Morning Song of Senlin

IT is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning          

When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,        

I arise, I face the sunrise,       

And do the things my fathers learned to do. 

Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops           

Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,          

And I myself on swiftly tilting planet           

Stand before a glass and tie my tie.   

 

Vine-leaves tap my window, 

Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,  

The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree           

Repeating three clear tones.   

 

It is morning. I stand by the mirror    

And tie my tie once more.     

While waves far off in a pale rose twilight      

Crash on a white sand shore. 

I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:           

How small and white my face!—      

The green earth tilts through a sphere of air  

And bathes in a flame of space.           

There are houses hanging above the stars      

And stars hung under a sea... 

And a sun far off in a shell of silence

Dapples my walls for me....   

 

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning             

Should I not pause in the light to remember God?    

Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,  

He is immense and lonely as a cloud.

I will dedicate this moment before my mirror           

To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.     

Accept these humble offerings, clouds of silence!    

I will think of you as I descend the stair.      

 

Vine-leaves tap my window, 

The snail-track shines on the stones;  

Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree       

Repeating two clear tones.     

 

It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,

Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.         

The walls are about me still as in the evening,           

I am the same, and the same name still I keep.            

The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,    

The stars pale silently in a coral sky.  

In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,

Unconcerned, and tie my tie. 

 

There are horses neighing on far-off hills        

Tossing their long white manes,         

And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,

Their shoulders black with rains....    

It is morning, I stand by the mirror    

And surprise my soul once more;         

The blue air rushes above my ceiling,

There are suns beneath my floor....    

 

...It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness 

And depart on the winds of space for I know not where;    

My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,    

And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.        

There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,   

And a god among the stars; and I will go     

Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak           

And humming a tune I know....           

 

Vine-leaves tap at the window,         

Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,

The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree           

Repeating three dear tones.   

Nice musical musings from American poet Conrad Aiken (1889-1973), first come to my attention during the day’s lunch break.