白鹭在 路边


How’s that for a catchy title? Bái lù zài lù biān.

This egret had flown over from the estuary to light on our front yard, already graced with palmetto and agave.

I set about wondering what the Mandarin is, afflicted as I have become with sinophilia, first relapse in almost forty years.

A few finger hops produced  heron, egret proper being 白鹭 bái lù, white heron.

Homophony is common in Chinese, therefore a regular poetic device. Once I noticed that the sound of  heron is the same as road 路 , and recalled the sound of 白 white bái, the colour of mourning and death, I what now seems instantaneously composed my first five character line of classical verse.

白鹭在 路边
bái lù zài lù biān
An egret lit on the roadside

Probably amateurish to a trained eye, but it’s my first one. Now I keep imagining where this verse can go.

Whoa minute! It already is a poem. If you are willing to allow I am the egret.

Catalunya on my Mind

Thinking often these days of Catalunya, I recalled my translation of a poem by Gabriel Ferrater, brother of my Doktorvater Juan, who spelled his own last name Ferrate. Gabriel commited suicide in the 70s, at the height of his fame as one of his generation’s best poets in Catalan.

As we lay enlaced before
a window which gave to a grove
of olives (two bare seeds
within a fruit summer burst open,
infused with heat), we had no
memories. We were the memory
we now have. We were icons
of ourselves to be revered
by true believers of afterwards.

After Gabriel Ferrater

Aleshores, quan jèiem
abraçats davant la finestra
oberta al pendís d’oliveres (dues
llavors nues dins un fruit que l’estiu
ha badat violent, i que s’omple
d’aire) no teníem records. Érem
el record que tenim ara. Érem
aquesta imatge. Els ídols de nosaltres,
per la submisa fe de després.

For a thumbnail potrait of Juan Ferrate, see my Edmonton is Fun After All.