Heather! You’ll consider yourself the addressee
of lines I hope you won’t find too messy.
For months I’ve thought of attempting the rhymed couplet –
a trick that was employed by that famed quintuplet
of Enlightenment bards known for their wit:
Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, and Keats, to whit.
In lengthy verse epistles they would start as thus
I have started – that is, with little fuss
other than a name and an exclamation point.
Such a procedure, besides serving to appoint
an addressee, served as well to flatter
by showing the reader to be of some matter
to the poet up high in his Delphic retreat;
that something in him or in her was meet
for perusal by one or two of the Muses –
or at least by the poet who so peruses.
Heather! (thus will I begin once again) –
I suppose it’s not so much a question of when
you find yourself the recipient of these lines;
for that’s all up to the heavenly nines
and twelves and what have you. No, indeed…it’s the how
with which I’m concerned. In order for it to wow
you properly (as poems of this sort should)
it’s got to look pretty. I could fashion a hood
or a cowl to cover up its wolfish visage
and spray it to remove any vestige
of poetic filth that may have gotten on it.
Or else I could write a prefatory sonnet
to inform you that it’s a gift of verse
(though for my part I find the form a bit too terse
for contemporary employment, which is why
I think I’ll opt to pass the sonnet by).
But leaving out the question of its livery,
another matter concerns the delivery.
How shall it get there – by coach or by steam?
And shall it be conveyed via land, air, or stream?
Then one must think whether one should hand-deliver
it, or designate a third as giver.
In the former case, of course, expense is involved –
a problem for me that’s not so easily solved;
for I’m in Taiwan and you’re in Philly,
and everyone would certainly think it silly
for me to traverse the planet twice this season
(notwithstanding that I’ve got good reason;
for how often does one’s only sister give birth
to the next of one’s lineage to walk the earth?).
But you’ll remember now I’m too a Dad.
As much as I’d like to be there to greet the lad
or laddess (for I don’t believe it was ever
determined, and won’t be till they sever
the succoring cord, just what is the baby’s sex –
and, honestly, I hope not knowing hasn’t vexed
you overmuch these past several months,
wondering whether those sharp little kicks and punts
were heeled or booted, male or female, dame or dunce)…
As much, I say, as I’d like to be there,
as a wage-earning father I’ve got to beware
of limitations both temporal and fiscal.
It’s not to say that Stella’s a thistle
in my leisurely side. Who am I to complain?
It’s just I’ve a shorter radius, in the main.
As to the question of a go-between –
the method, it’s true, to which I currently lean –
one must go to great lengths so as not to offend
those on whom one chooses not to depend,
as only one may be chosen for such a task.
Assuming one’s clear on who, then how does one ask?
There are those who do not appreciate
the little honor there is in having to wait
in a packed and bustling ward for an opportune
moment that may come too late or too soon;
for you never know just when the tyke will arrive,
and you can’t just assume that its timing will jive
with the schedule of the deliverer.
By now you’ve guessed I haven’t yet found a giver.
True, but that’ll have been remedied before long.
For who am I kidding? There’s quite a throng
of potential assistants to whom I might turn –
though just how many or how few of them would yearn
to help out for the cause of poesy
is beyond me. I’d ask, but that would seem nosy.
Well, there it is – some eighty-odd lines of humor
to please you after you’ve purged the tumor
you’ve carried in your belly for so many weeks.
By now you’ve given my nephew a dozen tweaks.
(Or, rather, should I have written “my niece”?)
A newborn’s skin at first is the color of grease,
so don’t be alarmed she’s not of that pinkish hue
you may have expected. It’s quite a stew
from which she’s, through several good heaves, just emerged.
It wasn’t her idea – she had to be urged.
She had no speech with which to make an “Ah!”
(Really, now – how much more convenient is Chinese,
in which, in case you didn’t know, there are no he’s
and she’s – just an all-encompassing “ta”!
I’m assuming for the present the child’s a girl,
for I’ve no choice but to choose. If I’m wrong, just curl
up this page to hide the unwanted “s”.
I’ve made a more or less uneducated guess.
Maybe it shows my bias in regards to tots.
I teach children – and, frankly, boys are snots.)
But enough of these ridiculous rhyming quips;
I doubt very much that laughter’s good for your hips
at the moment. I want (to quote Byron)
a nobler theme – one that might fill and environ
the home away from home in which you find yourself.
Ha! The Southeast Asian island of wealth,
fault lines, and fledgling democracy – Formosa!
(or Taiwan, as it’s denominated most of
the time in its post-colonial age).
An odd player on the international stage
that sits to the right of a giant gorilla
and a few hours due north of Manila.
Unfortunately, the gorilla thinks it’s kin,
lost in a civil war it did and didn’t win.
Beijing knows how sour is that lovely grape
that lies within easy grasp of the massy ape.
If the beast at once decided to shift its weight
think of the tidal wave it would create!
Sing in me, Muse, of Taiwan’s diplomatic plight.
As one who madly steps into the ring to fight
with Akebono – Samoan breaker
of thighs, big in height, terrible in girth, taker
of the highest honors in the world of sumo –
and wishes he were back playing Uno
in the warm comfort of a Tokyo hotel room,
thinking on his impending fate with certain gloom,
then catches a glimpse of those rippling folds,
contemplates the lethal strength of his holds
and, at last, cowardly backs away from the ring,
pleading a feeble excuse – a tender hamstring,
even so is Taiwan’s personified,
hopeful Samuel as he approaches, all tongue-tied,
the bargaining table of his hulking neighbor.
That simile cost me an hour of labor.
There are different ways to set up a simile;
I’ve taken mine from Fitzgerald, by crimine.
Robert, that is – translator of Homer,
whom Borges recasts a millennial roamer.
Akebono’s real name’s Chad Rowan.
In fact, I’m not sure if he’s really Samoan.
I have to admit, that simile’s quite unfair,
built on bad analogies made of air.
For Lee Teng-Hui’s recent speech has turned things around
and has done much to sweep the proverbial ground
out from under the adversary’s feet.
I’ll have a go at something more currently meet.
Thus: As one seeks with Akebono to grapple –
Hawaiian born, with an Adam’s apple
much bigger than the head of your infant daughter
and fingered meathooks that have ordained the slaughter
of many a greater opponent far –
and as one contemplates one’s failed attempts to mar
the unblemished record of that towering form,
then, confounding the odds, has a brainstorm
and craftily catches Akebono off guard,
the 61st Yokozuna going down hard
as the cameras rush back in panicked flight
and all present loudly bewail the fallen might,
even so does the Nestorian Lee Teng-Hui,
like Samuel, not cowering from the fray,
with masterful rhetoric address the forum,
bravely disregarding the unfair decorum:
“You colossal, dimwitted Goliath,
we’re already independent, don't deny it!”
then abruptly turns and pipes his pastoral flute,
whereupon the stunned and staggering brute
vainly attempts a response before falling mute,
his size availing nothing, so the gods deem fit,
clearly trounced by Lee’s superior wit.
Finished. So much for my attempts at similes;
this second one has nearly brought me to my knees.
I almost once or twice threw in the towel
and paused quite often throughout it to wipe my brow.
As a bit of athletic spectacle
I regret it isn’t the least bit technical.
I know less of Sumo than I’d like to admit;
the bit I do know I got off the Net.
(Nestor’s the old guy in Homer who can’t shut up.
He’s bound to hold forth as the others drain his cup.
I mention this via parenthesis.
It’s not that I like to place too great an emphasis
on clueing the reader in on references.
But no one reads the classics now, it’s true,
and even I at times screw up the names. Don’t you?
Just be happy I don’t, like Vergil, change tenses!)
It seems I’ve gone to the other extreme
and will have to take pains to explain what I mean.
In fact, President Lee has never faced the foe;
they’ve never considered letting him go
there – the authorities in the mainland, I mean.
Communication with them is done through the screen
of the international media.
Turn to “China” in your encyclopedia
if you want a clearer idea about the facts.
I’ve got one collecting dust in my stacks.
It’s pretty hilarious – a one-volume job
from the early 70’s. A few of us mobbed
a Taipei trash heap several years back;
I was lucky to find something I sorely lacked –
a handy, all-purpose reference tool,
and thick enough to provide a makeshift footstool.
I had been in Taiwan somewhat less than a year,
lamenting the absence of decent beer,
the extreme humidity, the traffic, the crowds,
half wishing I were in a plane among the clouds,
on the way back to my native PA.
This acquisition half put me in mind to stay.
Long hours would I through its yellowing pages roam –
a referential home away from home.
But it seems I’m getting Wordsworthian on you.
The New Columbia, I see, uses Hanyu
Pinyin in its rendering of Chinese
names into English – a system with which I’m pleased.
(Incorrect. For “English” read “romanization.”
It has nothing to do with translation
and is simply a key to pronunciation.)
Some students may initially feel frustration
with certain of its peculiarities.
“i”, for instance, is pronounced like a pair of “e”’s.
The “q” you occasionally see is “ch”.
Our “sh” is “x”. There is no “th”.
The reason I dwell on this topic at such length
is to mention that Pinyin, in spite of its strengths,
has long been outlawed in the ROC.
Taiwanese scholars will often bring up hokey
arguments as to why China’s system is flawed;
but, if the truth be told, it’s been outlawed
solely because it was developed under Mao.
If China’s a sleeping giant, Taiwan’s a cow,
unable to digest the lumpy cud
first shoved down its throat by that Nationalist dud
the Generalissimo Chiang in ‘49.
Of course, writing this would have been a crime
no more than just a decade and a half ago.
But today he’s hated as much as Mao, I trow.
(Sorry about the stray archaism.
I read too much and frankly my mind’s a prism
or a prismatic confusion of old and new.
By derivation, “trow” belongs to “true”.
I admire it for its antiquarian crust.
I believe it sides with our current sense of “trust”,
though I’m not sure – I like to make things up.
You may find it a bit odd that I’m fessing up
to such things – that I’m so quick to apologize.
Poetry afterall’s a box of lies
(such, anyway, was the opinion of Plato).
But so is law, from the Torah to Judge Cato –
just a lot of smoke and obfuscation,
from the burning bush to fallen OJ’s station
wagon. My “sorry”’s a matter of rhetoric,
of course. It’s been awhile since I read it,
but there’s a book by Aristotle, a treatise
written aeons after Thales of Miletus,
that outlines all the many tricks of speech
used to humor, exhort, command, assuage and preach.
I’m sure the false apology’s in there somewhere –
the guy was exhaustive beyond compare.)
I don’t mean to say that Mao’s to be commended.
Posterity will show that China was tended
this century by a pair of bastards;
for posterity always gets in the last word…
or last words. I’m only trying to demonstrate
how we regard things that come from across the strait.
Yes, “we”. For it seems I’m part Formosan
by now. I haven’t had a breakfast of toast and
eggs for going on many years, and besides all
that, notwithstanding the government’s denial
of Stella’s claim to citizenship here,
she’s half Taiwanese. Whether next year she’ll appear
more like her American dad or Chinese mom
(according, at least, to bigworld.com)
is or should be entirely out of the question.
After all, this island claims to be a bastion
of Western free-thinking regarding race
and ethnicity, blah blah blah…But there’s a trace
of the Old World Order…or a few missing links
in the New. They’ve yet to work out the kinks,
and until they’ve done so my daughter’s a Yankee
officially. Madeleine Albright, I thank ye.
For it says in my daughter’s new passport
that if anyone anywhere tries to make sport
with Stella P. that person will have to report
to the Secretary of State – that’s you.
But you’re not very much liked in Taiwan, it’s true.
Neither is your good friend our president, you know.
My next vote goes to Mr. Ross Perot.
You might as well call me a frustrated leftist;
as there’s no true American left, my method’s
to join the far right so they’ll look absurd.
But not leaving off yet with Bill Clinton, that turd
screwed up everything with his damn speech in Shanghai.
He caught Taiwan in his unbuttoned fly.
“Three no’s.” What are they? Number one: no two China’s
(the foremost precept among those mainland whiners).
Number Two: no “One China, one Taiwan”
(I’ve a shirt with this slogan I haven’t tried on).
And finally: no membership in the UN.
This one’s crucial. If you didn’t tune in
to CNN at the time of the recent quake
then you didn’t see their flunkey Jiang Zemin make
his relief offer of a hundred grand –
hardly any more than I’ve got ready to hand!
Nor did you see him preposterously announce
that all humanitarian amounts
of UN cash would have to flow through mainland banks
first. And what was the Taiwanese response? “No thanks!
Every time you’re ravaged by a typhoon
we offer you our condolences to the tune
of millions, and this is what we get in return.
How is it you’re surprised we’re quick to spurn
your suggestions as to reunification?
Your behavior this time is the consummation
of the grossest insensitivity.”
Sorry, Heather, for this declivity
into the clammy basin of the topical.
It’s hard to avoid – Taiwan is sub-tropical.
I’d rather like to pen for you a tale,
but it’s getting late and I’m running short on ale.
Next time I’ll have a go at attempting in verse
a legend from the Middle Universe…
Middle Kingdom, that’s to say (that’s how China knows
itself). I’ll compose it blank verse, I suppose.
I’ll write of Chang E, who flew to the moon
and continues to reside there with her babboon.
(Actually it’s a rabbit, but that doesn’t rhyme;
you wouldn’t know, so it’s hardly a crime.)
So ends my contribution to this happy day.
It just occurred to me that I’m quite far away.
The Joneses, I wean, now have another.
Congratulations! Now my sister’s a mother.
Your fatigue is somewhere between heavy and slight,
although I imagine it will be quite
a while before you’re up and about in your jeans.
I pause and try to imagine you all. The scene’s
revealed to me as I sit here and sigh;
I’ve got it before me in my mind’s inner eye.
It seems my poem has given you the chance to prove
that, though immobile, you’re able; for you’ve
taken it into your head to read this aloud.
As for the members of our familial crowd:
There’s slobber running down young Lissa’s cheek
and Joanne’s in the corner thumbing a Newsweek.
Proud Lou has attended with his big-hearted laugh.
Mom followed in earnest up to the half-
way mark or thereabouts, then away she drifted.
Our good brother Jeff has reverently shifted
his thoughts to keep pace with the changing sense.
And our father? I’m afraid his fund of patience
had already begun to run low when Lissa
vomited in the car and Dad missed a
sharp right he might have taken into a 7-
11 just up the hill a bit past Devon,
losing his chance to buy something to wipe
up his trousers with, before Lissa took a swipe
and landed a gooey cuff on his ill-placed ear.
So verse is the last thing he wants to hear.
He’s taken, it’s my guess, to his wonted pacing.
In case you’re wondering, these lines of my tracing
were sketched during an October reprieve
from an endless series of attempts to retrieve
from those inspirational wells some peaks and flats
for a book long in the making on cats.
Not easy. At times one’s sight grows dim in those vats,
in which one trudges about in one’s leaky boots,
and one must be mindful of hidden chutes.
If you bottom out you may not find a ladder.
The Hippocrene’s no font – it’s a leaky bladder!
You’ve been given a chance, so don’t spoil it.
Pegasus will piss you into Neptune’s toilet,
and you’re unlikely to find a bark in those seas –
for it’s all flushed out where Pegasus pees.
Speaking of piss, though, so much for my epistle;
I’ve just been summoned by the diapering whistle.
I guess I’ll wonder whether you’ve liked it.
Perhaps it were better to have spruced and spiked it
up with a few sprigs of leftover mistletoe,
or things rooted out from where thistles grow.
Egad! With that one, I seem to have hit the dregs.
Add a stroke to my growing score of empty kegs.
So as to put an end to this scribbling,
I’ll close, your loyal and affectionate sibling,
Andy
Taipei and Shuang-Xi
October 10-17, 1999