Now, as a human life in this room 
Is ebbing,
The attitudes of the objects 
Become apparent.

The rocking chair
Stretches forth its arm-rests, 
Ready to embrace, to lull, 
To enthrall with the stories 
Of a long life-time.

The mirror turns a blind eye 
To all that is happening here, 
Gazing intently
Into its own distant dreams.

The hospital bed knows 
That it is seen as ugly,
Unwanted in every room that it enters.
Yet it goes about its work 
Reliably and with care,
Keeping the patient
As comfortable as it is able.
It does its best to be unobtrusive.

The edge of the crystal vase 
Glitters hard in the corner. 
Being confined to a sick-room, 
Enduring the dusty monotony 
Of pathetic fake flowers — 
This is not what it’s made for!

The curtains hold back the darkness, 
Soften the mid-day light.
Catching the slightest motion of the air, 
They stir like wings,
Like the white sails of a ship, 
Sensing the wind, the space 
Of a great invisible world.
                        

She dressed properly,
She spoke quietly,
She loved modestly,
She died peacefully.

Harmless, humble,
God's lamb…

Damn!
                        

And in the end, never think you are finished.
—Master Yu Cheng Hsiang, 1929—2010

Turn

Our Tai Chi teacher, 
Master Yu,
was in the eighty-first year
of his life.

On a sweltering morning 
he came to class delighted:
I saw a video.
This young guy — 
from Colorado —
he does a different turn.
His way is better.
I am learning it now.

He pivoted on the left foot,
the right foot sweeping low.  
Paused.
Shook his head:
No, not quite right. 
Tried it again. 
Again — 
A change, almost imperceptible —
the turn was lighter.

Master Yu nodded:
Better than before.


Snowfall

Looking at a snowy hill
that bristles with black stubble,
I see the shaven head of the nun 
who chanted sutras 
on the forty-ninth day 
after the death of our teacher.

We are gathered by fate.
We are scattered by fate. 
This is the final parting,
the nun told us.

—On the forty-ninth day 
the soul surrenders 
its old affections.
It lets go 
of all its wisdom. 
Empty-handed,
unburdened, nameless
the soul enters 
its new life.

To mark the moment 
when our connection 
to our teacher’s soul 
was severed,
she rapped a block of wood.
One.
Two.
Three.
 
Each blow convulsed my heart: 
No! 
No! 
No!

Why?

My mind does not believe 
that there’s a soul
left after the body’s death.
So why on the forty-ninth day
the loss cuts deeper? 

But since when does reason 
have power to answer 
questions asked by the heart?


Notebook

My teacher was a wise man.

I filled page after page with hasty scribbles, 
hoping that words could capture
the flowing motion and its subtle lessons. 

Whenever my notebook got half-filled
I bought a spare one.

My teacher was an old man. 

Now I gaze at the blank pages.

I could fill them with my own musings. 
I could search for another teacher.
I could pretend that this paper 
was meant for a different purpose: 
jotting down to-do-lists,
collecting recipes for soups and casseroles… 

But the pages remain empty.

Life does not make bargains. 
Death does not grant concessions.



Present Tense

Master, 
you laughed off any hint of adulation,
accepted no reverence, other than diligent practice. 

Ten years have gone by. 

We have not run out of lessons 
for you to teach us,
for us to learn. 

Coming together as classmates, 
practicing the form,
we slip into the present tense: 

— How long?
— 32 minutes. 
— He takes 40. 
We need to slow down.

— I get stuck in the transition. Right here. 
— You are double-weighted.
He shifts the weight back
before he starts the turn.