An Excerpt
Get up and amble through the city of the massacre,
then lock your eyes, and, with your hands, touch what you’re passing there,
the clots of blood upon cooled brains, dried on tree trunks and rocks.
Go to the ruins, gaping breaches, fences, hearths and walks.
All shattered, as by thunder’s crash—the blackness, naked, thick—
a crowbar is embedded in the walls of broken brick.
Black wounds for which there is no healing or a doctor’s help.
Just take a step and you will sink your foot into this hell.
Here are the fragments of utensils, book shreds, rags and toys;
these things through arduous work massed, and in a flash destroyed.
And you will come out to the road, acacias bloom and smell,
and their sweet fumes will reach your breast, and beckon you to health.
previously published in Oddball Magazine
Bruce Dale Wise is a poet and former English teacher currently residing in Texas.
Hi Bruce; I LOVE how the slant rhymes in the first stanza take the reader through the sense of the world being off. Lovely!
One of the interesting poems by Ms. Erlandson, analyzed brilliantly by Ms. Myers, “Prophesy to the Wind”, hides its slant rhyme; that is a technique the author here does constantly, because of his philosophy of rhyme.
One of his favourite PostModernist poems, in which the author utilizes slant rhyme with neat dexterity is the grim “Traveling Through the Dark” by William Stafford (1914-1993); but the American poet whom he most admires for use of slant rhyme is the American Realist Emily Dickinson (1830-1886). One example suffices:
Apparently with no surprise
To any happy Flower
The Frost beheads it at its play—
In accidental power—
The blonde Assassin passes on—
The Sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another Day
For an Approving God.
Note here, where in the final couplet, she shows she could have rhymed [i.e., “approved”], but did not, to take, as Ms. Tedesco explains, “the reader though the sense of the world being off”.
Of course, Ms. Tedesco, in her own poetry demonstrates subtle rhyme as well. Take, for instance, her extraordinary “Upon Meeting a Crane”, wherein she illuminates a brief encounter with a bird. It is interesting how she combines a forthright Dickinsonian description, a Frostian tone, with the clarity of Stephen Crane (1871-1900), all in the poem of seven-six-five lines, and a fine, abating Yeatsian melody, with a strangely Whitmanic end. How else would one describe such a unique poem?
This is a haunting, visceral, vivid depiction of the tragedy of war in all the shattered details of its aftermath- assaulting all five senses. The contrast in the final lines make the preceding scene seem that much more tragic, but also reminds of the relief when war ends. A very engaging work.
As I read, Bruce, I remember indistinct Vietnam feelings (not scenes, just feelings) told me by a soldier returned to the States to finish his enlistment. They would have started with sensory experience, but had turned into his “black wounds for which there is no healing.” Thus your acacias beckoning to health in the final lines represent bitter irony.
The World is huge; and it is small within the Universe. In short, there is so much to write about it is a curse. And then how long should poets write on any topic screened? My go-to-choice is just one tennos, where much must be gleaned. That’s all I choose to get, at least most often when now I write. In other words, the words I use need to be few and tight. But that throws up another quan-da-ry—one needs more depth—because one’s life is very short of time and breath and breadth.
The title of this work follows the Realists (1850-1900) in their style of impersonal and scientific poetry and prose. The Choice here was an excerpt from Hayim Nahman Bialik (1873-1934) the noted Modernist Russian-Jewish poet. It comes from his own description of the Kishinev pogrom of 1903 alluded to in his longer poem “In the City of Slaughter”, where over forty Jews were killed, amongst the hundreds attacked. Al ha-Shehitah is borrowed from the penultimate passage of the blessing pronounced by the ritual slaughterer before slitting an animal’s throat.
Nearly all of my editors reject words, topics, charichords, and even prose suggestions afterwords, where contexts can help explicate the language.
The title of this work follows the Realists (1850-1900) in their style of impersonal and scientific poetry and prose. The Choice here was an excerpt from Hayim Nahman Bialik (1873-1934) the noted Modernist Russian-Jewish poet. It comes from his own description of the Kishinev pogrom of 1903 alluded to in his longer poem “In the City of Slaughter”, where over forty Jews were killed, amongst the hundreds attacked. Even in the establishment of the small state of Israel, the Jews continue to be attacked.
Bruce, I understand your difficulties in identifying the place and incident. It really does take words out of your poem to name and tell what you’re writing about. In a piece I just wrote comparing different time periods where the same type of events happened, it turned out to be extremely troublesome to even hope readers would understand my shifts of time and place, though I gave up several lines to do so. So one option is to accept that your event and purpose remain unrecognized, leaving nothing but description and emotion as accomplishment. That was not satisfactory to me when my purpose was contrast.
If you really want to speak of continuous anti-semitism, which is a praiseworthy current purpose, you must use the title, a single line epigraph if the editor will allow (and with a tennos, how can that be too long?), or somewhere within the poem, name Kishinev pogrom. I can see many lines in this tennos where it might fit, but you as author will know better. Best wishes with all such matters!
First off apologies for the poor cut and paste.
But I do consider prose notes, before, or after, a poem, part of the artistic pattern, much in the manner of Matsuo Bashō.
However, it is true I often do put context in the poem itself, even in translation, as in “My Ship” where I work through both the translation and context in one fell full swoop sweep:
My Ship
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
My ship is built of spice-wood with a rudder of mulan.
Musicians play their bamboo flutes and pipes of golden-tan.
Such pleasure of sweet wine and singing girls on the waves;
I’m happier than airy fairies on the yellow crane.
With strokes of my inspired pen, I see Five Mountains rise.
I laugh, and my delight is vaster than the sea and sky.
Enduring poetry, Chu Yuan, loyal minister,
though palaces of the Chu kings have vanished in time’s stir,
your words have lasted centuries, as has the River Han.
The Yangtse tributary still goes on and on and on.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of ancient China. My ship is a “translation” of a poem by Li Bai (701-762). Mulan means wood orchid. [The above poem was first published December 21, 2018.]
Navigating the Currents of Time: Echoes of Li Bai and Chu Yuan in a Modern Tennos
April 28, 2025 by edward:
The interplay between ancient wisdom and modern expression forms a fascinating dialogue across time. This exploration delves into a tennos poem inspired by the Tang dynasty poet Li Bai (701-762), interwoven with echoes of the earlier Chu Yuan (340-278 BCE), demonstrating how timeless themes of nature, joy, and artistic legacy transcend centuries.
Contents
• A Voyage on Spice-Wood and Mulan: Capturing Li Bai’s Essence
• Ascending the Five Mountains: The Power of Poetic Inspiration
• The Enduring Legacy of Chu Yuan: A Tributary of Time
• A Confluence of Voices: Timeless Themes in Poetry
A Voyage on Spice-Wood and Mulan: Capturing Li Bai’s Essence
The tennos, titled “My Ship,” draws inspiration from Li Bai’s evocative imagery and exuberant spirit. While not a direct translation, it seeks to capture the essence of his poetic vision.
“My ship is built of spice-wood with a rudder of mulan.
Musicians play their bamboo flutes and pipes of golden-tan.
Such pleasure of sweet wine and singing girls on the waves;
I’m happier than airy fairies on the yellow crane.”
These lines paint a vibrant picture of a luxurious journey, filled with music, merriment, and a sense of otherworldly delight. The exotic materials of the ship, the melodious instruments, and the allusion to mythical yellow cranes all contribute to an atmosphere of enchantment and escapism.
Ascending the Five Mountains: The Power of Poetic Inspiration
The poem then shifts to a contemplation of the poet’s creative power:
“With strokes of my inspired pen, I see Five Mountains rise.
I laugh, and my delight is vaster than the sea and sky.”
This emphasizes the transformative power of art, where the poet’s imagination can conjure entire landscapes. The immensity of the poet’s joy, surpassing even the vastness of nature, speaks to the profound emotional impact of creative expression.
The Enduring Legacy of Chu Yuan: A Tributary of Time
The final stanza introduces the figure of Chu Yuan, a poet and minister known for his patriotism and tragic fate:
“Enduring poetry, Chu Yuan, loyal minister,
though palaces of the Chu kings have vanished in time’s stir,
your words have lasted centuries, as has the River Han.
The Yangtse tributary still goes on and on and on.”
This evokes a sense of the passage of time, where empires crumble, but the power of words endures. The reference to the Han River, a tributary of the Yangtze, serves as a metaphor for the continuous flow of literary tradition, connecting past and present.
A Confluence of Voices: Timeless Themes in Poetry
“My Ship” is not merely a homage to Li Bai but a reflection on the enduring power of poetry itself. By weaving in the image of Chu Yuan and the ever-flowing river, the poem connects with broader themes of artistic legacy and the timeless human desire to find solace and meaning in the face of mortality. The tennos, through its evocative imagery and thematic resonance, demonstrates how ancient voices can continue to inspire and resonate with us today. The vibrant tapestry of Chinese literary tradition, woven through the threads of Li Bai, Chu Yuan, and the modern poet, invites us to explore the enduring power of words to navigate the currents of time.
“He never felt he ever was the freest in the land;
like Sabo in Trieste, he felt he lived on shifting sand”
–Luwese Becardi
AFTER UMBERTO SABA
There was a man whom I encountered in
my walks, a little strange and rococo,
with some of me, the me of long ago,
in him. His pace was like the forceful stride
of a loose goat, too much at liberty,
avoiding crowds on narrow streets, gaunt, thin,
who loved the boats with fish upon the tide,
enjoyed exploring everything, the new
port docks, the dike. Today I passed him too,
but firm, his head hung down low—and heavy,
immobile, staring at the ground, in doubt.
I passed politely by. What’s it about?
Why was he so intent? Triste in Trieste?
What was he thinking of—both of his names?
the University of Pisa? James
Joyce? Salerno, Bologna, Venice, war?
the antiquarian book store? his wife?
psychoanalysis? the journey west
to Paris? Florence in an attic? or
there in Giuseppe Ungaretti’s home
(Who knew?) away from everyone in Rome?
now elderly and near the end of life,
his mental state declining, Orpheus,
escaping the clinician Morpheus.
UMBER TONES
In an apartment in Milan, he owned
a library of thirty thousand books;
in Rimini, some twenty thousand tomes,
some tucked away in semi-hidden nooks,
this follower of Jorge Borges, this
Italian literary novelist,
this semiotic camped at the abyss,
this anthropological archivist,
whose library of Babel and James Joyce,
a labyrinthine sanitorium,
contains an echo, flat as Montale’s voice,
that flows into the New Millennium
from falling through Postmodernism’s haunt,
an avalanche that started in Piedmont.