WLA vanda The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
…was that poet guy, wasn’t he, who leapt off a boat into the water one night grabbing at the reflection of the moon?
Sappy end to a legend, I thought. Don’t you think?
After all, he was real, supposedly, and talented. Made government official and climbed high too. Ministry of Health or something. The same one who whipped up the eternal line:
“Drew a blade and slashed the water; even more the water flowed.”
Meaning to say he maybe wasn’t such a hot-shot civil servant after all;
or maybe the politics was rather so fluid in those days it just kept coming and coming and coming, and wouldn’t stop.
Others have been designated Poet laureate, and might have received a stipend. But he was so close to deification, they named him ‘immortal’, just like the lines he wrote. And everyone knows immortals don’t eat mortal food or, crucially, drink mortal booze. His hatred of politics was as clear-cut as a blade across a throat.
On one hand, his fame was mainly for the street-cred that pulled him lengths ahead, letting no competition come close: the knack of a delicate, wafting scent, transforming into a raptured expression, at the lilting aroma, discernible on the opening of the day’s first jar of booze.
On the other, he was posthumousy conferred distinguished alumni of the exclusive Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grovet. Pure, unadulterated and distanced from the ugliness of political intrigue and betrayal – playing wine, drinking chess, chillin’ out in the cold, clean heights of Coventry;
Conversely, he was the old mastermind behind the older tapestry, victor of shadowy battles which others fought.
Despite getting it in the ass just like everybody else, he wrote and wrote, unfazed even by some sappy output, such as: “…the tear from the eye of the girl whose heart didn’t know who it hated most.”
No matter how much bulldust you try and drench yourself under, something in your soul just knows.