It seems to me that *great* poems convey a shared suffering/pain or
universality. I have always been fond of this poem that has (apart from
others) a theme of disappointment, yet it is something we all share.
Blaming Sons
by T'ao Chi'en
(An apology for his own drunkenness, A.D. 406)
(Translated by Arthur Waley)
White hairs cover my temples,
I am wrinkled and gnarled beyond repair,
And though I have got five sons,
They all hate paper and brush.
A-shu is eighteen:
For laziness there is none like him.
A-hsüan does his best,
But really loathes the Fine Arts.
Yung and Tuan are thirteen,
But do not know "six" from "seven."
T'ung-tzu in his ninth year
Is only concerned with things to eat.
If Heaven treats me like this,
What can I do but fill my cup?
HH
Ps Have enjoyed this different exchange of poetry!
>by Xin Qijin in the poem quoted.
>
>
>
>Coming to grief
>
>We came to grief
>as though it was
>all that could be.
>The dirt track twisted
>and turned, but did
>not fork.
>There were no crossroads,
>no other towns to visit.
>Only the one destination.
>
>We came to grief,
>it was waiting for us,
>nowhere else to go.
>We plodded downhill,
>entered the town, let
>the gate shut behind us.
>
>My hair is let down,
>ashes rubbed on my face.
>I turn to the wall
>and endure.
>
>
>
>Gillian Savage
>OZpoet http://www.ozemail.com.au/~gbsavage/ozpoet.html
>
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