Friday 29 June 2012

Second Poem for Xiao-Tsao: 小草詩箋其二

板胡歌唱著花梆子 
遠處朦朧樂音 裊裊如烟飄盪 
蒂安.阿柏絲*眼中黑衣白領的雙胞胎 
神遊福爾摩沙兩美 
指尖與臂彎圈出了一抹心 
細膩綾羅下對稱著蹻工儿 
「相片是關於一個秘密的秘密。
它告訴你愈多,你知道得愈少。」 

 ("A photograph is a secret about a secret. 
 The more it tells you the less you know." ~*Diane Arbus) 

 ─ 黃亭禎



I feel very proud and privileged to announce that the second poem I wrote for Mr. Chin's wonderful Xiao-Tsao (Young Grass) Academy of Art 小草藝術學院 postcard publication has been printed and produced. The image is, again, a precious old photograph from the bygone era, tinted with beautifully and subtly faded colours, which represents something perhaps more than merely a distant dream. This image of two Formosan beauties, much like the first one I wrote a poem for (see here), gave me much inspiration and I felt its narrative potential instantaneously when I laid my eyes on it.

Below I have quoted Mr. Chin's blog entry on this publication - it is, as always, beautifully written in Chinese (but I might translate it into English for my beloved readers at some point!). I would like to thank him again for giving me the opportunities to poetically interpret these captivating old photographs (something very dear to my own heart) and imagine the many stories which my mind and heart conjure up with such visual fascination. I truly look forward to writing many more poems to accompany Mr. Chin's Xiao-Tsao, a labour of love  from a true artist whom I respect and admire.

*     *     *

(See original post here...)

"小草明信片的編號超過四百號後,開始試著以小草的觀點,挑選並覆刻印製世界的經典圖像。但持續整理複製臺灣的老視覺,始終是小草永遠都不會忘記的初衷。這張迷人又數量稀少的《福爾摩沙雙美人》手彩明信片,老早便想覆刻為小草明信片,以讓更多人看到、擁有及書寄,但一直卡在沒有相對應的文案。因此這回得以一償宿願,必須萬分感謝黃亭禎小姐,繼小草418《上海時裝雙美人》手彩明信後,再次為小草明信片書寫文案。這則文案十分特別的是黃小姐還為「相片是關於一個秘密的秘密。它告訴你愈多,你知道得愈少。」一句附上了英文原典,這在小草過往的文案中是前所未有,若非因為由學貫中西的黃小姐操刀文案,小草明信片大概不會有如此的文案呈現吧!期盼這般的試驗,不僅可以活化小草明信片的單一生命力,更重要的是讓百年前的《福爾摩沙雙美人》手彩明信片,因為與這則文案相遇交會,從而激盪出以島嶼為中心,卻跨越了時代及區域的全新詩意漣漪‧‧‧ 最後依然要再次由衷感謝黃亭禎小姐熱心的無償精彩文案書寫!"



This really made my day like nothing else... Another wonderfully handmade gift from Mr. Chin (look at his beautiful calligraphy!) and *loads* of Xiao-Tsao (Young Grass) Academy postcards featuring precious images, including the two with my poetry. I am continuing to write poems for Xiao-Tsao and will do it forever!! Mr. Chin's unique and rare collection of images re-ignited my passion for poetry writing in Chinese, something I had a lengthy respiro of way over ten years, but still now love it so. The wood box, with his calligraphy "亭禎詩文案" (a Pandora's Box for Ting-Jen's poetry) was what he created for me to collect all my future poem-postcards, a poetry-image collaboration between us which I hope will continue for a very, very long time. Indeed it is a Pandora's Box -- once I (re)started writing poetry in Chinese, I cannot stop (nor do I want to!!).
再次由衷感謝秦政德大哥如此費心的美好禮物,您真是太客氣了!能為小草寫詩是我的福氣。



Look, look, look...! How gorgeous it is inside too! There is even calligraphy on the side (where the box closes) in very special seal script 隸書體... ♥♥♥ I am so deliriously happy about this gift (and the previous one of course!) I'm going to cry...

*          *          *

And here is Mr. Chin's heartfelt and wonderfully written response (with great humour!): *via

儘管小草明信片一開始就非常清楚定位在「覆刻」老圖像,不過卻始終努力嘗試著讓「覆刻」不只是單純「覆刻」。換句話說,總希望在「覆刻」老圖像之餘,可以多一些帶點積極意義的新創造。正因為這樣小小的想法與期許,才會有每款小草明信片背後都不一樣的搭配文案。哪怕只有一行短短的書寫文案,小草明信片大概就不單只是照著印老圖像,反而擁有了與昔日對話的現在時代性吧!但剛搞小草明信片時,包括資源、人脈等什麼都沒有,在完全找不到人書寫小草明信片的情況下,只好硬著頭皮自己絞盡腦汁帶筆上陣了!所以小草明信片早期的文案品質如何?便可想而知了!儘管如此,仍然十分阿Q地想:「關於文案,不管寫多爛,有總比沒有好」。於是學畫畫的我,縱然很悲情地不停榨乾自己、以一絲絲搔首猛冒的白髮,換取小草明信片的一字字難產的文案,小草明信片的文案啊!依舊只是在「有總比沒有好」的水準邊緣浮浮沉沉‧‧‧ 

所以為了小草明信片的整體品質,當然想找精於文字的人書寫,但時時面臨生存大關的小草明信片,依然還是沒有多餘資源可以提供相對應的酬勞。即使終於厚著臉皮、鼓起勇氣尋求周遭人際友情的書寫贊助,可以在大家都辛辛苦苦忙於生計的情況之下,多半都遭到婉拒或不了了之‧‧‧ 

因此當我頗為冒昧地抱著姑且一試的誠懇態度,以臉書訊息詢問黃亭禎小姐是否願為小草明信片書寫文案,沒料到居然獲得極為明快的善意回應並隨即收到文字時,心底盡是滿滿激動的感恩之意。畢竟在小草目前尚無法支付相應稿酬的情形下,以黃小姐優異特出的家世、學歷及才情‧‧‧願意不多計較地替小草寫著無償文案,小草藝術學院除了感激,還是不停地由衷感激! 

這回小草明信片新品419《福爾摩沙雙美人》手彩明信片,背後文案就是黃亭禎小姐第二次為小草量身書寫的詩,為了表達謝意,另一方面,哈哈!也希望精於文字的黃小姐,能繼續為小草書寫高優質的詩文案,所以特地選了個專放套裝小草明信片的梧桐木盒,恭敬研墨握筆、認認真真題上《亭禎詩文案》。 

由於黃小姐長期隨外籍夫婿旅居全球,不久前才回到臺灣,我方能把新品明信片與《亭禎詩文案》木盒寄出,昨天在臉書上便看到黃小姐貼出《亭禎詩文案》的照片與大半英文的介紹。顯然,黃小姐還蠻接受小草表達謝意的《亭禎詩文案》套裝木盒,如果黃小姐不棄嫌的話,真希望小草藝術學院有榮幸與福氣能繼續與黃小姐合作,為《亭禎詩文案》再放進一張張、一首首,以新時代語言喚醒並吟詠老靈魂的生命明信片‧‧‧

Saturday 16 June 2012

The Third Poem: The Room In Between


Water lilies, float on diagonals, tumbling
down the rustic fragile ladder
(those spaces in-between, those hollows of dreams)
into, a pond of flickering candlelights.
They lure you to sing (to sing), they lure you to jump (to jump).
Tears of white wax whirling, and slowly, slowly gliding
(until they embrace each other, to the point of 
agony, and drop) 
into, what seems to be 
a cloud -- warm, soft, and then void
of softness and warmth.
(Is that a cloud I am seeing?)

Do words give two different scents such

untranslatable longings, such 
inexplicable wounds?

There is nothing spoken, no sounds, and yet voices are

everywhere, filling and choking the disquiet air. 
There is no silence in the night.

Let me have your fingers from which the music flows,

those book pages dancing like scattering petals,
those blank canvases where moonlight weeps.
Allow me your thoughts where all poems are born.
Allow me your heart where the irises grow.

Is that the light in Paris, or the lamp softly leaning

against your cognac-hued wall?

Dust in the morning, 

drowning noises on the streets,
settling a painting undone, unfinished, uncomposed, uncompromised.

Until I see it no longer.





Friday 8 June 2012

The Second Poem: Darshan


Nothing is rewarded, nothing is taken away.
Nothing given, and nothing received.
Nothing is gained, nothing is required.
Nothing broken, and nothing healed.
Nothing is dissolved, nothing is resolved.
Nothing heard, and nothing sung.
Nothing wasted, because nothing appears.
Nothing born, and nothing disappears.
Nothing blossoms, nothing evanesces.
Nothing endured, and nothing relieved.
Nothing ever lost, nothing ever is.
Nothing separated, non-union in the non-exist.
Unchanging. Distancing. Be.

It mirrors you, not your intrinsic being.
A reflected truth that is
the greatest lie.
A clear eye that sees, this apparent world, the water moon, the river snow,
sees nothing
but the inner imaginings of your mind,
the inner workings of your head,
the inner strivings.
Not the essence. Merely a vision.
The day eyes are removed, heart opens.

Internalisation. Realisation. Materialisation. Etherealisation.
No reflection. No shadows. No mirror. No flames.
No eloquence. No poetry. No words. No speech. No sounds.
No hurt. Nothing locked. No window. Nothing to see. No release. None retrieved.
No cacophony. No harmony.
No flourishing. No withering.
No waste land. No pure land.
No courage. No heart and no mind. Bones are
no more than bones.
No permanence. No disappearance.
No transience. No constancy.

Noiselessness. Statelessness. Formlessness. Truthlessness.
Fleeting.

The drunken morning eats away its languid afternoon into an apathetic dusk,
witnessing the unconcern of a dying night.
Not a thunderstorm but a snowflake
Not a symphony but a whispered sigh

Lie down on the ground, and let the fallen leaves cover you.
Let your arms drop. Let the rain fall.
Hush your eyes.

This quiet.
This unshining.


… The eye is on fire; forms are on fire; eye-consciousness is on fire; impressions received by the eye are on fire.

– Prince Gautama Siddharta, 563-483 B.C.


*For reference... Darśana was an inspiration behind this piece, something I have loved since the day I was introduced to the concept, but not immediately related to the content (of how this poem turned out to be). 

‎"Darshan is ultimately difficult to define since it is an event in consciousness ... which focuses and calls out the consciousness of the devotee ... a heightening of consciousness or spirituality is the intended effect."

On self, integrity, and acharya


Visualise a wooden stick (self) that is used to stir up the fire and eventually is consumed entirely and disappears in the Great Fire (Self)...

To study Buddhism is to study the self 
to study the self is to forget the self
to forget the self is to become enlightened by all things
to be enlightened by all things is to destroy the barrier between one's self and others.

-- Dogen Zenji

*From the comment on Peony's article 'under a flame tree (with you & confucius)' - thank you!


It is wonderfully attractive (and admirable) to be a fully-enlightened being, one who has "realised" and unafraid of leaving this world of sam sara behind. But what I find truly precious and rare, is to have realised and transcended, whilst still be able to surrender to this world and play whatever role on earth that you are ordained to play -- one's responsibility, in the truest form of "trust."

And to be an acharya: one who practises what one preaches -- there is truth in life, and it is the light and clarity of life, it is integrity, which cannot be further away from an intoxicated, pompous view of one's self. To have enough courage -- a Bodhisattva, effectively. One who has already been lifted but chooses to remain, with compassion, wisdom, and kindness (this reminds me of Su Dongpo in a way). But then, with no struggling, no striving, no conflicts, like all that melts and disappears in the fire. In the end even the fire itself will remain no longer. With full knowledge of this, and still walk the path. With full knowledge that you will be betrayed, and still love (thinking of Jesus, and Odette from Swan Lake).

There is, in the end, nothing to fill the empty cup with anymore, for the cup has already been smashed.


To look at the world with a smile.

The First Poem: For David


(For my husband, whose lullaby is my breathing every night.)

All the secrets I do not share,
and all the secrets I tell no one;
all the secrets absent in my poems,
and all the secrets I do not sing, even in the silent song
of solitude permeating my veins
like the warmth and gentle scent of your amber,
these secrets are buried deep inside, within
the dreams of your belly.
They melt, and are reborn.
They grow wings, and they fly.

In the blueness of your eyes
is the light of a deep ocean that has lived
a thousand years, a thousand years of
meditative loneliness. In your hair, the golden amber grows
into a transparent flower, fragrance of the night.
The amber flower that connects your mind
with your heart.

One day you discovered a pale feather
of an anonymous bird, colour of a pale rose.
A rare feather,
exquisite and fragile, shining under
an old tree of glittering green leaves.
It was nighttime, but the sun was out.
Your one tender kiss awoke the feather, and turned it
into the bird she once was, in a past life she had already forgotten.
The rare and exquisite and fragile bird.
And she has lived with your heart, in your heart, ever since.

Your surrender to nothingness is expansive, and
the warmest embrace there ever is, ever will be.
Your refined detachment of the closest, dearest attachment of tenderness
It gives meaning to what seems to be void of meanings at all,
resembling a delicately and beautifully
cracked porcelain vase,
its slender neck holding all the secrets which are not remembered.
The unbreaking of a broken egg, in the most perfect shade
of pearlescent ivory, with
not even the faintest lines on a rainbow-hued seashell.
I realise in this moment we are regal.
We are angels.
Your elegance is the reddest of all the red peonies
blooming between our bodies and souls.
Us.

You say I can neither understand nor imagine. I close
my eyes and think of
the most beautiful desert moon, or the saddest
love poem, or our daughter
in your arms, in the farthest and nearest yesterday
of our tomorrow.

You spoke to my philosophy professor as if
he was one of your oldest friends.
You talked about Heidegger, and game theory,
and all the dilemmas of life, in a beautiful manner which transcended them all,
as if they were lines from an old poem you had written long ago.
You say the whole life is in The Little Prince, and that you
cannot admire someone who is not an acharya,
however brilliant his thoughts,
however great his legacy.
I look at this perfect man before me, with his
bluest blue eyes and think to myself, "I married
the one rare acharya I know."

I am your heart, as you are my poetry,
mirror of my aloneness
the soundlessness of my melodies,
the attachment of my detachment,
the meaningfulness of my meaninglessness,
the nothingness of my very own self,

my undefined/undefinable otherness.


You taught me I am myself and I am enough,
in need of no more, like Cocteau's Trinity
that binds my heart in the truest way it longs to be bound.

And so I write, different from how I have ever written poetry,
in the state of being and the state of breathing,
without striving and crafting,
without effort,

as if I was writing
for the very first and the very last time.

Here, Now. *Photography by Juan Jose Olavarrieta Gomez 

Saturday 2 June 2012

思緒 stream of consciousness...

The choleric ochreous Svetlana, the sanguine ruby Natalia, the electrical violet Yekaterina, and the longing in the lines of her voice, and the arresting agitation in the disquiet curves of the violin's singing... leading to a resolution of all that is unresolved in the angelic white of (again) Svetlana - a soft sign of 'hush.'

If everything has already been done, why do we even bother to play our roles in this world, following the plot that has already been written, and already been known? Such is the greatest mystery, and the question asked millions of times (and perhaps answered) in the Gita.
Arjuna: "I do not wish to lead this fight. I do not want to kill all these people."
Lord Krishna: "What do you mean you do not wish to kill all these people? They are already dead. I have already killed them all."

So why do we go through this all over again?
(Too profound for a jet-lagged night in London...)


The Bolshoi Ballet in the premiere of Alexei Ratmansky's Russian Seasons, 15.11.2008. 
Cast ---
Couple in Orange (then in White): Svetlana Zakharova and Andrei Merkuriev 
Couple in Red: Natalia Osipova and Denis Savin 
Couple in Green: Yekaterina Shipulina and Pavel Dmitrichenko 
Couple in Violet: Yekaterina Krysanova and Igor Tsvirko 
Couple in Blue: Anna Rebetskaya and Vladislav Lantratov 
Couple in Claret Red: Anna Nikulina and Vyacheslav Lopatin

Trees, light, green, sun, leaves, life -- a dreamland absent of questions and answers; a hypnotised land of silent truth. One does not even have to realise that one has already realised.

*          *          *

dew evaporates 
and all our world 
is dew ... so dear, 
so fresh, so fleeting 

 (kobayashi issa)

... if only the world could be more fleeting than what we are experiencing...

*          *          *

Enter the kingdom of words as if you were deaf.
Poems are there that want to be written.
They are dormant, but don't be let down,
their virginal surfaces are fresh and serene.
They are alone and mute, in dictionary condition.
Live with your poems before you write them.
If they're vague, be patient. If they offend, be calm.
Wait until each one comes into its own and demolishes
with its command of words
and its command of silence.
Don't force poems to let go of limbo.
Don't pick up lost poems from the ground.
Don't fawn over poems. Accept them
as you would their final and definitive form,
distilled in space.
[...]
Take note:
words hide in the night
in caves of music and image.
Still humid and pregnant with sleep
they turn in a winding river and by neglect are transformed.

-- "Looking for Poetry" by Carlos Drummond de Andrade, trans. into English by Mark Strand.
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