The Portrait of an Old Poet
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He knew when to stop writing. One day he found that he was not writing with as much passion, concentration and energy as he had before. Then and there he decided, with an inscrutable smile, not to write. We can imagine that the decision was not easy for him. It requires no small courage and wisdom to do so on the part of the poet. We can not persuade any poet to stop his work. Poets keep on writing until they die.
When we take time and read his poems, we can understand the smile he smiled when he made the sad decision. It was the smile of love for and satisfaction with the small but unique achievement he had made in his life. He has written only about sixty or seventy poems, but he does not envy those who have produced more than hundreds or thousands of them. He does not have to. We know that it is the quality, not the quantity, that counts in the work of art. We do not confuse the artistic activity with the mass production in the factory.
He admits, of course, that there are many good poets, like Shakespeare and Milton, who write abundantly and superbly at the same time. Before them he simply despairs, and then feels happy all the more because he can love, respect, and admire them sincerely and passionately. No one can afford to be envious or jealous of the genius.
Strangely enough, he does not lament the age in which lives as other poets habitually do. He lost his father and mother before he was ten, and "grew up like the grass in the field, taken care of by myself," but the grief and the subsequent hardship in his early life have failed to give him a gloomy view of the world and life. He says that he has more to praise and celebrate in the world than to lament or condemn. His parents in heaven must be very happy to see their only son's "bright face laughing in the sun."
He is always alone, but not lonely. He has griefs, but no grievances. He can not be happy all the time, but he is always cheerful. Even in winter his eyes reach beyond the frozen surface of the river to the blue water flowing ceaselessly under it.
He knows how to say the deep truth clearly and strongly in a simple and easy way. He thinks that there is no reason for the truth to be always in the dark. He says we can not love anything, if we can not understand it first. He hates tyranny, but he does not use all those harsh, ugly, and dirty words to censure it. He thinks it unwise to become more monstrous in the course of fighting a monster.
He is very proud of the fact that he has written a few good poems for the children. He is firmly convinced that it is a duty for any truly good and great artist to devote some of his time, energy, and talent for the children. He says that any poet who has entirely forgotten the childhood is dead, not only as a poet, but also as a man. Truly, he is still a child; a child full of curiosity and mischief in his late seventies.
He does not have any particular religion, although he is a deeply religious man. Throughout his life he has never been tired of seeking the ultimate meaning, destiny and mystery of man on this planet in relation of the universe. He says with some humor that if there is something or somebody whom we may call God, he must be exactly like our fathers. He will love us very much and is ready to help us in every way possible, but there must also be something that he can not do for us, even if he wants to, and we should not make him sad by asking too much.
What he loves most and excites him most is talking. He shows deep and sincere interest in any subjects brought to him, and adds some fresh insight to them always. There is no uninteresting subject for him, and if there is, he knows how to make it interesting. For him reticence can not be a virtue or humility; it is often a clear evidence of poor knowledge and experience, dull intelligence, and dried emotion. For him silence is rarely gold or golden.
One conspicuous theme that runs through the polished lines of his poetry is his profound melancholy for and constant awareness of the inevitability of death, which conquers our love, beauty and all human desire in the end, and the end is never far away. He wants to live as passionately and intensely "as the blood-red autumn leaves blazing in the setting sun," but immediately he sees them fall, dried, and blown away in the autumn wind.
When he was twenty-one, he once tried to take his own life, but fortunately he failed and has managed to live into his old age. Now he looks back at his foolishness or cowardice amusingly, and feels grateful to the fact that he has seen the green month of May so many times since then.
When he is gone, and when we are all gone who know and remember him, only the small book of his poetry will remain, and shine silently like the pearls and corals at the bottom of the deep ocean. A few truly fortunate readers only will come across this treasure-box, and when they open it, they will see each of his poems, like the gems of all variety, twinkling with the beautiful color and light. However, very unfortunately, none of them will ever read the best poem by him. It is not to be found in the book of his poems. The most beautiful poem he has ever written is his own life.
(June 15, 1990)
When we take time and read his poems, we can understand the smile he smiled when he made the sad decision. It was the smile of love for and satisfaction with the small but unique achievement he had made in his life. He has written only about sixty or seventy poems, but he does not envy those who have produced more than hundreds or thousands of them. He does not have to. We know that it is the quality, not the quantity, that counts in the work of art. We do not confuse the artistic activity with the mass production in the factory.
He admits, of course, that there are many good poets, like Shakespeare and Milton, who write abundantly and superbly at the same time. Before them he simply despairs, and then feels happy all the more because he can love, respect, and admire them sincerely and passionately. No one can afford to be envious or jealous of the genius.
Strangely enough, he does not lament the age in which lives as other poets habitually do. He lost his father and mother before he was ten, and "grew up like the grass in the field, taken care of by myself," but the grief and the subsequent hardship in his early life have failed to give him a gloomy view of the world and life. He says that he has more to praise and celebrate in the world than to lament or condemn. His parents in heaven must be very happy to see their only son's "bright face laughing in the sun."
He is always alone, but not lonely. He has griefs, but no grievances. He can not be happy all the time, but he is always cheerful. Even in winter his eyes reach beyond the frozen surface of the river to the blue water flowing ceaselessly under it.
He knows how to say the deep truth clearly and strongly in a simple and easy way. He thinks that there is no reason for the truth to be always in the dark. He says we can not love anything, if we can not understand it first. He hates tyranny, but he does not use all those harsh, ugly, and dirty words to censure it. He thinks it unwise to become more monstrous in the course of fighting a monster.
He is very proud of the fact that he has written a few good poems for the children. He is firmly convinced that it is a duty for any truly good and great artist to devote some of his time, energy, and talent for the children. He says that any poet who has entirely forgotten the childhood is dead, not only as a poet, but also as a man. Truly, he is still a child; a child full of curiosity and mischief in his late seventies.
He does not have any particular religion, although he is a deeply religious man. Throughout his life he has never been tired of seeking the ultimate meaning, destiny and mystery of man on this planet in relation of the universe. He says with some humor that if there is something or somebody whom we may call God, he must be exactly like our fathers. He will love us very much and is ready to help us in every way possible, but there must also be something that he can not do for us, even if he wants to, and we should not make him sad by asking too much.
What he loves most and excites him most is talking. He shows deep and sincere interest in any subjects brought to him, and adds some fresh insight to them always. There is no uninteresting subject for him, and if there is, he knows how to make it interesting. For him reticence can not be a virtue or humility; it is often a clear evidence of poor knowledge and experience, dull intelligence, and dried emotion. For him silence is rarely gold or golden.
One conspicuous theme that runs through the polished lines of his poetry is his profound melancholy for and constant awareness of the inevitability of death, which conquers our love, beauty and all human desire in the end, and the end is never far away. He wants to live as passionately and intensely "as the blood-red autumn leaves blazing in the setting sun," but immediately he sees them fall, dried, and blown away in the autumn wind.
When he was twenty-one, he once tried to take his own life, but fortunately he failed and has managed to live into his old age. Now he looks back at his foolishness or cowardice amusingly, and feels grateful to the fact that he has seen the green month of May so many times since then.
When he is gone, and when we are all gone who know and remember him, only the small book of his poetry will remain, and shine silently like the pearls and corals at the bottom of the deep ocean. A few truly fortunate readers only will come across this treasure-box, and when they open it, they will see each of his poems, like the gems of all variety, twinkling with the beautiful color and light. However, very unfortunately, none of them will ever read the best poem by him. It is not to be found in the book of his poems. The most beautiful poem he has ever written is his own life.
(June 15, 1990)
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