Song of a Reformed Headhunter

I read the poems of Li Qingzhao in the translation by Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung. Li (1084 - c.1151) is "universally considered to be China's greatest woman poet," according to Lin Chung. "Her life was colorful and versatile: other than a great poet, she was a scholar of history and classics, a literary critic, an art collector, a specialist in bronze and stone inscriptions, a painter, a calligrapher and a political commentator." She is reputed to be "the greatest writer of t'zu poetry, a lyric verse form written to the popular tunes of the Sung Dynasty (960 - 1279)." Li was born into a well-known family of scholars and officials. Notably, her father was a member of Su Dongpo's literary circle. She was a precocious talent. When she was seventeen, she wrote two poems in competition with a poem by her father's friend. This female boldness was not acceptable to the society at large, but was encouraged by her father's unconvention...

I Do, I Do In me (the worm) clearly is no righteousness, but this— persistence             H.D., “The Walls Do Not Fall” I’m eating my way through the books of dead women poets— Aemilia Lanyer’s garden where Eve is blameless the robin-eye in Elizabeth Bishop Phillis Wheatley’s bird- of-paradise the swart swan song by Marianne Moore Anna Wickham’s strangled cry the tunes of Li Qingzhao Annie Finch, not the American anthologist, the Countess of Winchilsea the living are eaten too Elisabeth Bletsoe’s Sherborne Woodcock, Pied Wagtail, Starling Molly Peacock Rita Dove And one born in Ghana whose name is a birdcall Ata Ama Aidoo

To “To The Tune ‘Clear Peace Happiness’” by Li Qingzhao, translated by Kenneth Rexroth Year after year in the snow, intoxicated, I have put the new plum blossoms In my hair. Now the fallen petals Only depress me. All I have gained is a dress Wet with crystal tears. This year I am at the corner Of the sea and the edge of Heaven. I am old and lonely. My temples have turned white. I realize that the evening wind Is too strong for me. It is no longer possible For me to contemplate The blossoming plums. Night after night in the song, intoxicated, I have held the young warm bodies in my arms. Now the averted voices only depress me. All I have gained is a shirt rough with short hairs. Tonight I am at the corner of the bar and the edge of Hell. I am old and lonely. My feet have turned in. I realize that the dance music is too loud for me. It is no longer possible for me to contemplate the shining boys.