Given all the shit that's going down right now in response to years of systematic racist abuse and murder, and watching the system's violent response to it, posting this feels frivolous. Most things do, really. Still, in the hopes that it might bring a little light into a darkening world, here's the sixth of Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. I don't have much to say about , other than that I like that this poem is so straightforward that it could be read as a parody of genteel Chinese aristocratic leisure.
I'll catch y'all later. Stay healthy, fight hard. Solidarity forever.
微臣
史大偉
-----
典雅
司空圖
玉壺買春
賞雨茅屋
坐中佳士
左右修竹
白雲初晴
幽鳥相逐
眠琴綠陰
上有飛瀑
落花無言
人淡如菊
書之歲華
其曰可讀
-----
"Refinement"
Sikong Tu
Drinking wine from a
jade jug
enjoying rain on a
thatched roof
sitting among men of
repute
amidst tall, graceful
bamboo
First sight of white
clouds
reclusive birds chase
one another
zither resting in green
shade
overhead, a towering
waterfall
Blossoms fall
wordlessly
a man as tranquil as
chrysanthemums
records the year's
passing splendors—
an account worth
reading
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