Sweeping the Tombs

 by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Li Yü, Poem 11

So many trees above,
almost no sky. Lazy,
I linger alone in the hut
the caretaker lives in.
Ancient pines moan,
whisper my father’s name,
and his, and his.

This early April night
might go on forever. Warm now,
a moment later I am shivering.
Cold nights will soon be over.

The Feast of Qingming
ended just yesterday.
With my own hands I swept
the tomb of my father,
and his, and his.

Others swept clean of leaves
and sand and pebbles,
the graves of imperial uncles,
of consorts whose names
nobody remembers,
and of several dread dowagers
whose ghosts demanded
     extra incense
and more circling 'round
as the prayers went up.

Ancestors appeased,
the earth is free
to mark the end of Spring.

The out-of-focus moon
is its own ghost tonight.
Clouds roll, and down the slope
a breeze torments
the budding peach and apricot.

Who is impatient for summer?
And who, down there,
sits on a swing and chatters,
laughing and gossiping?

My heart is one with myself,
but for my land and its people,
ten thousands threads of thought
go out to who knows where
for who knows what response. 

Even the Son of Heaven
cannot find room enough
to untangle one small web
of one night’s thoughts.

Given the whole world
to unravel it, I still would not
have any idea
what I am supposed to do.

Those below earth
and in the sky, lend me
at least, if nothing else,
a calm demeanor.

 

Making Love to the Empress

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Li Yü, Poem 10

She was ready, but I could hardly wait.
I burst into her chamber, just as the last
of her preparations for love were underway.
I caught her fanning the censer
so that more sandalwood would blow
my way. She laughed, and that lilac-bud
of a little tongue circled her cherry lips
and moistened them. Before I could
turn to embrace her, one arm took up
the lute, and in her lap it went, a guard
against my haste. She tuned, oh, quickly!
to pretend to tune when she had tuned
before! and this to cool my ardor.
Forth the clean song issued –
ah, swan and peony, dove and cherry! —

I knelt to listen, and to aim
my upward-looking eyes into hers,
turned down to frets and fingering
(small darts of desire I thought I saw,
not just in melody,
but in the slight tremble she added
to every falling note.) A scent,
she must have meant to madden me,
rose and then faded from sleeves of gauze.
Why trick me with chemistry
when you have already conquered China?

And so we drank, and soon her cup
was tinged with wine, and fringed
with the hue of abducted cherry.
At last, the pi-pa put aside, the song
having reached its triple ending,
she lay there stretched, all limbs in view
upon the silk embroidered bed.
Oh, what is modesty, when thunder strikes
and blinds the eyes, unbearable!

When my sight cleared, and what I saw
I saw again, she parted her lips, and
from her mouth a cascade of red petals,
blew up and out. I nearly fainted.

 

Woman of Spring

by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Li Yü, Poem 9.

Over the water
    the East Wind blows.
Over the hills
     the Sun holds on
a little longer.

Thanks to Spring,
I have more leisure time,
more hours for love
    and poetry.
Look: petals everywhere!
I leave them where they fall.

The drinking cups
     my artist friends abandoned,
tipped this way and that
by calligraphers and drummers,
flutists and lutenists,
some pink, some plum,
some celadon – mine
is the blue one, there —
their very scattering
around the old Zun vessel
empty now of wine:
this is a painting, too.

Somewhere a woman,
woman beyond empress,
lover or concubine,
visible to me only,
wakes from her long sleep.
She, too, is grateful
for the sun’s long days.
The false peach face
she put on all winter
is faded now. No servant
comes to attend
    to her appearance
and correct her unruly
hair-knot. Heedless
even of what she is wearing,

this woman, nameless to me
and not of my retinue or court,
goes where she wishes. Her hand
seems to bless the bright land.
Upon a placid lake she views
her own face and blushes not.
Will she come back, alone,
at dusk, to tell me everything?

If I were painting this,
     I would place here there,
half-in, half-out of the pavilion,
arms and elbows
leaning across the balustrade.

Will she come as I bid her?
Will she take wine, or bring me some?
Will she at last, whisper
     her name into my ear?

  

 

The Floating Things

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Li Yü, Poem 8

The name of a thing
is not the thing.

A jade tree stands
at courtyard's front,
yet leaves that drop from it
are not hard stones
that can be carved
into dragons and lions.

They say the grass
is strewn with gems
when frost kisses it.
I reach for them
and my wet hand
is none the richer.

"To flower" means
making something new,
yet wilted peonies,
and stiff chrysanthemums
shame the garden,
like crones who came
to beg, and never left.

The moon, they say,
is full again.
Was it not full before?
Is this year's light
that shines from it
a newer thing, or just
the same old radiance,
shed from a tattered robe
in the night sky?

And if a thing's attributes
are not themselves
things in themselves,
moon just moon,
and flowers just flowers,
what thing is Youth
if pulled apart
from years and bodies?

Can Heaven grant us
this thing we most crave:
to age not
and to be young forever?

 

 

Making Spring Happen

 by Brett Rutherford

after Li Yü, Poem 7

The sound of the little goat-skin drum
makes me want to write poetry.

Fools wait for the falling blossoms
before they say that Spring has come.
To find Spring, you must go early
and walk to the fields in search.
To love a flower that has bloomed
already, is to miss the flowering.

My love presents my favorite cup
with a supple hand. I see
no thumb. The blue-glazed
porcelain surrounds
an inner whiteness, a wine
so pure it has no color.

Is Spring delayed
if we drink and linger?
Does the Forbidden Garden
require the Emperor
to bless its blooming?

Girl, let us drink ourselves silly!
Just as my poem will come
to the beat of a little drum,
the buds and flowers, too,
leaning against the palace,
will listen and follow.

 

Dancing on Autumn Leaves

 by Brett Rutherford

Adapted from Emperor Li Yü, Poem 6

She has come, as I bid her,
to the unruly pavilion
where leaves and fallen petals
carpet her footsteps.

The sun is but three hours up
but still the Lovely One arrives,
a row of sleepy dancers
behind her,
suppressing laughter
as they move to no music,
but to the breeze itself,
the sway of pine branches.

I clap my hands.
She is a little drunk
from last night's merriment.
Her golden hairpin falls
and another must bow
to sweep it up for her.
Not quite so sure
of this step or that,
no tile or square to guide her,

she pretends to smell
an untouched flower,
     and just as well,
     as it is withered.
Fumbling, she tries again,
the wrong foot forward,

while I delight to hear
small feet unsure of step,
on autumn leaves arranged
by Master Wind.

Somewhere a flute and drum
strike up in another palace
(some being called
to early breakfast!)
Not for me, these sounds!
Shuffle, crackle,
slide, and spin,
whirl, little slippers, my
pantomimes of whim!

 

Crybaby

by Brett Rutherford

By the age of six,

I was programmed to cry.

A loud noise would do it.

A father's bruising slap,

most certainly, and so many

that my memory is wiped.

But this I recall,

a war of wills. One slap

on face or bottom

and my mother was rid of me

as I wailed and ran.

One day I read,

in the only book around

about "childish things"

and putting them aside.

So I walked up to her

and said, "Never again.

will you make me cry."

"You little brat! Just like

your father!" Slap! Slap!

I reeled. I bit my lip,

Tears came. I whimpered.

But I did not cry. Not then,

and never after. Self,

sovereign and free, I was.

Big House, Rent Cheap

 by Brett Rutherford

Come right on in.

You can rent the house cheap.

Set back from the road the way it is,

no one will bother you.

School bus picks up right there.

Most folks from hereabouts

keep to themselves. They'll be

no bother to you at all.

Haunted? No. Old Doctor Jones --

or so he called his-self -- he was

the last tenant, but now he's gone

for life to the worst kind of place.

But never you mind about that.

Let's do the tour.

Good porch, good bricks, good stairs,

as you can see, original

from back in the Eighteen-Nineties.

Parlor so wide

you could swing a cat,

sliding glass doors -- not sure

if they still work. Marble!

that's marble on the mantel, yes!

There's just one room

you'll want to stay out of.

The one in back, windows

all boarded up.

There's a funny chair in there,

and all those medicine bottles.

That's where he did the stuff

that got him in trouble.

You'll need your water

for drinking carried in,

just so you know everything.

Some springs near here

are free to fill up from.

You can bathe and wash

with what is here, I guess,

but I wouldn't drink.

The well is tainted.

One time I looked down

with a light and I saw

a lot of rubbish there

and something that seemed,

if you squinted,

like little arms and legs.

You'll be left alone, for sure.

Except some nights

a woman or girl will knock

and will keep on knocking

until she gives up and goes away.

You won't want to answer.

Awakening in Early Autumn

 by Brett Rutherford

(Adapted from Emperor Li Yü, Poem 5, to the tune of "Hsi Ch'ian Ying")

As my eyes open,
     the morning moon,
     pale crescent, sets.
Ashes remain;
     the incense smoke is gone.
Cold, too, the coals
     beneath the brazier --
I must wait for my tea.

Calling no one, I rest
     on this pillow and that,
remembering --

Who was I with? what
     was her name?
No matter! Right now
I have a craving
     for the scent of hay.

 Listen!
Off in the sky somewhere,
     swans weakly call.

Above me,
     on the lattice-work
     of cherry, the orioles
          hungry, unsatisfied,
dart off to fuller branches.

Chrysanthemums, those
     drooping dowagers,
          fade and fall.
No one is up. Later,
these garden embarrassments
will vanish, be sure!

Red maple leaves
     and desiccated petals
litter the enameled floor
     and clog the courtyard.

Sweet autumn carpet,
     crispèd and melancholy:
I shall have it left unswept.

I want to watch what
     the feet of dancers
          do to them.

 

At the Door

 by Brett Rutherford

The Mennonite minister,
persistent, soul-saver,
sniffing the unsaved
in our unruly house,
knocks at the door again.
It is his third attempt.

I peer out, as screen
door is the only thing
between me and his
elder-beard eminence.

"Are your parents home?"
he asks dismissively;
no child alone
is worth his trouble.

I am brimful of movies,
Sinbad and flying saucers.
"You see those marks
on the hillside up there?" —

"Yes, boy, what of them?"—

"Those are the tracks
of the Cyclops. It came down
this morning and ate
my mother." — 

"Is your father home, then?" — 

"See that scorch mark
in front of the garage?
That's all that's left
of my father
when the death-ray took him." —

"Now see, here, boy --
to lie is a sin. Besides,
I can hear their voices."

From out the living room
the shouting rises.
"Son of a bitch! Bastard!"
my mother shouts.
"What kind of man — "
"You are my wife!"
he bellows back.
"Son of a bitch! Bastard!"
she yells again.

"Oh, well!" mutters
the bearded Anabaptist.
"I’d best come back
another day."

 

September Sarabande

by Brett Rutherford

It is the night most singular,
alone of all the nights of the year,
when those who were loved
and those who truly loved them,
drift as ghosts in the grim dark.

Night-blooming jasmine smothers them,
as a blue moon makes blind their eyes.
Cruel fate torments them. No fingers
touch as, back to back, they dance
a silent sarabande, eyes to the ground.

The names they whisper, yearning,
are drowned by the night-sky’s wail,
as constellations from their dread
seducers flee, or from the wrath
of jealousy — even stars are denied
the company that most pleases them.

At dawn, they resume their places,
placid and cold beneath the ground,
side-by-side with detested partners,
head-to-foot with dreaded sires.

As burning sun warms up the stones
and the names and vows engraved
upon them, the dance is forgotten.
By name, by date, for all of time,
love’s crucifixion grinds on.

  

La sarabande de septembre

C'est la nuit la plus singulière,
seul de toutes les nuits de l'année,
quand ceux qui étaient aimés
et ceux qui les aimaient vraiment,
dérivent, fantômes dans l'obscurité sinistre.

Le jasmin nocturne les étouffe;
une lune bleue aveugle leurs yeux.
Le destin cruel les tourmente.
Pas de doigts toucher comme,
dos à dos, ils dansent une sarabande
silencieuse, les yeux baissés.

Les noms qu'ils chuchotent, désireux,
sont noyés par les gémissements
du ciel nocturne, tout comme
les constellations lointaines fuient
les ruses d'un séducteur,
ou la colère de jalousie
— même les étoiles sont refusées
les compagnons qui leur plaisent le plus.

A l'aube, ils reprennent leurs places,
placide et froid sous terre,
côte à côte avec des partenaires détestés,
cap à pied avec des parents redoutés.

Alors que le soleil brûlant
réchauffe les pierres
et les noms et vœux qui y sont gravés,
la danse est oubliée.

Par nom, par date, pour toujours,
la crucifixion de l'amour continue.

 

 

Open Stacks

by Brett Rutherford

Does your library

have one too?

A special kind of reader,

I mean. I thought

to ask you, as you maintain,

as we, the open-stack

philosophy that lets our patrons

roam freely from A to Z,

zero to infinity, from LOC

to the dusty old Dewey.

Free-range readers, I call them.

We treasure those visitors

who shun the computer,

turn up their nose at car catalogs.

They want to scan, to touch,

to run their fingers along

the embossed leather spines.

They crave the accident

by which a mis-shelved book

is the very one they need.

But now we have another kind —

do you have one like this?

He, or she, or they, or it,

no taller than a ten-year-old,

began at the farthest shelf

and is day-by-day reading

the whole library. Each book

comes down into a barely

visible hand; the pages flip,

so fast you can hardly see it,

then comes a sigh, and back

the inspected volume goes.

No title goes uninspected;

down on all fours below,

or stretching itself in ladder,

it is studying everything.

One day, consumed

with the thought of a prank

in the works, I walked up

in the shadowy aisle

and touched its shoulder.

"Just what are you about?"

I asked. A light flashed.

I found myself standing

three blocks away,

behind a dumpster.

And so I write to you,

and to a few others

I feel safe to inquire of:

are you invaded, too?

How far has it read?

What happens to us all

when they reach the end

and have yet to find

the reason for our existence?

Awaiting your reply,

I tremble.

White People

by Brett Rutherford

O whiter than white,

Boccaccio and Rabelais,

Petronius and Shakespeare

all got it right. Centaurs

we are, and not just down-

below. You think you know

your pedigree, but no,

methinks it is not so.

Among the married

Anglo-Saxon women,

Brit and American,

one out of every four

of babies born

are not the child

of the woman's husband.

Smug warrior:

does the pizza boy smile

when he passes you?

What of Fedex and UPS —

that guy-to-guy wink

from the drivers? What

do you think that is about?

And why does Jesus,

the gardener, sing that way?

And if your wife

should take a lover,

why should it be

your fraternity brother,

a golf club life member,

a Harvard club lounger?

Immigrants, you know,

are experts at seduction,

foreplay and extended

ecstasies. Their genes

are desperate to conquer.

And guard as you will

your own palace,

who guarded your mother,

your grandmother, and all

the women of your line?

Most played a jest

in the mating pool.

Most had a favorite child

they bore because

they wanted to.

Roman and Viking,

proud Scot and Norman

invader, Angle of old,

Saxon of German forests,

your line is laid waste

by Italy and Africa,

Spain and Oaxaca.

The bed was battlefield.

Your bored consort

opened the gate

for your welcome
replacement.