the flowers of night
in the cold light of the moon
sway their ashen hips

I present this little gem to Professor Eliot, along with several other poems. Our assignment, compose in the style of haiku. He reads the poem aloud.

"What does it mean?" He asks.

I wasn't expecting that. I hadn't thought much beyond getting the syllable count right. What does it mean? It has something to do with prostitutes, how they're the flowers that come out at night, and "sway their ashen hips." This was a vague and distant notion, an inkling, a figment of a figment of my imagination, knowing, as I do, nothing about prostitutes. Except they tend to have hearts of gold.

"Umm, it's about prostitutes," I reply.

Professor Eliot sighs. I can almost hear him think, "freshman." He has admonished us to write about what we know.

He tells me that he did like the versions of the Cold Mountain poets I did for his seminar last week. He suggests I do more of those, and see if I might begin to see the nature of the poems, instead of the plot. Read the poem, which is Chinese, find the essence of the poem, make it your own, form it into a haiku. Find the shared sensibility.

But I find the Cold Mountain poets full of plot, and very political, and it takes almost more time than I have to "find the essence."

I start with the first poem by Han Shan:

"Ranges, ridges, daunting cliffs, I choose this place
with divinations' aid.
The road's for the birds, no man tracks here.
And what is the yard? White clothes cloud
dark stone. I lived here years, watching
springs with The Great Change become winter.
Here's a word for the rich folks with cauldrons and bells:
fame's empty, no good, THAT'S for sure."

~~~

Well, I can see the agèd gentleman has a sense of humor.

The first line seems simple enough, setting the locale, and "divination's aid" implies the locale was found with the help of a Ouija board, or an Eastern equivalent. The second line is tongue in cheek, metaphorical, even I can see that. The locale is off the beaten path. The third line gives a sense of place. I see a little farm, hardscrabble, and large rocks covered with freshly laundered clothes warming in the sun.

Then the "inscrutable Orient" kicks in with the next line. "I lived here years . . ."

Wait, didn't he just arrive? No? Is this a summation, perhaps a last look of a hermitage, or simply an observation?

Seasons come and go, or came and went.

The last two lines, where did they come from? How do they relate to the rest of the poem? I don't see it. It seems trite. I may agree, fame is empty; and I may not agree, never having been famous. Either way, what is Mr. Han Shan talking about?

I must persevere. I must understand. I must get out of this room.

I go down to Novel Café on Main, buy a latte, and sit with the others with their laptops, hoping to gain inspiration by proximity. Besides, Terri's off doing something, and the room feels empty without her.

I check my mail. I twitter something precious, then I write, not without many fits and starts. Many versions come and go, and I settle on this:

far from city lights
I find peace in the seasons
money buys nothing

~~~

One down. If I do three tonight I think Bill, I mean Professor Eliot, will be pleased.

Here's the second:

"Cold Mountain road's a joke,
no cart track, no horse trail.
Creek's like veins, but still it's hard to mark
the twists. Fields and fields of crags for crops,
it's hard to say how many.
Tears of dew upon a thousand kinds of grasses;
the wind sings best in one kind of pine.
And now I've lost my way again:
Body asks shadow, "Which way from here?"

~~~

This is a little easier, I know the locale. Off the beaten path. Got it. Mountains, creeks, distant. Small farms, hard work, little profit. Tears of dew, wild grasses in mountain meadows. Rugged pine-covered mountains, wind in the pines, and now what? I thought he lived here. How does he manage to get lost? He posits the obvious question: where am I?

I begin, expend many electrons in the process, and sip many sips of latte. Then, finally:

above terraced fields
wanderers–the wind and I
head in the clouds, lost

~~~

This chair is too hard. Two down, half a latte left. Brevity takes time.

Wait a minute. What was that? Am I learning to find the essence?

this chair is too hard
two down, half a latte left
brevity takes time

Maybe I'm beginning to see it. I tackle the third poem, promising myself an oatmeal raisin cookie if I get it done before nine. I still have a chapter to read for bio, and my Design I assignment to finish, and econ.

The third poem begins:

"If you're looking for a peaceful place,
Cold Mountain's always a refuge . . ."

. . . wait, I did this one for seminar. On to the fourth:

"My mind's the autumn moon,
shining in the blue-green pool,
reflecting, glistening, clear and pure . . .
There's nothing to compare it to,
what else can I say?"

~~~

I love it. So simple.

Maybe too simple. After all, isn't poetry about finding a way to say it? I think he gave up. Surely there's a simile to be found that can express the beauty of this night.

And another thing, Mr. Shan, moonlight and blue-green are oxymoronic. There are no colors in moonlight.

Let it go. Om. Let it go. Chalk it up to poetic license.

I read the poem seventy or eighty times. It begins to come to me. There is no simile. This is it, sister–a moment, one place, one moment in time. It exists, it didn't exist before, and it will never exist again. This isn't a PLACE to be described, this is his STATE OF MIND.

Now, how can I put into my words? How can I find the essence?

It comes to me effortlessly:

with closed eyes I see
the moon, the light, the water
there is nothing else

~~~

Too simple? Did I nail it? Should I do some more for extra credit? No. Enough. I have something else in mind–an oatmeal raisin cookie, and this . . .

entwined, enraptured
her sweetness in every breath
essence of Terri