<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class="">Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty,</div><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">
I Pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles</p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">It seems these poets have nothing<br class="">
up their ample sleeves<br class="">
they turn over so many cards so early,<br class="">
telling us before the first line<br class="">
whether it is wet or dry,<br class="">
night or day, the season the man is standing in,<br class="">
even how much he has had to drink.</p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">Maybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow.<br class="">
Maybe if is snowing on a town with a beautiful name.</p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">“Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune<br class="">
on a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Bun Tung Po’s.<br class="">
“Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea”<br class="">
is another one, or just<br class="">
“On a Boat, Awake at Night.”</p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">And Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with<br class="">
“In a Boat on a Summer Evening<br class="">
I Hear the Cry of a Waterbird.<br class="">
It Was Very Sad and Seemed to be Saying<br class="">
My Woman is Cruel—Moved, I Wrote This Poem.”</p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">There is no iron turnstile to push against here<br class="">
as with the headings like ‘Vortex on a String,”<br class="">
“The Horn of Neurosis,” or whatever.<br class="">
No confusing inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over.<br class="">
</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">Instead, “I Walk Out on a Summer Morning<br class="">
to the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall”<br class="">
is a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders.</p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">And “The Days of Rain Have Kept Me Indoors”<br class="">
is a servant who shows me into the room<br class="">
where a poet with a thin beard<br class="">
is sitting on a mat with a jug of wine<br class="">
whispering something about clouds and cold wind,<br class="">
about sickness and the loss of friends</p><p style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""> </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 18px; line-height: normal;" class="">How easy he had made it for me to enter here,<br class="">
to sit down in a corner;<br class="">
my legs like his, and listen.</p><div style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal; min-height: 22px;" class=""><br class=""></div><div style="margin: 0px; line-height: normal;" class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Billy Collins</div><div class=""><br class=""></div></body></html>