'Madly Singing In The Mountains' - An Old Man Changes His Tune Poem by Warren Falcon

for Po Chui, Liu Tsung-yuan & Low McClendon


The traveler at a loss: to go or stay... - Liu Tsung-yuan [773 - 819]

Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men. - Po Chui [772 -846]

So I would hear out those lungs...- James Dickey


I would rewrite the whole thing

withdraw every word without ado
with no undue pressure release
even these mountains upon which

within which I turn sleepless in
the dark beneath laurel the
rhododendron pungent in cold

spring air wondering just where
this all goes how it all ends
this life where thunder rolls

between this valley where I lay
with heat lightening teasing
presences I cannot name though

the old masters have forever
tried and try yet again on each
thinning page in this worn book

the collected songs which have
finally crossed an ocean have
made it over the Eastern hills
to some of us here far far on other-hill

such singing long arrives traveling
to me to hear but whispers now
such is their weariness my only

companions in this old house
of dust which is yet an inn
for these old singers

*

No longer do I madly sing
though an earned madness
clings a shroud a fog a
suggestion of the sublime
that I shall no longer call
beg entrance to or take
hand of no more make
demand plead my deserves
but to disturb the air cast
a shadow to pull at straws
and wait see what passing
flocks may sing or bring
to light westward winging
alerting seasons to turn
to pass this singing cannot
always last but it is said
that the sky and the stream
remember one need only
try stumble upon the golden

my young brow long gone old
and creased matches the map
my finger traces on yellowed
pages' brown edges these smeared
mountains ages ago drawn by a
forced palsied hand indentured
that remains uncredited diluted

ink smudged dried into elegant
interlaced stains that sing to
the eye - 'no choice but to try'

Dear painter I should live in
such hills where perhaps the
bones of your trembled hand
point beyond kingdoms
beyond fences your painted
image has so long outlived

*

I see that a face can at least retain
some semblance of former glory if a

face is a mountain once sung
now written only now suggesting rhythm

now melody only now a shine lonely on
tips each peak this my brow now theirs

too sings of silver a dew a scent up from
worn paths beside valleys rivers streams

their banked ferns wet do cloy and
bend

now it pleases me to read of these
and so sing by the reading

*

still in this night I am turning
and turning on the hard pallet

these old pages that I have turned
now over 40 years in starry exile

as if my tongue could matter less by day
than my thoughts could mean more by night

these constant companions the good few
who lend voice to all that goes on

inked between and upon ledges high and in
canyoned depths what continues seen or not

such are strayed
ponies bending their heads to

finer blades tender shoots green or in winter
without complaint chew brown tufts brittle

shadowing snow, a pair of boot tracks
veering off and up or down

alone trail into other fields or
upon remote peaks

only song's
a traveler's companion

*

He's gone crow

said one old poet of another


>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<


Feeling Old Age - Liu Tsung-yuan [773 - 819]


I've always known that old age would arrive,

and suddenly now I witness its encroach.

This year, luckily, I've not weakened much

but gradually it comes to seek me out.

Teeth scattered, hair grown short,

To run or hurry, I haven't the strength.

So, I cry, what's to be done!

And yet, why should I suffer?

P'eng-tsu and Lao Tzu no more exist',

Chuang Tzu and K'ung Tzu too are gone.

Of those whom the ancients called 'immortal saints'

not one is left today.

I only wish for fine wine

and friends who will often help me pour.

Now that spring is drawing to a close -

and peach and plum produce abundant shade

and the sun lights up the azure sky and

far, far, the homeward goose cries,

I step outside, greeting those I love,

and climb to the western woods with the aid of my staff.

Singing out loud is enough to cheer me up;

the ancient hymns have overtones.


(TR. JAN W. WALL