Country House

I planted a hundred mulberry trees
And thirty acres of rice.
Now I have plenty of silk and grain,
And can afford to entertain my friends.
In the Spring I plant rice.
In the Autumn I gather crysanthemums
And perfume the wine with their petals.
My wife enjoys being hospitable.
My children like to help serve.
Late afternoon, we give a picnic
At the back of the overgrown garden
In the shade of the elms and willows.
My friends drink until they are inspired.
The fresh breezes cool the heat of day.
After everyone has gone home,
I walk out under the Milky Way,
And look up at the countless stars
That watch me from heaven.
I still have plenty of jugs in the cellar.
Nobody will prevent me
From opening some more tomorrow.

-- Ch'u Ch'uang I
translated by Kenneth Rexroth

Wash

All day the blanket snapped and swelled
on the line, roused by a hot spring wind.
From there it witnessed the first sparrow,
early flies lifting their sticky feet,
and a green haze on the south-sloping hills.
Clouds rose over the mountain. At dusk
I took the blanket in, and we slept,
restless, under its fragrant weight.

-- Jane Kenyon

A house at a crossroad, beside a grove, composes
another house to take as a husband

mistranslation of "Awaiting Husband Stone"
by Wang Jian (768-833)

I made him appear
floor, wall, and wall,
doorframe, thatched roof, my dear one,
he stood, open-eyed, open-shuttered,
he sat down, shutters flapping, clap! clap! his beams shook, his startled grasshoppers leapt
from the thatch,
he lay down, my love, his four corners, his shouldered ceiling, my husband,
lay himself down, at the crossroad, by the grove, at my side.

-- Nina Lindsay

Pontius Pilate and his headache

Yesterday was Bulgakov's birthday. Happy birthday, Mikhail.

Slow traffic means more time looking out the window.

From "Rachel Fagen/GIS/CSC"
To "Mills, Sidney L."
No fast lane in central CT, that's fer sher. Took nigh unto 45 min, mostly waiting to exit onto 3. Next time I'll know to leave by seven. Pretty drive, though -- and I saw quail! Itty black and brown and blue bobbleheaded quail, Momma and babies. The little blessings of slow traffic.

Quail

Going where the car
went but under, not
through the guardrail,
a caravan of quail
hazards a mountain road:
mom, five chicks then
dad in near-comic
triple-time, parents
warily swiveling
apostrophed heads,
little ones in
linearity's thrall. Mid-
step and breath,
you watch them
family-find the green
fabric of a June re-
stitching itself
after being torn.

-- Dore Kiesselbach

Jehovah's Miracle Matrix

What say you?