Lost.

Ch’i Shan Wu Chin

Clearing the mind and sliding in

          to that created space,

a web of waters steaming over rocks,

air misty but not raining,

          seeing this land from a boat on a lake

          or a broad slow river,

          coasting by.

The path comes down along a lowland stream

slips behind boulders and leafy hardwoods,

reappears in a pine grove,

no farms around, just tidy cottages and shelters,

gateways, rest stops, roofed but unwalled work space,

          —a warm damp climate;

a trail of climbing stairsteps forks upstream.

Big ranges lurk behind these rugged little outcrops—

these spits of low ground rocky uplifts

          layered pinnacles aslant,

flurries of brushy cliffs receding,

far back and high above, vague peaks.

A man hunched over, sitting on a log

          another stands above him, lifts a staff,

a third, with a roll of mats or a lute, looks on;

a bit offshore two people in a boat.

The trail goes far inland,

          somewhere back around a bay,

lost in distant foothill slopes

                   & back again

at a village on the beach, and someone’s fishing.

Rider and walker cross a bridge

above a frothy braided torrent

that descends from a flurry of roofs like flowers

          temples tucked between cliffs,

                    a side trail goes there;

a jumble of cliffs above,

ridge tops edged with bushes,

valley fog below a hazy canyon.

A man with a shoulder load leans into the grade.

Another horse and a hiker,

the trail goes up along cascading streambed

no bridge in sight—

comes back through chinquapin or

liquidambars; another group of travelers.

Trail’s end at the edge of an inlet

below a heavy set of dark rock hills.

Two moored boats with basket roofing,

          a boatman in the bow looks

                    lost in thought.

                    Hills beyond rivers, willows in a swamp,

                    a gentle valley reaching far inland.

                    The watching boat has floated off the page.

                    ●

At the end of the painting the scroll continues on with seals and

poems. It tells the a further tale:

“—Wang Wen-wei saw this at the mayor’s house in Ho-tung

town, year 1205. Wrote at the end of it,

                    ‘The Fashioner of Things

                             has no original intentions

                     Mountains and rivers

                             are spirit, condensed.’

                    ‘. . . Who has come up with

                             these miraculous forests and springs?

                    Pale ink

                             on fine white silk.’

Later that month someone named Li Hui added,

                    ‘. . . Most people can get along with the noise of dogs

                           and chickens;

                       Everybody cheerful in these peaceful times.

                       But I—why are my tastes so odd?

                       I love the company of streams and boulders.’

T’ien Hsieh of Wei-lo, no date, next wrote,

                    ‘. . . The water holds up the mountains,

                               The mountains go down in the water . . .’

In 1332 Chih-shun adds,

                    ‘. . . This is truly a painting worth careful keeping.

                    And it has poem-colophons from the Sung and the

                    Chin dynasties. That it survived dangers of fire and

                    war makes it even rarer.’

                     

In the mid-seventeenth century one Wang To had a look at it:

          ‘My brother’s relative by marriage, Wên-sun, is learned and

          has good taste. He writes good prose and poetry. My broth-

          er brought over this painting of his to show me . . .’

The great Ch’ing dynasty collector Liang Ch’ing-piao owned it,

but didn’t write on it or cover it with seals. From him it went into

the Imperial collection down to the early twentieth century. Chang

Ta-ch’ien sold it in 1949. Now it’s at the Cleveland Art Museum,

which sits on a rise that looks out toward the waters of Lake Erie.

                    ●

                    Step back and gaze again at the land:

                                              it rises and subsides—

                    ravines and cliffs like waves of blowing leaves—

                              stamp the foot, walk with it, clap! turn,

                              the creeks come in, ah!

                              strained through boulders,

                              mountains walking on the water,

                              water ripples every hill.

—I walk out of the museum—low gray clouds over the lake—

chill March breeze.

                    ●

                    Old ghost ranges, sunken rivers, come again

                             stand by the wall and tell their tale,

                     walk the path, sit the rains,

                     grind the ink, wet the brushes, unroll the

                              broad white space:

                     lead out and tip

                     the moist black line.

                     Walking on walking,

                                              under foot          earth turns.

                     Streams and mountains never stay the same.

Note: A hand scroll by this name showed up in Shansi province, central China, in

the thirteenth century. Even then the painter was unknown, “a person of the Sung

Dynasty.” Now it’s on Turtle Island. Unroll the scroll to the left, a section at a time, as

you let the right side roll back in. Place by place unfurls.

Gary Snyder