What Kind of Poet?

 by Brett Rutherford

      after Li Yu, Poem 39

What kind of poet am I
    who cannot bear spring flowers
     or the flush of autumn?

What kind of poet am I
     who shuns the moon’s
          beckoning,
when all I can do
     is to ask it,
“Do you see my lost kingdom?”

What kind of poet am I
     who no longer retells
     the exploits of his father,
     the daring of ancestors,
     the courage of mothers?
Having no seal, I shall
     soon enough be nameless.

What kind of poet am I
     who can no longer adorn
     a painting with calligraphy,
     or compel a painter
     to illustrate his words?

Who cares what I think,
     or what I have suffered?
No one.

Without me, the carved
jade balcony and winding stairs
may still be there, but those
who walked them
    will be less than ghosts
if no one writes of them.

Do some back home
     still read my lines
and ask of one another
the measure of Li Yu’s pain?

How many pieces can one
be sliced into?

How many drops flow
into the Qinhuai River,
and the Yangtse too?

Those numbers ought to be
just about right.