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Po Chu-i, Ancient Governor - 772-846 CE, From Far Away Thinks On His Angry Wife

Of Po Chu-i: 'As one of his poems explains,
he suffered from paralysis at the end of his
life, one leg becoming useless.'

'A well-fed contentment...
is there no greater achievement in life? '

Her heavy face displaces among
clouds, is swollen with hard tears,
her sorrowful gaze calls for the
always hungry child that was lost
when they were poor, without work
and down on luck. The frozen ground
reluctantly yields these many years
to slowly make his little grave,
too long unmarked.

It now wears a monument tall, of finest jade.

'Too late for you, Little Stinger, '
he carves it himself, again and again,
years now, upon the stone,

'A well-fed contentment...'
and all the rest, but in his
mind it is never done.

'Old Po Chu-i, ' he thinks to himself,
writing another verse in his head,
his own epitaph upon the other side
of the jade-stone, 'now rides a wild
horse to the end of all roads.'

Weary with the business of state.
Of commerce he can now care less
though he once was poor and
one dear son has died as a result,

'Pffftt! Old wife will never let me forget.'

'Of pleasing the inconsolable, '
he writes such in his head,
upon horseback, in the mane
and the tail poems wait to be
untangled, brushed smooth
with the ink and quill of miles
until there is some rest,
a cozy inn rare, more a tent
pitched which gives much simple
peace compared to the mansion
back home in the wealthy province,
the ponds full, the barns full,
the servants many and busy,
all the fruit of miles traveled
to keep the fragile peace which
needs constant mending,

'much like a wife.'

'It is as it is, and should be, '
he thinks, 'it is of love these
conditions come, bringing many
mouths and fuller hearts to break,
for love like life seeks to be
undone again and again.'

'Such is the life the Allotter
gives. Why complain when one
has the gift of a patient horse,
steady, an obedient, good companion? '

'Why lament when eyes are still
able to rejoice at beauty of all
kinds, for even of human woes
which break the heart much music
can be made, and without false pity.'

'And without false pity, ' he sings,
'a coin can be given and heaven
restored until the next pang of
hunger, from this real friendship
with strangers is born, the best,
of gentleness without debt,
untangling from mane to mind.'

'Untangling from mane to mind,
one finds, takes, such real
pleasures as they come and,
thanking the glad day, banks
them in the vaulted heart.'

Not given to self-pity, only
fond of nostalgic reminiscence,
he loves fabrics smooth, soft,
purchased in Yangshao, where
he loves the Spring's First
Blossom Girl with whom he grew
up, courting her near the auspicious
old well of Silk Moths Aplenty.

He thinks of these and many things
upon his horse during the long journey
through the difficult passages,

'Through the difficult passages
one cannot avoid accumulating
much dust, ' he composes out
loud for the horse to hear,
'perhaps our only wealth,
dear friend, of friendless miles.'

He rests awhile in the wide
orchard where bright plum flowers
rain, decides to unroll his pallet
to sleep beside the humming glade.

'Raiment, ' he writes in his sleepy head,
'of bees and leaves. An old man puts the
best plum in his sleeve to bring home
to his wife.'

'Why strive when nature is bounteous
and all ills can be made right with
wet sweetness? '

poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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