The most recent poem from my little project to commit more to memory. In this case, words written by a twelfth century Chinese poet. I was introduced to this particular poem by a meditation teacher, but sought out the collection it is from (glory to the wonders of interlibrary loan). I enjoyed reading it cover to cover for its timeless and utterly accessible nature; here are a couple more gems:
At An-Le Temple
Who says that poets love the mountains?
Mountains, mountains – I’m tired of writing about them!
Thousands of peaks and thousands of ranges seem to throw themselves at me.
I have to rest three hours for each hour of climbing.
When your desk is piled high, where can you put another book?
When your stomach is full, how can you go on eating?
I have no use for more green slopes and mountain mists –
I’ll wrap them in a package and send them to my city friends.
On a Portrait of Myself
The pure wind makes me chant poems.
The bright moon urges me to drink.
Intoxicated, I fall among the flowers,
Heaven my blanket, earth my pillow.