On Sunday, after Li Shangyin alighted from his purple phoenix in Los Angeles, at Hollywood and Vine, most people ignored him. It was about three in the afternoon, when it was both too early and too late to do anything. So, while some in the city were following the Lakers’ latest draft picks or the launch of the iPhone 32, others slept.
“Look , Mum, that bird is from Harry Potter!” Said a little boy, his lollipop almost dropping from his mouth.
“Don’t stare,” his mother, a stout woman with a frowsy head of hair that looked to Shangyin like a wet red lantern. She rapped him on the head with her knuckles, shaking the boy’s two dragon like tufts of brown hair.
“It’s just a specially decorated drone. Amazon uses them all the time to deliver packages.”
And they walked on.
He entered a nearby Starbucks. His phoenix was parked by the Hollywood Walk of fame, meekly drinking a glass of wine. He had taught it to do so, in the manner of the trained Arab horses that the Tang Emperor was fond of.
It was while he was sipping the frappuccino (with two shots of expresso), that the thought hit him. At this moment in the middle of his life, Shangyin realized that the question of who he was could be settled by two words: I feel. The question of identity and consciousness was beyond words. For example, as a baby, he had reached for his mother and on the few occasions she moved away from him, the pain he felt was insufferable. Yet it was beyond his control. At that instant, he had recognized that there was an other, and his mother was part of it. He wanted a promotion, not because someone told him to do so, but because he felt he was more capable. He wrote, not because he was good, but because it was his passion. All these feelings made him who he was. It made sense to him that his poems need not be connected by logic, but whimsy and imagination.
A young woman chewing gum between tattooed lips, came up to him. She wore a bright shirt that reminded him of peacock plumes.
“Weird threads, man!’
Li Shangyin, looked behind, thinking she had said we said…
‘I didn’t say anything,’ he stuttered.
‘Don’t worry,’ she shrugged. She had rich black hair cut short. A slight frown gently darkened her alabaster white forehead, like a bird’s shadow behind light silk.
Li Shangyin remembered the dancing girls and concubines of Chang An, in particular the Persian or Arab women in diaphanous gowns with breaths of spring.
‘That’s right, you must be Miss No Worry.” He gave a big smile, as though he had passed a test.
“A woman I knew. She never worried, and lived in a place called Stone City.”
‘You sound like a poet! ‘ She sat down beside him, but not too close.
黄河摇溶天上来， huáng hé yáo róng tiān shàng lái，
玉楼影近中天台。 yù lóu yǐng jìn zhōng tiān tái。
龙头泻酒客寿杯， lóng tóu xiè;xì jiǔ kè shòu bēi，
主人浅笑红玫瑰。 zhǔ rén qiǎn xiào hóng méi guī。
梓泽东来七十里， zǐ zé dōng lái qī shí lǐ，
长沟复堑埋云子。 cháng;zhǎng gōu fù qiàn mái yún zǐ。
可惜秋眸一脔光， kě xī qiū móu yī luán guāng，
汉陵走马黄尘起。 hàn líng zǒu mǎ huáng chén qǐ。
南浦老鱼腥古涎， nán pǔ lǎo yú xīng gǔ xián，
真珠密字芙蓉篇。 zhēn zhū mì zì fú róng piān。
湘中寄到梦不到， xiāng zhōng jì dào mèng bù dào，
衰容自去抛凉天。 shuāi;cuī róng zì qù pāo liáng tiān。
忆得蛟丝裁小卓， yì dé;děi;de jiāo sī cái xiǎo zhuō，
蛱蝶飞回木绵薄。 jiá dié fēi huí mù mián bó。
绿绣笙囊不见人， lǜ xiù shēng náng bù jiàn rén，
一口红霞夜深嚼。 yī kǒu hóng xiá yè shēn jué;jiáo。
幽兰泣露新香死， yōu lán qì lù;lòu xīn xiāng sǐ，
画图浅缥松溪水。 huà tú qiǎn piǎo sōng qī shuǐ。
楚丝微觉竹枝高， chǔ sī wēi jué;jiào zhú zhī gāo，
半曲新辞写绵纸。 bàn qū xīn cí xiě mián zhǐ。
巴西夜市红守宫， bā xī yè shì hóng shǒu gōng，
后房点臂斑斑红。 hòu fáng diǎn bì bān bān hóng。
堤南渴雁自飞久， dī nán kě yàn zì fēi jiǔ，
芦花一夜吹西风。 lú huā yī yè chuī xī fēng。
晓帘串断蜻蜓翼， xiǎo lián chuàn duàn qīng tíng yì，
罗屏但有空青色。 luó;luō píng;bǐng dàn yǒu kòng qīng sè。
玉湾不钓三千年， yù wān bù diào sān qiān nián，
莲房暗被蛟龙惜。 lián fáng àn bèi jiāo lóng xī。
湿银注镜井口平， shī yín zhù jìng jǐng kǒu píng，
鸾钗映月寒铮铮。 luán chāi yìng yuè hán zhēng zhēng。
不知桂树在何处， bù zhī guì shù zài hé chǔ，
仙人不下双金茎。 xiān rén bù xià shuāng jīn jīng。
百尺相风插重屋， bǎi chǐ;chě xiàng;xiāng fēng chā chóng wū，
侧近嫣红伴柔绿。 cè jìn yān hóng bàn róu lǜ。
百劳不识对月郎， bǎi láo bù shí duì yuè láng，
湘竹千条为一束。 xiāng zhú qiān tiáo wèi;wéi yī shù。
Turbulent, these rolling waters of Heaven’s Yellow River,
The Jade Mansion’s shadow falls on Zhongtian Terrace hither.
The guest’s mug overflows with wine from the Dragon Head pitcher,
With a rosy dimpled smile the hostess gently laughs, and I with her.
Yize lies seventy li away in the Eastern zones,
There I passed long ravines and moats covered with mica like bones.
What I pity that I failed to see the autumn pools in your eyes
As if horses had pounded over the Han King’s tomb, raising a dusty sheen
Awaiting your news from the southern riverbank made me drool as over tasty fish of old,
Honest, sweet words and thoughts quietly adorned your hibiscus scented scrolls.
At Xiao Zhong your missive arrived but my dreams of seeing you were unfulfilled,
Autumn went, I departed, wan and sallow, saddened, failed.
Remembering the small table you cut and embroidered silk of mermaids and sharks,
Moths fly back to my pillow of cotton worn thin and stark.
No one plays the Sheng by the embroidered green coverlet,
Crimson silk threads sparkle in the deep of the night.
The orchid weeps to know your scent is gone
Greenish blue poplars and little brooks in a picture have shone.
The Chu Silk songs feel weak, the Bamboo branch poems are grand,
Half finished songs and new poems on the silk paper land.
The red Shou Palace lies in Baling’s night time city,
In their other homes bloody spots mark the arms of wasted beauties.
Yearning, I am a wild goose flying long over the southern banks,
Then at night, from the reeds the west wind blows me askance.
Morning, the curtain strings stop the dragonfly’s wings,
Empty, the netted screen is a simple green.
The Jade sea has not been fished for three thousand years,
While the lotus palace is cherished by a water dragon that rarely appears.
Wet silver pours into the mirror’s placid well,
The Luan hairpin clicks where a cold moon dwells
The Cassia tree has vanished, I reckon
The Immortal’s double staff of gold has not beckoned
One hundred chi high, the weather vane sticks from the lofty tower
Close to bright vermillion and soft emerald walls
Aloft, the shrike cares not for the moon’s consort
Or the bamboo bouquet mottled with a thousand tears.
Reading of Heyang Poem by Mark Obama Ndesandjo
Musical Interlude: Prelude No 6 by Mark O. Ndesandjo
I associate this work with Dante and the poet visionary William Blake. It evokes that sense of space and alienation that Shangyin is so good at internalizing. By this I mean that he uses images to evoke feelings in the reader that are on the cusp of being articulated. In the end, poets are like musicians: they are a medium through which something bigger than all of us finds expression.