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page 114
478. Almost every week for twenty years, she has been brought to the Palace To perform alone an artistic dance for a bigwig she has never seen. Now, on her last morning, she finishes her show and waits. But once more she is dismissed without a word from behind the screen. 479. The lady can probably see him through a fissure in the panelled screen From behind which the visiting Abbot listens to her cultured, delicate voice – But he himself has not the slightest idea of her appearance – Except for that single queer glimpse, years ago, of something almost obscene. 480. On Visiting My Aunt, the retired Imperial Concubine, Swaying Blossom, At her charming Hillside Retreat, near the Pearl Breath of Spring Lake, To congratulate her on reaching her 98th Birthday, and (alas!) finding her absent. Oh, for God’s sake! Flames, flames, flames, flames, flames! Must I, so to speak, spell everything out? 481. A Political Prophecy ‘A skeletal man lies at the side-entrance to a monastery, With insufficient energy left to shout for help. Had not a little charmer happened to slip through that door the next morning, He might well have starved to death. Which, in fact, he does anyway.’ 482. The beggar, having persevered through three wide provinces, Is now standing, with increasing mystification, In a small, walled sunlit garden, seemingly devoid of doors. Dreaming? Naked? Dead? What? Or merely fading away? 
page 115
483. A window out of which no-one ever looks. A balcony onto which no-one ever steps. Even the sunlight seems to have lost its way. And all the pronouns fail, except for ‘they’. [For it cannot reach the edges of this particular Cathay.] 484. Lines Inscribed in a Previous House ‘Walking in a quiet garden, searching for enlightenment And then giving up the search for enlightenment Is itself enlightenment enough. And thus, undisturbed, One walks out the morning up and down the hushed path until lu ncht ime.’ 485. A somnolent stretch of water somewhere or other. A leaf or two dips into the river. A hand or two lets the flow trickle against it (or them). A few more reflections startle the dull sky and then disappear. 486. Thousands of bamboo plants along a river in autumn. And four men there among them. A pair of them alone, And one group of two. Or, a moment later – what? Yes. Perhaps only a scattered handful of pulses in the water. 487. A breeze – an empty bench – water descending – Silence – footsteps – silence – water descending – A few last rustling leaves – water descending – Stillness – coolness – water descending – night. 

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478. Almost every week for twenty years, she has been brought to the Palace To perform alone an artistic dance for a bigwig she has never seen. Now, on her last morning, she finishes her show and waits. But once more she is dismissed without a word from behind the screen.

479. The lady can probably see him through a fissure in the panelled screen From behind which the visiting Abbot listens to her cultured, delicate

voice – But he himself has not the slightest idea of her appearance – Except for that single queer glimpse, years ago, of something almost

obscene.

480. On Visiting My Aunt, the retired Imperial Concubine, Swaying Blossom, At her charming Hillside Retreat, near the Pearl Breath of Spring Lake, To congratulate her on reaching her 98th Birthday, and (alas!) finding her absent. Oh, for God’s sake! Flames, flames, flames, flames, flames! Must I, so

to speak, spell everything out?

481. A Political Prophecy ‘A skeletal man lies at the side-entrance to a monastery, With insufficient energy left to shout for help. Had not a little charmer happened to slip through that door the next

morning, He might well have starved to death. Which, in fact, he does anyway.’

482. The beggar, having persevered through three wide provinces, Is now standing, with increasing mystification, In a small, walled sunlit garden, seemingly devoid of doors. Dreaming? Naked? Dead? What? Or merely fading away?



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