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KangXi Emperor, Age 45.
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by Brett RutherfordAdapted 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.
