Poetry and other things

 

Feeling better this morning, a nice moody Chuck Berry instrumental posted by another here must have helped. But who knows where my moods come from, depressive or positive? Now in McDonald's just after having a chat with a casual acquaintance often met on the bus into town, an oldish guy who wears combat gear, loves fishing. Today he told me that he and his girlfriend were off on hols soon, informing me that she was a "randy old girl" despite being 75! I said that I hoped he had his Viagra ready and he said that he'd already spoken with his doctor.

I have been reading a few bits and pieces of Chinese poetry. This seems to complement the writing and insights of David Hinton in his book "China Roots" which traces the influence of ancient Taoist thought upon Buddhism when it drifted into China from India in the early centuries and morphed into Ch'an.

A couple of nice ones here:-

Spring Dawn

Sleeping in spring, I don't feel the dawn
though everywhere birds are singing.
Last night I heard sounds, blowing, raining.
How many flowers have fallen down?

MENG HAORAN (689–740)

And another from the same poet:-

Spending the Night on Jiande River

I moor my boat by the misty shore.
Sunset renews the wanderer's sorrow.
A plain so vast the sky dwarfs trees.
Clear river water brings the moon close.

Another poem mentioned the white bones of ancient warriors and such thoughts are strangely consoling, the white bones my own when so many trifling concerns are truly seen for what they are. I wonder where depression comes from. Where does the sense of well-being come from. Constant transformation.

I wonder sometimes just what some of our past prophets and "masters" would make of our world now, if transported here. If they too heard the bombardment of our newscasts, saw the awful misery of our world as often as it is pressed upon us, day after day - bombings, shootings, wars, discord, the awful cacophony of our so called "leaders" spouting their words of what amounts to no more that empty, meaningless sounds.

Looking up a few biographical notes on certain ancient poets, in China, I see some came to sticky ends, were engulfed themselves in events and a world beyond true understanding. So it goes on.