…illuminated by electric bulbs

Exile’s Hope

light blub

 We become one man

awash in dreams

as you tell old stories

from back home.

The string of recollection

rouses new hope:

maybe here,

in exile,

we will craft

even livelier tales,

brimming with wonder,

illuminated by electric bulbs,

mirroring the sheen

of ancient cinnabar.

This night’s prattle

meanders along a foreign river,

revives a sorrow soul

as if no earthy shadows followed.

                           ~ Chen Yinke*

 

*cited in:

Ancestral Intelligence

Vera Schwarcz

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6 Replies to “…illuminated by electric bulbs”

    1. Thank you. Vera Schwarcz’s writings have awakened me to the important connection between story telling and remembrance, especially within a historical events

  1. There is always a light to guide us in the critical moments.

    Those I love scattered away, poor
    and far too sick for friendly visits,
    I’m shut up inside, no one in sight.
    Lying in this village study alone,
    the wick cold and the lamp flame dark,
    wide open drapes torn and tattered,
    I listen as the snow begins to fall
    again, that hiss outside the window.
    Older now, sleeping less and less,
    I get up in the night and sit intent,
    mind utterly forgotten. How else
    can I get past such isolate silence?
    Body visiting this world steadfast,
    mind abandoned to change limitless:
    it’s been like this for years now,
    one thousand three hundred nights.

    Po Chu-I

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