Cover art for Pity the Dragon

 Pity the Dragon: Poems on Chinese Themes has gone to press. Here is the cover.

KangXi Drinks Tea From His Porcelain Eggshell Teacups

KangXi Emperor, Age 45.

by Brett Rutherford

Adapted and expanded from the paintings and poems on twelve Qing Dynasty teacups.

FIRST MONTH

Snow comes, but so too,
the early blossoms,

plum, while down below
the delicate narcissus

buds up among the
bamboo, indestructible.
My sheltered courtyard
encourages such early
arrivals, out of season.

Nature, I ask,
or sly gardening?

Even when all is still,
fragrance moves on its own
from branch to ground,
along the cold rocks,
and then inside
to the teacup’s rim.

 

SECOND MONTH

Evening rain pelts
the abundant flowers
on the apricot trees.

Their stamens radiate
attentive tendrils alert
to every falling drop.

Sunshine or mist
paint watercolor

upon the pale hue
of the white petals.

Am I smelling them,
or does the rain wear
a subtle perfume,
enchanting, seducing
me to put down the teacup,
disrobe, and walk
in the gentle downpour?

 

THIRD MONTH

Peach blossoms should really
employ a whole orchestra
to boom out good news
with their coming.

In Heaven, the peaches bloom
and bear fruit at the same time,

the food the monkeys covet
which makes the gods immortal.

Peach blossoms should fall
with gongs and drums,
alerting the farmers
to renew their labors,
and calling back
the welcome song-birds.

To drink tea beneath
a grove of tall and blossoming
peaches, requires company.
An emperor-to-be
invites two heroes
to drink and swear oaths
of eternal brotherhood.

The peach is the witness
to their youth and honor.

 

FOURTH MONTH

One must be up at dawn
to see the sly peony
untighten its grasp
on night, and drink
the dew of the immortals.

Once it has opened in full,
one almost faints
at how it makes a sphere
of petals a rose would die
to emulate, how ants
come climbing up the stems
to do it worship.

Only the finest
and most intricate
scholar’s stone
is worthy to stand
beside the peony,
a sculpture carved
by wind and water,
carried from afar
to be one peony tree’s
shade, shelter, and
companion.

An emperor seeks
one such, among
his counselors.
The maddening scent
mocks those who work
in the Jade Hall, where
wisdom is sought.
In vain.

 

FIFTH MONTH

Heavy as rocks,
the pomegranates hang
from their sturdy tree.
Yellow spheres aburst
with wet red seeds,
will ripen and blush
at their own abundance.

Their silhouettes,
as I drink tea,
wave back and forth
on the white-washed wall
behind me. The seeds
as plentiful as bees
in a hive, cannot
be counted. Taste
pomegranate, and tea
is, for a moment,
forgotten. It is
the garden’s concubine.

 

SIXTH MONTH

Look down below!
Who notices, in mud,
the lowly lotus root
like unearthed jade?
Yet when it bursts to bloom
the whole world worships it.

Two mandarin ducks
swim in the pond.
Their adoration
of the lotus flower
is in the way small waves
make furrows out
beneath their feet,
the small bows
of bill to water.

Only the crane,
from its cloud-perch
can see the symmetry
of lotus, water, shore,
the two brown ducks,
and one aged and lanky
Emperor, cup in hand.

 

SEVENTH MONTH

I sit. I have my tea.

All wish me well,
or so they say.
A seventh cup
they place before me.
Pale tea moves
second-hand as water
boils, goes through
the yi xing teapot

(mine alone),

and into the eggshell
porcelain. No hand
but mine has touched it.
All wish me well,
but there is always poison
to worry about.
Mistrust of doctors, too,
if any of them
have better friends,
and younger,
than my Imperial self.

This cup is adorned
with the most reliable
flower: the rose.
Although its heady
oil, perfume’s bounty,
makes me sneeze,

I respect its tenacity.
Outliving winters,
indifferent gardeners,
and even dark
conspiracies,
one shade against
another fratricide,

it just keeps going on.

Just as this emperor
goes on from year to year
outliving all prophecies

the tough rose
blooms anytime
it pleases.

 

EIGHTH MONTH

Just as the hare
has many progeny,
the guihua tree,

osmanthus, from
the far-off Himalayas,
flowers and branches
endlessly, spring,
winter, and fall.

An evergreen,
and fragrant too,
it flavors a tea
and an autumn wine
the Emperor is known
to savor in private.

Two things at least,
the world shall never
run out of: rabbits
and guihua trees.

 

NINTH MONTH

O Chrysanthemum,
the only way
to enjoy you,
is with a wine-cup
in hand. Oh, very well,

the Emperor may hold
his favored tea-cup full
of tea made from dried
chrysanthemum petals,

while everyone else
goes mad with its liquor.
Nature joins in.
Insane butterflies
flutter about, bees faint
with overdose of pollen.

Two hands, two eyes
are not enough
to paint the things
chrysanthemums
make happen.

A thousand year’s memories
crowd into one day
of sun-burst petals.

 

TENTH MONTH

Indoors,
among the orchids,
the Emperor takes tea,
on the day of many
bloomings. Stubborn,
the pampered ladies
withhold their colors,
refuse to unfurl
their sumptuous hoods.

Unlike the concubines
who come when summoned,
the orchids, keep close
and treasured just as much
as ladies of high families,

cling to rock and branch,
shy and particular.

And then, one day,
the eunuchs come running:

They are ready, Majesty,
the orchids are blooming!

 

ELEVENTH MONTH

Unable to sleep,
the Emperor walks,
unseen,
and unaccompanied
by guard or eunuch,
in a sheltered garden.

Is that Narcissus
he sees in moonlight,
breaking the soil
like waves against a dike?
Will they bloom so soon?

Dare they?  Is this
the Daoist gardener’s
laboratory, where plants
are made to bloom at will,
a fox-fairy’s paradise?

At sudden turn, he sees
the old gardener, lamp
in hand, who, horrified
to face his master,
trembles and begins
the humbling know-tow.

“Stand, you old magician,”
the Emperor intones.
“You have not seen me.
I was not here. Those were not
flowers seen too soon.

I have had entirely
too much tea.”

TWELFTH MONTH

Out and about
when he should not have been,
the Emperor paced
in a poorly-heated room,
hands cupping
the small tea-cup
as much for warmth
as for the taking
of such a small dose
of reality.

His feet trampled frost.
His eyes took in
the beauteous pattern
of ice on flagstones,
the tendril’d snow
at grass’s edge.

The sun had risen.
The abundant blossoms
of wintersweet lit up
with the morning’s own
gold. Not a leaf
in sight, but all those
petals sprung
from out bare branches.

How rare among
the flowering trees
was this, which bloomed
defiantly
while others shivered,
barren, for warmer days.

 

EPILOGUE

Twelve cups,
in a rosewood cabinet,
each for a lunar month.
On delicate eggshell
porcelain, so thin
that light shines through,
an artist painted such scenes,
and a poet described them
calligraphy beneath the glaze.

The cup was for
one drinker only. He,
the Son of Heaven,
ate all his meals alone,
drank tea alone —
not from the coarse cups
seen at the state banquets —
from these small, footed,
porcelain bowls.

With the rising of each moon,
one cup was taken
discreetly away
and replaced with the next.

At the Tomb of Sophocles

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Simias, The Greek Anthology, vii, 21 and 22

Just as the ivy twines
over this tombstone gracefully,
and just as roses bloom here,
snowing their petals pink
across your graven name,
and just as the grape,
from the adjacent arbor
sends out its grasping tendrils,
just so did word and phrase
bloom out in perfect diction
from your tongue and pen,
Great Sophocles, the favorite
of actors and auditors.

One tomb, and so little
earth -- so small a stage
they have afforded you
dead, the tragic Muse's
Attic north-star --
clings to a clod of soil.

Sing on, immortal voice
with words so strong
they burn the soul.

Our Diminished Company

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Diogenes Laertius, The Greek Anthology, vii, 104, 105, 111, 112, 116

If drinkers and reprobates seem
fewer among us, if taverns
seem quieter, there is a cause.
Archiselaus, for one,
drank so much wine
he lost his senses. How
can one serve the Muse,
mouth open, words
rising invisible
to empty air, to die
with no last words?
Gone just like that!

Lycades, too,
fell down in a stupor.
Out of the wine keg
Bacchus reached forth
and dragged him down,
toes first, to Hades.
Strato's gone, too. The son
of pudgy Lampsacus
was the thinnest man ever
to lift a wine-cup.
So thin he grew,
that when some grim
and wasting fever came,
he never felt it.
One moment here,
next moment gone.

Remember Lyco, so
crippled by gout
he had to arrive
on a litter
his slaves carried,
ever so much
like a pig on a platter?
He died mid-feast,
and he who came
on others' feet,
ran on his own
to cold Hades.

Diogenes we lost.
No one knew where.
We lit a lamp.
The ground we beat
with gong and staff.
We drank and sang:
"Diogenes! Where?" —
The answer came
from below below:
"Alas, in Hades now." —
"Wherefore and why?" —
"My shame! For nothing!
I fell down drunk.
One fierce dog's bite
quite finished me.
Good bye to all!"

If in water, a little wine,
no harm, and more the morrow.
But if your drink is watered not,
such fools as these, you join in sorrow.

Lament for Orpheus

Death of Orpheus, Jean Delville, 1893

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Antipater of Sidon, The Greek Anthology, vii, 8

Orpheus, who once
the very oaks, and
rocks they stood upon,
made stand upright
and dance, whose voice
called out wild beasts
no shepherds knew --
wolf, panther, and boar
as tame as lambs,
so long as his lyre
enchanted them,

who charmed to sleep
the howling winds,
sent back the hail
into the spiting clouds,
withheld the snow
with just a song,

who with a strum
of golden strings,
could silence waves
and still the roar
of breakered tide --

once, but no more!
Orpheus is dead!
Up the wails come
from Memnosyne's
bereft daughters,
and chief among
the mourners, his
mother Calliope,
the poets' Muse.

Mortal, sigh not
if your son is dead.
What is the use
of weeping, when
even the gods
are powerless
to save their sons
from pitiless death.

Gone to Hades
a second time,
harsh is his fate
and unforgiving.
Youth's glory twice
gone: can the earth
bear this much woe?

Eheu for Orpheus!
Eheu for the living!

From the Vine

by Brett Rutherford

     Anon., from The Greek Anthology

As a green grape still hung
from your father's vine,
you refused me.

Ripe, ready to fall
to anyone's hand,
red in your prime,
you refused me again.

Just now we passed
in arbor's shadow.
I bowed to you.
Uncertain, you
turned your gaze.

Do you not remember?
Am I too old for you?
Has time not equally
puckered your
face and features?

Refused the grape
denied the wine,
may I not taste
the sweet raisin?

The Cynic's Fall

 by Brett Rutherford

Adapted from Leonidas, The Greek Anthology, vi, 292.

Lookee here, Cypris!

At Aphrodite's porch

the strangest offering

ever, deposited:

a rude staff, two worn

and re-sewn sandals

that everyone knows

belonged to the Cynic

Sochares, whose gaze

went up and over us

without a glimmer

of romantic interest.

See now, his dingy

oil-flask, his worn-out

change-purse full of holes,

his carry-bag full

of crumpled papers,

that long essay

he never finished.

Is he dead? Oh,

not at all. Rhodon

the beautiful one

has made him swoon

with late-arriving love

and the lad made off

with everything portable.

Rhodon, a thief? Ah, no,

for all the booty hangs here

on the temple porch,

a testament to Eros,

and proof that every man,

even a philosopher

with an averted eye,

even an all-knowing

graybeard can fall

from his high perch,

his strong will quenched

by tender passions.

Hail, Rhodon,

youth mightier

than all philosophy!

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That Day in February

by Brett Rutherford

Pink cards arrived
with little hearts
and arrows.

Tomorrow
the senders come
to claim their victory.
peer over the edge
of an operating
theater, as I
am dissected
by tiny, long,
feather-fledged
scalpels.

Pink cards arrive
like individual hornets.
The hive follows,
an angry cloud
in which I sink,
a million stings
of insincere
affection.

I run. They fall
like meteors,
my fast feet trailed
by flaming craters.
Some cave
I crave
until the mail truck
is out of sight.

Unsent, the letter
I most require,
and dead its sender.
Unsent, another
from one who has quite
forgotten me.

Valentine's Day

by Brett Rutherford

The answer to everything
seems to be shooting.

Arrows in hearts
have brought me nothing
but misery. Worse yet
for poor Sebastian,
The Saint of Love
as it is actually
practiced.

Pink is a passing

hue, the moment before
the blood spurts out.

Deer dead,
air bags pierced,
substations shattered,
balloons plummeting,
lost kites targeted
by Tomahawk missiles;

even Eros, if he flew
to bring me good
tidings, is doomed,
a downed mallard
locked in the jaw
of a drooling hound.

Love is a bullet.
The grizzle-bearded
hunter rules the day.
Will you be my —
Splat.

Up in the Sky

by Brett Rutherford

The octagonal kite
I lost in 1952
has just been downed
by fighter jets
over Lake Huron.

Next, the umbrellas
(I count thirteen)
blown off in storms
will tumble down
from Jet Stream
to some cow-field.

The hat one hurricane
made off with:
include that, too.
The little girl's red
balloon, why not,
while you're at it?

Be sure a missile
obliterates
saucers malevolent,
whose occupants
disturb the herds
and vacuum up
hitch-hikers
for random
molesting.

Clean the skies!
Scramble the jets
when passing
laundry bags,
afloat in clouds,
set off the radar.

Light up the zenith
with fireworks,
and heaven help
high-flying eagles.

The Kind-Hearted Girl

by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Poseidippus, The Greek Anthology, v, 213

So poor, no more
than a hut she has.
Pythias is kind to strays.
Cats make a path
to her garden gate.
She names, and is known by
every dog outcast. I swear
she feeds the birds herself
from that dainty, open hand.

Is it any wonder
she seldom sleeps alone?
If no one is there tonight
I'd try my chances.
Invoking some god
or another for luck,
I'd tap at the entryway,
light as a hen-peck
or the faintest scratch
of a plaintive kitten.

Oh, she'd come running.
It's midnight out,
and raining, too.
I'd blurt some tale
of being tossed
from the tavern, and then,
the prey of thieves,
stripped to my last
farthing. See here,
even my sandal is torn!

With Eros behind me,
and Aphrodite before
to daze her eyes,
how can sweet Pythias
not open the door?

Oaks I Would Like to Know

Digital poster depicting King Offa's Oak

by Brett Rutherford

In Great Windsor Park,

King Offa's Oak

was said to shade

for rest and watering

a man and horse,

the latter unnamed,

the former a Norman

king called William.

A Flemish knight

named Ruderfyrde

brought news.

England was won.

Oaks big enough

in hollow trunk

to conceal a band

of outlaws.

The Major Oak

in Sherwood Forest

was one of these,

concealing, live,

one Robin Hood,

or dead, in larder,

the King's deer.

In Devon, nine dined

inside the Meavy Oak.

The self-same tree

at Wetherby

lets seventy men

and one distraught

old squirrel cram

into its dark insides.

Below the arms

of a Shelton oak,

a battle raged

between Prince Hal

and Hotspur.

One, Owen

Glendower, safe

in its leafy bower,

witnessed it all.

Oaks stout and fit

to serve as a gibbet.

Look there -- the Abbot

of Woburn dangled

at Henry VIII's order.

Oaks old and wise,

abundant with acorns:

what have they not seen,

what secrets not heard?

They lean, they bend,

they groan with cold and frost,

and yet they will not die.

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To Spring

Nature poems per se are rare in The Greek Anthology. This, one of Meleager’s longer poems, is an attempt at a nature poem, anticipating Virgil. It includes one biological error, the ancient belief that bees spring from rotting cow carcasses. I have done this up in blank verse, and if it mixes a little Shelley in, well, so be it. The Greek word “euoi” is  a variant of “evoe” or “evohe” and is a Dionysian cry of rapture. 

TO SPRING

 by Brett Rutherford

     Adapted from Meleager, The Greek Anthology, I, 363

The Cynic, too, is happy in springtime.
How could it be otherwise? Departed
the howling winter is, and now the sky
gives way to smiling, purple-flowered days.

Out of dark earth a green garland rises
as dried-up meadows break out in tresses,
willow green-bud, the tender, up-sprouting grass
the emerald hair of the new season. 

What had been frost is now the dew of dawn,
laughing as the rose-bud in lurid red
blushes. Shepherds break out their shrill-toned pipes
trimming and tuning them to summon forth

The he- and she-goats and their new-born kids.
Already mariners, by tide and moon
called out, puff up their sails with Zephyr’s help.
Somewhere on distant slopes, the revelers,

heads wreath’d with berry’d ivy cry euoi!
to him who blesses grapes: Dionysus!
An old bull-carcass spews forth the black bees,
decay engendering intelligence

as the swarm swells and divides its labors
as wondrous as the pyramids in Egypt.
those ever-refilling white honeycombs.
Kingfisher and cormorant, the ibis

and crane, stern eagle and high-flying kite —
how all the birds exult and sing, down to
the humblest of sparrow. Swan glides, swallow
flits round to bless the homes of rich and poor.

The mournful nightingale, in gloom of grove,
takes up its station. Dire ravens roost there,
and crowds of crows await the crops to come.
O what a world for those with pinion’d wings!

If there is joy in all green uprising,
if there is joy as gold wheat flourishes,
if there is joy in the flocks’ frolicking,
and in those never-ending Pan-pipe calls,

if there is joy in sailing out to sea,
then somewhere always dances Dionysus.
Birds, bees, the swelling earth, the cloud-blessed sky,
how should a poet not sing of these, too? 

Hands joined, come one and all, and dance! Euoi!

On the Porch

Ruins of Cyzicus in present-day Turkey.

by Brett Rutherford

     From Anon., The Greek Anthology, vi, 341

A ship-mast on a temple porch —
what business has it here?
Does the hill-top intend
a sea-voyage? No, citizens,
this antique jigger-mast
once stood at the rear
of a great trireme,
sail shading the rows
of sun-burnt oarsmen.

Warriors it carried
to glory and fame. Athena
herself designed it,
and thus, Cyzicus ranked
first in ship-building.

Rewarded this temple was,
first ever consecrated
this far to the East
to the Tritonian maid.

The ship, and drawn plans
for more like it, sailed
to Apollo in Delphi,
with offerings of gold.
Spartan ships splintered
before its thrust,
and Persians trembled
to see it coming.

Solider or sailor, nod
to the well-crafted ship
that brought your forebears
home in safety. Garland
the deck and give thanks
for safe passage
of Poseidon’s dark
and roiling sea.