#七夕 : 7th night of the 7th lunar month is, in legend, the one night a year that the separated lovers may meet one another by means of a bridge of magpies in the skies
Tonight is their night: a thread of poems
[📷 Yamamoto Masao]
should a love meant to last beyond time
begrudge mere nights and days
apart?
兩情若是久長時
又豈在
朝朝暮暮
Closing lines from the ci 鵲橋仙 ‘Immortals by the Magpie Bridge,’ by Northern Song Dynasty poet Qin Guan 秦觀 (1049-1100)
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever
(and Ezra Pound’s fanciful, compelling translation, “The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter, after Rihaku”) #everynightapoem#七夕
Murmur of all that is claspable
against all that is not
You are there. I am here. I remember
-Jane Hirshfield
Quantum (and lovelorn) entanglement, defined as particles separated by vast distances but behaving as a single entity:
also a #七夕poem, of sorts. #everynightapoem
If you love me and think only of me
lift your robe and ford the river Chen
You are gone too long.
The red leaves take the green leaves' place, and the landscape yields. We go to sleep with the peach in our hands and wake with the stone, but the stone is the pledge of summers to come.
Mum Bett sued her master for her freedom & won in 1781. “Any time, any time while I was a slave, if 1 minute’s freedom had been offered me, & I had been told I must die at the end of that minute, I wld have taken it – just to stand 1 minute on God’s earth a free woman – I would.”
Elizabeth Freeman (1744?-1829), born as “Mum Bett,” became the first African American woman to successfully file a lawsuit for freedom in the state of Massachusetts in the case known as Brom and Bett v. Ashley, which in turn led to a series of successful “freedom suits.”
Refusing her former owner Ashley’s request to return to him as a paid servant, Freeman instead worked for pay in her attorney Sedgwick’s household, & was also a prominent healer, midwife, nurse.
After 20 years, Freeman bought her own house where she lived w her children. @NMAAHC
Teaching on storyworlds rather than Chinatowns this term.
But given that the recurrent question of our course is how the stories we tell (and are told) shape the world we see (and don't see) around us -I spent today addressing the latest non-random violence against Asian women.
A detour from our current unit on fairy tale storyworlds, yet grimly apropos. After all, in their original tellings, evil is as omnipresent as virtue, and stories oriented towards 'happily ever after' can easily be detoured by suffering and death. Not unlike immigrant stories.
Trumpian 'China virus' 'Commie spy' disease-vector discourse certainly fanned the flames of this current wave of violence, but the shorthand worked because it easily indexed stories that this country has long told, via laws, policy, & culture, about Asians, women, immigrants.
The great pianist Fou Ts’ong 傅聰 passed away last week in the UK, from covid. Many first encountered him not as a lyrical, brilliant interpreter of Chopin (he was), but as the young recipient of extraordinary letters from his father Fu Lei that were later collected: 傅雷家書.
In the sort of happy accident that young autodidacts (avant-Google) often have, I was separately a fan of both father and son without learning of their connection.
Fu Lei 傅雷 was the emblematic Shanghai Francophile: writing on and translating Romain Rolland, Balzac, Rodin.
As a young Francophile myself - stemming from my desire to better know my grandmother, Hsiao Tsong Rang, who had lived and studied in Paris as Fu Lei did - they in fact moved in the same circles there - Fu Lei was of course a legend to me.
Returning to Mary Shelley and her *other* tale of loss, written right after her husband’s death, its title from her diary entry: “Yes I may well describe that solitary being's feelings,feeling myself as the last relic of a beloved race,my companions extinct before me.”
And it was more than Percy that Mary Shelley had lost: her father-in-law forbade her from using the family name.
Hence, “The Last Man” is merely the work of “The Author of Frankenstein.” It is a story of radical solitude, by an author bereaved and effaced. As apt now, as then.
“I spread the whole earth out as a map before me. On no one spot of its surface could I put my finger and say, here is safety.”
I love this one from a 15yo entrant: the character 画 (picture, image) rendered 3-D and folded - to make the neologism for laptop/notebook computer! 😍 so clever.
I like this one because it is a bilingual visual pun - a 76yo entrant transformed the bottom half of the character 会 (meeting) into a “Z” to make...you guessed it, “web conference”
(This could be a greater branding triumph for @zoom_us than even Kleenex or Xerox)
Another woman artist - though not Chinese - whose self portraits I return to often is the German painter Paula Modersohn-Becker (1876-1907). She died at age 31, shortly after giving birth.
My favorite:
"Self-Portrait on the sixth wedding anniversary" 1906.
We need, in love, to practice only this:
letting each other go. For holding on
comes easily; we do not need to learn it.
Rilke wrote "Requiem for a friend" over the course of 3 days alone in the Hotel Biron, mourning her death.
[PMB, Portrait of Rainer Maria Rilke, 1906]
I can hardly think of any writing by Rilke that does not evoke intense love in me, or at least the remembrance of having loved it once, intensely.