[Golias]

Brief digression: Might not we, as presumptive logophiles, employ "jealous" for a feeling about something we nominally possess and are afraid of losing and "envious" for something someone else has and we have not but wish we had? I know some dictionaries allow "envious" as a sub-sub synonym for "jealous," but I think that's only to recognize a frequent confusion of the two words.

[Tim Murphy]

Doctor Michael, I'm envious AND I'm jealous, and I tender you my heartiest congratulations. Your winnings surpass by a factor of four my lifetime earnings from po biz. And by a factor of two Alan's advance for the Beowulf, which worked out to about $3 per line. Given that he slaved all day for a year to complete what I foolishly started, he made about five bucks an hour.

I join with Len in beseeching Professor Mezey to tell us what so pissed off Parisi. The guy's taste is so wildly uneven I've never sent him anything, but now that he has $100 million, he might be a good friend to have.

Michael, are you imitating one of Po Chu-i's poems for Yuan Chen? Long time since I read Waley.

[Roger Slater]

Personally, I'm not jealous or envious. But boy am I covetous!

Anyway, Golias, I checked my usual usage manuals and dictionaries but didn't find anything discussing the distinction you would draw. Can you point us to any source for what you're saying?

And Tim, at least Alan seems to have gotten more than Poetry's $2 a line, though just barely. Not to mention (no kidding) the glory of it all.

[Michael Creagan]

Thanks Tim, for your friendly words. Yes, this is the poem by Po Chui, translated by Waley, far and away the best translator of Chinese poetry.

Dreaming That I Went With Li And Yu To Visit Yuan Chen


At night I dreamed I was back in Chang-an;
I saw again the faces of old friends.
And in my dreams, under an April sky,
They led me by the hand to wander in the spring winds.
Together we came to the ward of Peace and Quiet;
We stopped our horses at the gate of Yuan Chen.
Yuan Chen was sitting all alone;
When he saw me coming, a smile came to his face.
He pointed back at the flowers in the western court;
Then opened wine in the northern summer-house.
He seemed to be saying that neither of us had changed;
He seemed to be regretting that joy will not stay;
That our souls had met for only a little while,
To part again with hardly time for greeting.
I woke up and thought him still at my side;
I put out my hand; there was nothing there at all.

A beautiful poem, I think, and much better than mine.


Here is another, the one I quote in the poem that has caused such a firestorm.

The Cranes

The western wind has blown but a few days;
Yet the first leaf already flies from the bough.
On the drying paths I walk in my thin shoes;
In the first cold I have donned my quilted coat.

Through shallow ditches the floods are clearing away;
Through sparse bamboos trickles a slanting light.
In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss,
The garden-boy is leading the cranes home.

Thanks again.

Mike Creagan






[This message has been edited by Michael Creagan (edited December 05, 2002).]

[Tim Murphy]

Michael, Suggest you acquire a copy of Three Chinese Poets, by Vikram Seth. The poets are Wang Wei, Li Po, and Tu Fu; and the translations to my ear are better than Waley's. Amazon has a used copy of this out-of-print little treasure.

[Michael Creagan]

Thanks Tim. I was unaware of Seth's translations and will try to find them.

Mike Creagan

[Robert J. Clawson]

This is becoming a somewhat narcissistic thread with oriental trimmings; so, I present my most narcissistic piece with oriental trimmings.

Sigmoidoscopy

"He who having used the outer light
and can return to the inner light
is thereby preserved from all harm."
Lao Tzu


She said an artist would love this,
the gastroenterologist.
What, the entry or the exit?
This Ansel Adams of the anus
-- connoisseur of inscapes, pink, horizonless --
probes, probes, and probes,
blasting air into the tunnel
to illuminate its turns,
the slick translucencies
that wall the creeping capillaries
straining to be purple on my palette.

Doctor, are those yellow spots corn?

No, she answers, this looks terrific,
they're just pieces of fecal matter.

Never did I dream that fecal matter
would highlight the only
film in which I've starred:
Clawson, in His Own Colon,
for fifteen minutes famous,
but alone, so alone,
on the outside looking in.

[Roger Slater]

Bob, a pentrating poem indeed!

Though I'm a bit confused why you posted it here, I will join the bandwagon just to let you know you are not alone. What I recall from my own s-oscopy was the bedside manner of my doctor's assistant, who had me thinking pleasant thoughts to distract me. She said stuff like:

Just try to let your mind go free.
Imagine a pleasant spot.
And thus your sigmoidoscopy
will quickly be forgot.

Imagine lounging on a beach.
Then do not look behind!
And thus whatever’s in your breach
won’t enter in your mind.

Pretend you hike along a trail
beside a gorgeous lake.
And thus forget inside your tail
there wags a metal snake.


Would you print this in a book if I promise to buy a copy?

I seem to recall poems like this on the "Fun" board, under a thread called "You can't write about that".