Then a little poem that's about a poet named Li Ho.
I early, very early--
I think I was in high school-- read Robert Payne's anthology
called White Pony.
It's a marvelous collection of Chinese poems.
Most people, when I read this, think I mean Li Po
but I do mean Li Ho.
And I identified so strongly with this young Chinese poet
of the sixth century before Christ
as I was later, and fatally, to identify with Rimbaud.
Nothing to mess up your life like identifying with Rimbaud.
Anyway, this is called "Li Ho."
"Li Ho of the province of Honan, not to be confused with
the god, Li Po, of Kansu or Szechwan,
who made 20,000 verses, Li Ho whose mother said,
'my son daily vomits up his heart,' mounts his horse,
and rides to where a temple lies as lace among foliage.
His youth is bargained for some poems in his saddle bag--
his beard is gray.
Leaning against the flank of the horse,
he considers the flight of birds, but his hands are heavy.
Take this cup, he thinks, fill it, I want to drink again.
Deep in his throat, but perhaps it is a bird,
he hears a child cry."
That's sort of a young man's poem,
though I seem to be going, currently, in reverse in nature
and becoming more of a romantic poet as I get older.