Monday, July 24, 2017

A Translation: Song IX from Nine Songs: The Mountain Spirit

By Qu Yuan[i]

There, in the cleft of the mountain[ii],
see the Spirit[iii], arrayed in wild fig[iv] and dodder vine[v],
beaming her enchanting gaze and lovely smile.
“Don’t you find me beautiful?”
Pulled by a red leopard[vi], followed by wild cats,
her magnolia[vii] chariot draped with olive branches[viii],
she is arrayed in orchids[ix] belted with wild ginger[x].
“My love left me on the mountain to gather herbs.
Living deep in a bamboo[xi] grove, we never see the sky.
The way up the mountain was long and difficult;
it is too late to return.”
There, at her summit throne,
she stands, at her feet a wreath of clouds[xii].
As the sun sets, light likewise retires;
the east wind blows up, spreading a holy rain.
“I awaited the return of my love until it was too late to descend.
Now that winter is coming, what shall bloom to clothe me?
I gather
lingzhi[xiii] from the mountainside,
where vines grow in a tangle over tumbled boulders.
Left by my inconstant lover, desolation bars my return home.
Though you did not come back, perhaps you gave me a thought.”

She, Mountain Spirit, fragrant with pollia[xiv] flowers,
drinks from stone-basin spring[xv], shaded by pine and fir.
You thought of me, my love, but you hesitated.
Thunder drums, “tian tian”, rain darkens.
Monkey’s cry, “jiu jiu”, and wild cats howl all night.
Winds whistle, “sa sa”, the trees moan “xiao xiao.”
“Longing for you, lost love, I sorrow and suffer.”

Translation © 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Reading through an enormous number of translations of this poem, I was struck by two primary aspects, each of which seemed to leap out at me, but to be overlooked by most translators rendering the text into English: The gender of the Mountain Spirit and the presence of herbal/plant medicines that indicate, among other things, the passage of time within the overarching theme of abandonment.

As audacious as it will seem to some, I have undertaken to offer yet another rendering, with a very short commentary and notes. At the outset, I must stress that my intent is to offer more context for the English language reader; I don’t expect that my effort has necessarily resulted in beautiful poetry.

The impression I have is that the Mountain Spirit is most definitely a woman, abandoned by her lover in the wilderness of the mountain. Unfamiliar with the terrain, she nevertheless becomes a part of it, and what plant knowledge she brought with her sustains and clothes her throughout the year. She is a shaman. This is a poem about alienation and separation, but the obvious passage of time does not age this soul. She follows the seasons, yet is timeless. She rises to the summit, and is cut off from the cares of the world below. She may still bemoan the loss of her love, and nature seems to join in her emotions. Does she collude with the mountain to bring on a storm to match her mood?

I leave the transliterated Chinese syllables for the sounds. There are many doubled sounds throughout this poem, lending to the music of it. 

See my notes, below, for information about the medicinal properties of the plants mentioned in the poem.

[i] Qu Yuan was a poet of the Warring States Period (467 BC - 221 BC) Qu Yuan is remembered as a patriotic poet, statesman, diplomat and reformer in ancient China. The traditional Dragon Boat Festival, held on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month commemorates his death by suicide. (As an aside, I happen to live in an island community that takes a great deal of interest in the Dragon Boat Festival.)  

[ii] Mountains are venerated in China, each has a resident god. In ancient times, it was believed the spirits of the dead lived in the mountains, and young girls were “married” to the mountain. Mountains create weather.

[iii] The gender of the Mountain Spirit is ambiguous. There is a general tendency, when translating this piece into English, toward conforming the text to either a Confucian or a shamanistic interpretation/convention. In either case, the emphasis is on creating a duality, yin/yang, between a god and goddess (perhaps mountain and river) or shaman and human. Most of the translations I have seen vary the gender of the speaker throughout the poem between male and female, artificially suggesting a conversation between two individuals. I have opted to have the reader be a participant-as-observer in the story the author tells; as such, I have the entity, to which I assign female gender, direct the spoken words to the reader. This may solve the ambiguity, while preserving the sense that there is interaction between two individuals. Not being a proper scholar of Asian poetry, I own the possibility that my approach may be problematical, if not downright incorrect.

[iv] 薜荔 bi` li`: ficus pumilis, a member of the fig family. Also known as creeping fig, throughout Asia, the fruit and leaves are galactagogue and tonic; they are used in cases of impotence, lumbago, rheumatism and anemia.

[v] 女萝 nv' luo': custcuta chinensis, the twining dodder herb. It is commonly used as an anti-aging agent, anti-inflammatory, pain reliever, and aphrodisiac.

[vi] Leopards are rare and elusive, so their appearance and disappearance is associated with changing seasons. In China, whereas lions are associated with the sun, leopards are associated with the moon.

[vii] 辛夷 xin­ yi': magnolia liliflora, the flowering magnolia shrub.  The flowers and unopened flower buds are analgesic, anodyne, carminative, febrifuge, sedative and tonic. The main effect of this herb is to constrict blood vessels in the nasal passages; it is most often taken internally to treat sinusitis, allergic rhinitis and catarrh. The flowers are harvested in the Spring, and can be used fresh or dried.

[viii] gui`: this is 桂花 gui` hua­ , osmanthus fragrans, the miniature olive shrub. In traditional Chinese medicine, osmanthus tea has been used to treat irregular menstruation. The blossoms are associated with the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival. Osmanthus used as a flavor for wine, confections and teas, is symbolic of reunions.

[ix] 石兰 shi' lan': cymbidium virescens, an orchid.  Blooming in the Spring, this orchid is used in Korean folk medicine to stop bleeding and promote urination, as well as for skin issues, such as insect bites.

[x] 杜衡 du` heng': asarum forbesii, a pungent variety of wild ginger that grows in moist, shady forests and valleys at elevations below 3000 feet. In traditional Chinese medicine to relieve pain, induce fever, promote sweating, as a diuretic, and to lower blood pressure. Prolonged use of the plant gives the body a fragrant aroma.

[xi] In China, bamboo is symbolic of the summer season, simplicity, humility, flexibility, and integrity, equanimity. Bamboo is used in Chinese medicine to speed healing and reduce infections. Bamboo is also used for divination.

[xii] Clouds are a union of yin and yang and mean good fortune, and also hint at wu-shamanism.

[xiii] It is unclear whether this is “Three-Flowers” or “Thrice-Blooming” herb. The former does not suggest any reference that I can find, but various texts have suggested the latter. If that is the case, “Thrice-Blooming” is a fungus zhi, perhaps lingzhi or “spirit herb”, better known in the West as Reishi mushroom, revered in ancient China as a magic herb. I cannot verify this, but merely offer the possibility. This fungus is symbolic of longevity and immortality, and the name is mentioned in poems from the earlier Han and Wei periods. The character for ling is made of ideographs for rain, shaman, and praying, and zi speaks to its spiritual potency, and that it is used to prepare elixirs.

[xiv] 杜若 du` ruo`: pollia japonica, a herbaceous plant with longish leaves and white flowers. The rhizome of pollia japonica is used to influence lung, liver, kidney and bladder function, is sedative and carminative, and is used to treat colds and vertigo.

[xv] Springs are yin semantically connected to the concept “origin,” and associated with the moon and night. Water, in general, presents a paradox: One of the most powerful of nature’s forces is soft and yielding. Hence, the aphorism in Tao te Ching, “Weak overcomes strong; soft overcomes hard.”

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Afternoon at the Lake

There is a moment,
in the depth of the afternoon,
when the summer sun is hottest,
that the soft light of peace gathers
to settle the dust of day.

The tread along the footpath
does not disturb the hum of hushed bees,
nor the meandering of dragonflies
from shore over the center of the lake,
coasting on any errant breeze.

While the blue green algae rests
in a shaded nook along the far shore,
the black crowned heron stands,
motionless, watchful,
awaiting the slightest stir
in the shallows that might signal lunch
—food to fuel night flight.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Sunday, June 18, 2017


Breeze off the water cools,
sun off the surface glares with good will,
birds rise up in flight, raining beads of water, beaks full,
the fox in freedom runs through the tall grasses,
and the land that holds us up is home,
a place of habitation for all that breathe here,
& life is the experience of moving through this beauty,
in continual migration, from here to there,
by each dreamer of dreams.

We meet on this bridge,
as we might meet on any bridge,
for every meeting truly is a bridge,
every bridge an opportunity
to share this dream as expansive reality.

Toward such encounter,
how shall it be?
Shall we pass one another like ghosts,
or with a whispered hello?
Shall it be a challenge to a duel?
Or shall we meet the dream,
     sip the air together
            and share the song.

Cup your hand, my friend, and
hook it with mine in the time honored bond;
reaching out, from above,
below, around or between boundaries,
our greeting as equals helps to map
the extensive lifeline.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Critter Whisperer

Mother’s Day, 2017.

A concert  of Renaissance music, composed by women.

Scene: Intermission, obligatory bathroom break.

Dramatis personae: Portative Organist, Singer, Moth

One enters the restroom, embedded in the building of the campus. A beautiful big moth is fluttering there, having already entered by means of some slipstream of air, from outer to inner. One relieves an urgent call, washes and dries. Yet, the fluttery flapping continues.

One knows the beautiful moth will die if it continues to be trapped within the restroom.

The Portative Organist enters the restroom. Oh, gosh. One thought to try to capture the moth, but the presence of another person makes such a venture an Admission of Oddness.

One says to oneself, “Okay, just this once.”

And then, One's thought speaks to the Moth, “Let me catch you,” while waving wildly with One’s hands. Fortunately, the Portative Organist has entered a stall and shut the door. Maybe she won’t think you are a crazy nutcase.

“Come to me, Moth,” actually speaking the words aloud, while flailing your hands toward the creature, in “capture mode.”

Miracle! The Moth lands on your hand!!!!

“Stay,” One says, while slowly opening the door to the hall and slowly stepping down toward the exit to The Great Outdoors. "Stay." The small creature listens, perhaps...

But then, nerves intervene and worries, and the wings begin to beat.

“NO! Stay!!!” The tiny feet affix themselves once again, and a small tongue comes out to touch a caring and anxious flesh. “Stay!” The larger body hazards to step forward, slowly, followed by more steps to THE DOOR.

Slowly, One opens the door. (With recent days of high wind, One does not want the small charge to be blown back into the building.) One extends the hand bearing the small creature out into the sun shot air.

“Go, you are Free!”

But, the creature stays, fixed to One’s hand!

“Go, you are FREE!”

The tiny tongue comes out, offering another kiss, and the creature still clings.  But the intermission is coming to a close…

“Please, Dear, you must GO!” And, of course, the Portative Organist is leaving the restroom, but what is dignity?

One last kiss of the sweet and tiny tongue, and then, “You must, must go!” And I blow my small charge from my hand, into the breezy sunshine.

The moth flies to greet the afternoon.

One returns to the call of music, to the concert program.

But, a once trapped moth flies free.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Ode: Owing to Knowing Owen

            for Owen Orser on the occasion of his
                  80th Birthday - March 19, 2017

Owing to Owen, what say we?
occupying a strand of paisley tapestry,
you’ve traversed the human condition;
each day is a trip across the boards,
be it filled with joys or woeful travesty-
but the play is all, a daily mission,
a practice born of keen observation,
a way toward, an attempt at perfection.

Flying on your golden thread
through the fabric of our gathered
storms and strays, camera at the ready
to find and stay moments rather
lovely, to store them in mind’s eye
for that future chance to set steady
a stage where magic might make
an appearance, for art’s sake.

The eyes of Owen,
the beauty of birds flown,
all the subtle bon mots, placed and sewn
into our shared space, loved and known,
a sheaf of programmes, artfully strown,
the screen, the drape, column and bench on loan,
for today’s lesson
on the question
of expression:
‘Tis not about the big impression,
but rather the interior exploration
coming to collation
in concentration
revealed by measured ration,
drawing into one
every eye and ear,
when all is said and done.
That is why we gather here,
Friends, what we lovingly cheer!
To proclaim our heartfelt renown
for that by which we are bound,
Owing to knowing Owen.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Post Post-Modern Dance

Mu-sick in phrases
            out of phase,
                        emergent from fog or haze;
Non-facing dances,
            gyrating prances,
                        flying glances;

Rapping, not rolling,
            less controlled, controlling,
                        some phone-strolling;
Grooving hive-mind,
            yet seemingly blind,
                        to others plying the grind;
Dysfunction junction,
            though yet to malfunction,
                        exhibiting sejunction;
Just looks like jerking,
            some call it twerking,
                        but they’re all just hurking.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Hurking is a made-up word I found in the Urban Dictionary. The assigned meaning for this neologism: “The act of doing, or participating in an event or activity, in which you have to participate to discover what it is.”

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

All About Making Waves

V. Making Waves

                   for Emily and Ian and their Dad – 20 October 2000

It’s your turn,
a heavenly voice said,
then a tremendous tickle ran out through the clouds,
followed by jiggling rolls escaping into snickers,
and pealing positively gales on gales of giggles
until, finally, there wasn’t anything for it,
and the clouds burst into laughter,
what you call rain.

Drop upon drop,
from small to large, both young and old,
they all fell down akimbo,
tumbling from the sky,
collecting, drunkenly you might say,
in puddles to pools to rivulets to streams,
finally running like great silver ribbons to the sea.

I can’t remember,
One asked an-Other, still giggling the tickle,
I say, what was the joke?
but Any-one would have been too wet to answer,
though really No-one heard clearly enough to say,
and Every-one was wondering what would happen next,
so, if there was a reply, who could say if it was made,
and whether by Which-one,
or not?

But Some-one was able to hold the thought long enough
and, floating up through the lovely bubbles to the surface,
called out to friend Sky for the answer.

A, Darling, did they not tell you long ago?
It’s your turn to have fun!

They gather you all up into their arms,
lulling you with sweetest windsongs
from all the Four Corners of existence,
and when it is your time,
they shake you loose
to join the great throng,
so you can be free.

But what shall we do?
asked the littlest drop.

Moon shimmered a silken answer:
Dearest, anything you do will make me smile,
but why don’t you make me some waves?

So, laughing and shoving all the more,
fumbling and recklessly tumbling,
all heels over heads toward the shores
and to the utter delight of all,
they did.

Reprinted from
“Songs of A Soul Journey” by Elisabeth T. Eliassen © 2002 all rights reserved.

It has been a rainy year, and so, on this anniversary of the birth of my twins, Emily and Ian, I bring you the message that life is wild, wet, wooly, weird and wonderful. Punctuated by hard times, yes; but even so, still the best game in town.

I, who declared at the age of 12 or so that I would never have children, gave birth to twins on this day, 17 years ago -- which is to say that one can make all the bold pronouncements one likes, but the cosmos has other ideas... 

From wombmates to roommates to housemates, they have shared so much with us and each other… 

So, to Emily and Ian, (and to all of you) I say:

Keep jiggling the rolls and giggling the tickles, 
because it’s your turn to have fun;
it's all about making waves!

~ love,

Friday, February 24, 2017


Thoughts, braided like a tangle of seaweed, litter the shore of my mind,
along with disordered piles of stony shingle, briny spray opined;
my tread briefly marks the sand with my small journey to find
whatever peace may be encountered at the shore strand.

The ever-present howling of wind is like the thousand tongues raised
to the infinite powers of nature, exposed before all, praised
beyond the buoys’ gong; even the depths be upraised,
where all the naked truths are bursting to expand.

Turning these eyes out to the light that over watery depths coldly burns,
blinded am I, humbled to the core of a soul that still boldly yearns
to skim the distant calms with the great heron and least terns,
flowing through airstreams, released over water and land.

Love is like this, I ken; the crashing of angry waves, an outpoured release
of all the turbulence and strain, that all that is pained, pent and part surcease,
giving way, capitulating to completions, resolutions, stillness and peace,
while yet must continuous dilate and contract on demand.

Though mountains have moved and prophecies've been spent, parts hallowed
into whole and dismissed to a moment of reflection and rest, even wallowed,
by the momentary bubbly delight of spindrift spun and shadows followed,
even so, still and stillness is not completion, merely cessation unplanned.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen