Weise gebrauchte man sie. Man versenkte sich in die große Ruhe der Dinge, man empfand, wie ihr Dasein in Gesetzen verging, ohne Erwartung und ohne Ungeduld. Und still gingen unter ihnen die Tiere umher und ertrugen wie sie den Tag und die Nacht und waren voll von Gesetzen. Und als der Mensch später in diese Umgebung trat, als Hirte, als Bauer oder einfach als eine Gestalt aus der Tiefe des Bildes: da ist alle Überhebung von ihm abgefallen und man sieht ihm an, daß er Ding sein will.

     In diesem Aufwachsen der Landschafts-Kunst zu einem langsamen Landschaft-Werden der Welt liegt eine weite menschliche Entwicklung. Der Inhalt dieser Bilder, der so absichtslos aus Schauen und Arbeit entsprang, spricht uns davon, daß eine Zukunft begonnen hat mitten in unserer Zeit: daß der Mensch nichtmehr der Gesellige ist, der unter seinesgleichen im Gleichgewicht geht, und auch derjenige nichtmehr, um dessentwillen Abend und Morgen wird und Nähe und Ferne. Daß er unter die Dinge gestellt ist wie ein Ding, unendlich allein und daß alle Gemeinsamkeit aus Dingen und Menschen sich zurückgezogen hat in die gemeinsame Tiefe, aus der die Wurzeln alles Wachsenden trinken.

3.     Briefe an einen jungen Dichter:

Nur der einzelne, der einsam ist, ist wie ein Ding unter die tiefen Gesetze gestellt, und wenn einer hinausgeht in den Morgen, der anhebt, oder hinaus in den Abend schaut, der voll Ereignis ist, und wenn er fühlt, was da geschieht, so fällt aller Stand von ihm ab, wie von einem Toten, obwohl er mitten in lauter Leben steht”

Letters to a Young Poet

Only the individual who is lonesome is like a thing placed under the fundamental law of Nature. And if such a one goes out into the morning that is just beginning, or looks out into the night that is full of happenings, and if he feels what happens there, all identity will fall from him, as if from a dead man, although he is standing in the midst of nothing but life.

(tr. Huiwen Zhang)

All these three texts by Rilke were translated and commented by Feng Zhi in 1931.  

On the other hand, the images and concepts of Sonnet 2 recur in Feng Zhi’s own work—his first and only novel Wu Zixu, composed immediately after the series of 27 sonnets.  By this ‘poetic narrative,’ Feng Zhi revisits the Chinese palimpsest—the ancient legend of Wu Zixu (?-484 BCE)—and transforms the popular story of revenge into an allegory of the wartime generation’s search for its home.  

In the climactic scene of the 5^th chapter, “Zhao Pass,” the hero witnesses a ceremonial funeral of soldiers fallen abroad; an elegy sung by a shaman sends him into the double realm of life and death.  At that moment a complex echo of Sonnet 2 starts up, as Feng Zhi puts it:

Zixu sank into unconsciousness; his dreaming soul drifted with those of the dead to their far homes.  Only the whistle of the stream guided him on.  Inside he already became one with the dead, descending into the gloomiest and lowest depth.

The sunlight of the next morning drew him out of the depth like a long string. […] At that moment, Zixu, the caterpillar that barely survived his hazardous shedding, felt his old skin slough off at once—all so fast!

As he got through the Zhao Pass, Zixu felt his yesterdays fall from his body like withered leaves, piece by piece.  He sensed a fresh lightness he had never known.

In the forest beyond the pass, Zixu saw his own face in a pond.  Within just a few days his hair had turned grey so much, as if nature had performed a miracle on his body, prophesying that what even now seemed impossible could soon be realized upon earth.

(tr. Huiwen Zhang)

Meditation on the Road [3/6]

Six Wartime Sonnets (III)

Huiwen Zhang

Sonnet 2 is a floating labyrinth beneath the tranquil surface:

              2

What might fall from our bodies,

Let it all turn into dust:

In our time we arrange ourselves

Like autumn trees, one by one

Handing leaves and late blossoms

All to the autumn wind, freeing the trunk to stretch

Into harsh winter; we arrange ourselves

In nature, as cicadas and moths

Cast all old skins into the mud;

We arrange ourselves for that

Death to come, like the stanza of a song.

From the body of the music the sound falls.

What remains in the end is the music's body:

Green hills ranged in silence.

    (tr. Huiwen Zhang)

Curiosity

It begins with a curious line that at first sight seems to be a question, “What might fall from our bodies.”  Indeed, almost every word of this line bears an invisible yet inevitable question mark: what is “what?”  Why “might?”  How “fall?”  Who are “we?”  Are “our bodies” concrete and physical or abstract and metaphorical?

Resurrection

The second line resembles the Biblical quote, “for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return,” which is adapted into a text in the burial service said by the Priest, “we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”  The soothing tone suggests a standard view that eases the anxiety of those who survive the departed: they will come back to life.  It concerns more the alive than the dead.

Does this view soothe the uneasiness caused by the first line?  Not really, because it is “from our bodies” that something “might fall.”  “We” are not the mourning bystanders, but the dying—if not the dead—themselves.

And yet “our” speech would suggest that “we” are very much alive.

Architecture

There is a colon following the second line and two semicolons thereafter.  They indicate a three-layer, dialectic architecture.  Is it the architecture of coherence and development, or of interruption and revolution?

Reduction

Lines 3-9 present two parallels on the first two layers. 

The first parallel exists between “we” and “autumn trees,” suggesting “we” surrender “leaves and late blossoms all to the autumn wind.”  This is no pleasant advice, since the normal view takes leaves and blossoms for that which constitutes the beauty and vitality of trees.  However, the trunk left behind nonetheless stands for life.  Further, if giving up the leaves and blossoms “allowing the trunk to stretch into severe winter,” the advice is, albeit unpleasant, sensible and even hopeful.

Transformation

The second parallel exists between “we” and “cicadas and moths,” suggesting “we” discard “all old skins into the mud.”  This advice sounds much more pleasant.  However, the molting process differs from the shedding of trees: without leaves and blossoms trees are still trees; discarding old skins means, in contrast, the death of larvae and the birth of cicadas and moths. 

Hence we realize the leap from the first to the second layer: “what might fall from our bodies” is initially illustrated as the reduction of autumn trees in winter, then revised to be the transformation of cicada and moth larvae in nature.  Reduction implies getting rid of anything non-essential (but retain the core); transformation implies letting go of the core.

Paradox

Apart from the ‘leap,’ the first two layers also circle around a verb that requires reflection—“arrange”: on the one hand, “we arrange ourselves” and are not arranged by somebody or something outside of ourselves.  On the other, our self-arrangement is in essence self-reduction, i.e. giving up what is ours but non-essential to us, and transformation, i.e. giving up even what is essential to us. 

The peculiar verb “arrange,” therefore, indicates an active passivity or a willing acceptance.

Interruption

As demanding as the first two parallels are, they remain relatively accessible to us: we see the shedding of trees in winter and the molting of larvae in nature, don’t we?  Thus there is no question about the phenomena themselves; our only problem would be to acknowledge and adopt the attitudes suggested by the phenomena—willing- and readiness to reduce ourselves to the core and let eventually even our core undergo transformation.

Lines 10-13, in contrast, bring about a parallel between “we” and “the stanza of a song” that truly disturbs us, because the phenomenon itself now turns out to be a real problem: we do not and cannot see the falling of the sound “from the body of the music” and the naked body of the music left behind alone.  While we could probably identify—after some reflection—the message of the shedding trees and that of the molting larvae as reduction and transformation, we would definitely have a much more difficult time making sense of a song whose sound is falling or the music whose sound is fallen.  And if we fail to recognize the meaning of the phenomenon, how could we take the next step and figure out the parallel?

Seen from this view, the third layer reveals a hitherto most perplexing moment—almost an interruption: both of the first two parallels encourage us to decipher a clearly and superficially encoded phenomenon and then transfer the message to the other side.  The third parallel, however, builds on a phenomenon that is so vaguely and profoundly encrypted that we are completely at a loss.

Particularity

Moreover, the third layer contains a seemingly superfluous deictic word that irritates us: “We arrange ourselves for that coming death.”  

Does “that” suggest a particular death instead of death itself?  What is “that death” if not death?  How does it differ from the death we generally understand?

Transcendence

The last line of the sonnet, to our greatest surprise, proves to be even more perplexing than the ‘interruption’: “Green hills ranged in silence.”  This dramatic ending seems to only intensify the problem: while the encoded phenomenon in lines 10-13 remains unencrypted, another deciphered phenomenon suddenly emerges—how to imagine, perceive, and make sense of the change of “the body of the music” to a range of “green hills?”  How can it possibly be? 

On second thought, however, line 14 exactly helps decipher the unencrypted phenomenon in the third parallel; it rounds off the incomplete image and creates a complex echo of the first two parallels: the metamorphosis of the music hints at transformation and prompts us to think backwards.  If the change of “the body of the music” to a range of “green hills” is the transformation—or molting—of “the stanza of a song,” then the falling of the sound from “the body of the music” is the self-reduction—or shedding—of “the stanza of a song.” 

The dramatic ending, therefore, brings the phenomena of “autumn trees” and “cicadas and moths” together and upgrades their message from reduction and transformation to transcendence.

Paradox & Particularity Revisited

This decipherment or solution premises upon our ‘active passivity’ or our ‘willing acceptance’ of the change of the body of the music to a range of green hills.  This change stands beyond common sense and human experience; any attempt to make sense of it is futile.    

Thus instead of the conventional logic—understand and accept—, the sonnet promotes an alternative attitude—accept what cannot be understood: Autumn trees may not understand why there is severe winter they must strive to survive but they accept it nonetheless and give up their leaves and blossoms; cicada and moth larvae may not understand why there are hazardous metamorphoses they must strive to survive but they accept them nonetheless and discard their old skins; in a similar way, the stanza of a song may not understand why it is necessary or desirable to let its sound fall from its body but it accepts the mysterious logic nonetheless and sheds off its sound and molts.  In the end, all of them become “green hills ranged in silence,” speaking for serenity, Erhabenheit, and eternal spring. 

In retrospect we also realize that “that coming death” is not the death that comes and ends everything, but a particular death that comes and reduces, transforms, and transcends everything. 

 Resonance

(to be continued)

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The Dragon Well of West Lake

A Chinese Wordplay Poem on the Green Tea Box

1.       One heart

2.      Two tea leaves

3.      Three mountain springs

4.      Tomb sweeping on April Bright Festival Day

5.      Tea picking at five in the afternoon

6.      Six showers of leak flowers

7.      Seven bowls of dew

8.     Eight portions of affinity

9.      Nine rounds of drinking

10.  Attain the unattainable (perfect) ten, the spirit of tea

Planet News

Today, a friend bid me a temporary farewell with a gift.  It was wrapped in silver paper shining in futuristic luster.  Without looking inside, I was surprised by my friend’s cover choice.  He knew me too well not to select a different décor, say in scarlet, dark purple, wine-red, or even chocolate.  However, I ignored the cover because I was more curious about the gift.

It turned out to be a poetry collection, Allen Ginsberg’s Planet News (1961-1967).  And this was a second, even greater surprise.  

This friend of mine and I had talked about the Beats once, very briefly; I didn’t know enough to deepen our conversation, nor was I particularly interested.  In contrast, we had had extremely long discussions about poets we both admire.  Therefore, it surprised me that he gave me a poetry book by an author whom he knew I barely know and care about.

But this was exactly the point.

“Do you know why I chose this for you?”

—A question I could not answer.

“Look at the inscription; I wrote it.”

Hence I read:

In the hope of challenging your ever-bright mind and spirit with poetry that, to you seems fresh and new and that, afterwards, you’ll want to talk about.

These lines no longer surprised me; they touched me. 

My friend chose an author I would unlikely volunteer to read, a book I would unlikely be willing to buy, a dimension I would unlikely be aware of and open to, and a perspective I would unlikely be willing and able to try, if I weren’t given them as a gift.

Is there anything more subtle—and valuable—than this thought?

In retrospect I realize that “Planet News” is not just the title of a poetry book, but the name of all the gifts I receive from my friends that immensely enrich my intellectual and spiritual life.