THE NINE SONGS

1 Great-Unity, Sovereign of the East

Auspicious the day,

                                  the array of stars—

we offer in reverence

                                     joy to our Sovereign on high.

I hold a long-sword,

                                   its haft of jade,

surging waist jewels

                                   clittering and calling.

At the jeweled mat

                                 with its jade pins,

let us raise fragrant

                                  handfuls of flowers,

savory meats laid out

                                     on beds of orchid,

cinnamon wines

                             and pepper broth.

Raise the sticks,

                            let the drums sing

and the tranquil chant

                                       begin, slow and distant,

pipes and strings surging

                                            swelling into song.

The spirit-one comes,

                                      all quiet assurance

in graceful gowns, her

                                       fragrance filling the hall,

the five notes weaving

                                       together, enthralling,

and our Sovereign delights,

                                                delights in rich ease.

 

2 Lord of the Clouds

Bathed in orchid water,

                                         rinsed in fragrant scents

and dressed in many-colored

                                                    splendor, like blossoms,

the spirit-one meanders,

                                           twisting and turning,

all radiance ablaze,

                                 all radiance unceasing,

then she settles to rest

                                       here in Lifelong Shrine,

her brilliance rivaling

                                      great sun and moon.

With teams of dragons

                                        and robes of a god,

she soars up, wandering

                                          skies far and wide.

Soon our Spirit-Sovereign

                                              descends in majesty,

whirls back skyward

                                    and away into clouds,

gazing out across northern

                                               borders and beyond,

crossing the four seas,

                                       drifting without bound.

Thinking of our Cloud Lord

                                                 we whisper far-flung sighs,

our hearts full of worry

                                         and longing, and longing.

 

7 Lord of the East

Dawn-light flaring

                                 below the east horizon,

lighting up the threshold,

                                             the Solar-Perch Tree,

I rouse my team of dragons,

                                                 set them a serene pace,

and night brightens into

                                           morning’s clear brilliance.

Then they mount thunder,

                                              my chariot sailing behind,

trailing out pennants

                                     and streamers of cloud,

and whispering a far-flung sigh,

                                                        I begin my slow ascent,

uncertain and hesitant,

                                         looking back with longing.

Exquisite music and dance

                                               are delighting people so,

putting them at such ease

                                             they forget to go home,

and strings are singing

                                        through drumbeat rhythms,

majestic chime-bells

                                    shaking the very bell-stands

as flute-song surges

                                   and cluster-pipes call out.

The spirit-one, wondrous

                                            guardian so wise and lovely—

she darts and glides

                                   on kingfisher wingbeats,

offering up song,

                              chants gracing her dance.

Echoing calendar-pipes,

                                          sharing their open rhythm,

that spirit-one—she arrives,

                                                hiding my sunlight away

behind her azure tunic of cloud,

                                                        her silvered rainbow-skirts.

Then I raise a long arrow,

                                            shoot down the Wolf Star,

and descend, bow in hand,

                                              back into the waters of night.

I tip the Northern Dipper,

                                             pour out cinnamon wine,

and seizing my reins, soar

                                             on through the darkest

heights of shadowy night,

                                             sailing back into the east.

 

9 The Mountain Spirit

A sense of someone there

                                             in the mountain hollows,

dressed in fig-vine robes

                                           and sash of wisteria,

her eyes gazing out,

                                   her smile entrancing:

she longs for me, comes

                                           all exquisite mystery

astride a crimson leopard

                                             led by striped cougars,

her magnolia carriage trailing

                                                    pennants of braided cinnamon.

Dressed in rock-orchids

                                          and sash of asarum flowers,

I pick fragrant wildflowers,

                                               offer them to her for love.

I live amid bamboo, its recluse

                                                     quiet, never a glimpse of sky,

and the road’s full of peril.

                                              I’ve come alone, and late,

but she reveals herself

                                       alone on a mountaintop

summit, up above clouds

                                            rolling and billowing thick

depths of shadow, dark

                                        turning broad daylight dark,

bringing a gusty east wind

                                              and divine spirit-rains.

I linger long with my spirit-

                                                beauty, all return forgotten,

for once autumn ends,

                                       who’ll clothe me in blossom?

I’ll pick triple-bloom

                                     out among mountain peaks,

among scree-fields of rock,

                                                vines sprawling everywhere,

thinking of my lost love, all

                                                sorrow, all return forgotten.

She longs for me,

                               but time is so short, so short.

Someone of the mountains,

                                                that sense of asarum scents

drinking from rocky springs

                                                  shaded by pine and cypress,

she longs for me,

                              but holds back, hesitant:

thunder rumbles and roams,

                                                  rain clouds dark and deep;

gibbons wail on and on,

                                          and cries break out all night

as wind howls and howls,

                                             and hissing trees moan.

This longing for my lost love:

                                                    nothing comes of it but grief.