The Land of Wine

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Li Yu, Poem 31

Wind and rain,
     more wind,
          more rain.
The curtain goes
    horizontal,
the screen
    with its dismal painting
     wobbles this way and that
     and almost tumbles.

The lamp falters.
The water-clock must be about
its business, but I hear no drips
in all this autumnal uproar.

Turning my head left,
     turning my head right,
there is no comfort:
what devil fashioned
these pillows, anyway?
Sitting or lying down,
sleep is impossible,
rest an illusion.

I shall be useless tomorrow.

Perhaps being useless
is an exile’s business.
The affairs of the world
do not require me.

I can make much ado
about dressing myself,
walk to the court
with secret agent in tow
and pretend to have
    something to say
     to one who calls himself
     my better.

And while I wait,
     in one of a dozen
     anterooms, someone
will bow and offer wine,
     a better one
than what I have here,
and after one or two cups
I shall slip away,
    forgetful of what
    my business was.

They will mock me,
but if my destiny is just
to float about haphazardly,
let me at least
be drunk on a decent
     vintage.