I'M Thinking About A Garden In Shanghai Poem by John W. Scott

I’m thinking about
a Chinese garden somewhere in old Shanghai
they call it Yu,
pleasure-they say
—it is said to have meant, from the ancient Ming Dynasty;

ancient pool or pond,
winds through nine corners
of superstitious greens and blues

as sculptured animals some mythic— some true seem to glance
their stony eyes
towards you;

a dragon’s sculptured, fiercesome head
seems to wish
that you might be possibly dead

while to the north in Beijing
in a wine cup of jade green
the shadow of rich Chinese Queen eats delicacies
with chopsticks of gold
until she’s had more than enough;


I’m thinking about a Chinese lady, so delicately beautiful,

so strongly dainty,
a face that hides
what she has seen in her few years the story told inside
each of her tears

of her hope and dream
for a new life
of love and laughter freedom from strife;

the garden in Yu recalls the first pair when only sunshine filled the air,
the pleasured paradise so fair, of hope for a future
free from despair;

bamboo motifs
of lovely grace
a lovely, simple, painted face,
a zig-zag bridge of many turns, while wisteria and camellias bloom,
where Marco Polo traded silk,
and stuccoed walls painted white as milk;

Cherry trees dropp petals in the Oriental breeze,
and Chinese maples,
colors of delicate tracery, reflected in the waters
still,
of green ponds of peace;

sculptured rocks that tell
a tale so carefully placed,
and the gate is cautiously guarded by an age-old cassia tree;

I am thinking about a barber in Suzhou, who’s weaving
scissors
upon a thousand heads, he smiles at everyone
who walks into his shop,
the name of all
he knows by heart his haircuts all—
a work of art;

the garden stones
so carefully laid,
in the most auspiciously chosen place;

the doorways laid out meticulously to cast
a shadow of beneveloncy from the past;

upon the dynasty
of Chinese kings and queens soon to be,
a lovely weeping willow tree;

silently cries amidst
the painted silken skies,
all plants arranged
perfectly harmonized;

The Forbidden City
and Great ominous Wall, reminds us of freedom’s call;

but in the garden freedom rules
the gardener works
with his gardening tools;

the teahouse recalls,
an ancient
Chinese song,

a story of forgotten love and of bicycle
rickshaws,
a painted Chinese female dove;

I’m thinking about a hippy I knew
whose painted, Chinese pictures
filled the room—
who told a story of compromise
of fearful alibis

and lies
who finds his peace in the dream of the east
whose flowered pictures gave the eyes
a sumptuous colorful feast;

I’m thinking about
Philadelphia, PA,
of the people who live
so very far and distant away,

from Chinese people
in a world on the other side,
while painted murals line the skies,

while flowing rivers are slowly
meandering by,
the same latitude as Old Shanghai;

The Shanghai Ming garden hasn’t much changed,
five hundred years
it’s remained much the same,

while it’s mysteries
we try
to somehow explain;

I’m thinking about a Chinese day,
of gardens, ponds
and painted birds of hope, and birds of prey,

of Chinese letters painted black,
of flowered trails
of days long back,

of roads that carried golden silk,
of roofs that dip upward like an ancient ship;

I’m thinking about a Paradise,
when only peace and laughter
fills Chinese skies, with only love and truth

a garden of peaceful pleasure like the Garden of Yu,
that slowly extends its hand
from millenniums gone by to plant its peaceful garden
forever earth wide;

I’m thinking about China all week long,
I’m thinking about
a new peaceful song.