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The London post . . .

Li Po in Devon
by Kenneth Durham Smith

Thirty five years ago
I bounded up this hill,
full pack, pouring rain
Now I stop and rest
under a dark canopy,
trees interlinked overhead,
your poems open in my lap

Here and there shafts of light
find the forest floor
I wonder to what sort of heaven
you have returned
Is there enough wine, enough music,
enough rivers for an 
eternity of voyages

If I scour the forest floor,
will I find a poem
written in purple ink
on a thick green leaf
that has fallen
through the sky?

The Seattle riposte . . .

Proem to Glorianna
Confucius (Kung) and Lao Tan (Lao Tsu)
by David Keith Johnson

1.
There was a teacher in the ancient days
Of China who founded a school of thought
Remembered round the world in deed and phrase —
Kung-futzu — Confucius — a man who sought
To learn for all of us how people ought
To live in harmony and honesty;
In furthering this noble course he brought
Together books he loved so earnestly
He fled to rescue them from looming anarchy.

2. 
With armies raging, crowding round his home,
He packed the contents of his library
In three stout wagons, every scroll and tome
A love of Kung’s rich life, to the degree
That many featured backs and bindery
Worn out and crumbling; This cargo he
And a companion carried, seeking desperately
The counsel of a sage, who in a day
Long past, had shared his understanding of the Way.

3.
This sage had served as royal archivist
When Kung first met him, but this time around
He was not counted on the Archive’s list
Of scholars, nor could this wise man be found
Dwelling close by; So, with his books, Kung wound
Through every village, stopped at every farm,
Asking his whereabouts — but not a sound
Of news was offered; With growing alarm,
Kung feared he could not keep his treasured books from harm.

4. 
Kung and his friend wandered half consciously
Along a muddy trail into a wood
Lacking all promise — wandered aimlessly
With weary drovers, weary oxen; Could
They stop awhile? A rest would do them good —
A pause in their pursuit of this vain quest; 
Just then they saw a run-down hut that stood
Within the glade, with nothing to suggest
A lodger with the means to entertain a guest.

5. 
No fire, no fence, no animal to feed,
Just one old, rugged stump outside the door;
Yet they went in, addressing some vague need
By doing so; There they could not ignore
The signs of harsh austerity the poor
Inhabitant lived with: A silent place,
Empty of welcome, void of stock and store;
The men turned round to leave, and turned to brace
For more long, weary searching; Then they saw his face.

6.
Out in the yard where they had only seen
A battered stump, they saw a battered man,
Weathered and gray, his body stooped and lean,
Yet with a countenance pleasant to scan,
With laughing, youthful eyes; It was Lao Tan,
The sage, the archivist whom Kung had sought;
Kung, greeting him with great relief, began
To tell his plan to save the books he’d brought
So far; The old man listened, smiling, but said naught.

7.
He led Kung and his friend out to the yard,
Kindled a campfire and prepared some tea —
Low stools, an iron pot, old tea cups, marred
By cracks and chips, but handled properly,
And offered in true hospitality;
They sipped in silence.
………………………………Then, trying to show
Respect, Kung urged: Good sir, can you help me?

Lao Tan picked up the pot, his movements slow;
He refilled all their cups, then softly told him: No.

8.
Taken aback, Kung cried: Do you refuse?

Oh no, the old man said, I simply can’t.

These books, pled Kung, are too precious to lose!

The old man smiled: Each animal and plant,
Each stream and stone is precious, too, I grant;
How can we save them all? What shall we do?

Kung stared back at him blankly for a scant
Minute, then looked away, thinking it through;
He then smiled to himself: What Lao Tan said was true.

9.
He turned his gaze back to the aged face
Of his fond teacher.
……………………………Thank you, sir, he said.
He stood and bowed; His friend rose from his place;
Lao Tan acknowledged them, then watched them thread
Their way back by the rough road that had led
Them to his yard; Some distance down the track
Kung turned around to wave; What’s this? Instead
Of Lao Tan standing there and waving back,
They saw no one — a weathered stump, a weathered shack.