This Poem was Submitted By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-06-09 19:29:16 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Phaedrus Throws Stones

“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.”  —Rainer Maria Rilke In China, I busied myself with Tang Dynasty poems writing no words to you in English for six months. Now leaves in their death-brilliance blow cold against the door. I hear you calling from the sky—the face of God—you with your clouds carved in granite, volcano bursts in suspension over Praetorian eyes. I am digging my toes in the last green grass before spring, thankful for another chance to try and find what Phaedrus searched for in all his travels—something about pleasure in the journey, not the destination. You take steps which seek the dust shaken from the sandals of the apostles while I read about the drunken state Li Bai sought before writing his elegant bambooed verse. I can see him in his boat cursing at the moon whose cycle refuses to turn the tide or fit itself neatly into dynastic poetry. Of course you know how fickle a woman the moon is, her orb a granite breast reclined across the sky. If you would listen to Phaedrus, you would hear the word of his testimony bleeding like stones draped in moonlight. I think of Stephen, the first martyr, who cried out crimson as stones laid down prostrate before the sky, whose gentle kiss raised him to paradise.

Copyright © June 2004 G. Donald Cribbs

Additional Notes:
If you haven't read Robert Pirsig's "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," you'll probably loose the meaning of why I put Phaedrus in this poem. Consider the idea that it is what you get out of the "journey" rather than actually reaching your destination that matters to a Buddhist. Phaedrus is a complex character that Pirsig uses to reveal a hidden truth about himself. A very interesting read. I highly recommend it. By the way, after college I taught English to college students in central China. I was in Henan Province in the capital city of Zhengzhou. Quite a life changing experience. My (future) wife was state side at the time. Enjoy!


This Poem was Critiqued By: Sydney a Walker On Date: 2004-07-01 15:38:13
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.77778
Just quickly wanted to tell you I enjoyed this. Why? Because Pirsig's novel was brilliant AND I have a signed special edition of " Zen and the art of Motorcyle...." I was quite surprised to read about Phaedrus in a poem and you did exceptionally well. I can only say this is a masterpiece that needs nothing else. BTW, he should have never written his second book. Well done.


This Poem was Critiqued By: Molly Johnson On Date: 2004-06-30 14:47:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.50000
D, I loved that book. I read it in a darkened hotel room in the south of Spain when the sun was too hot to bear. It's funny how the things you need from a book step out of the pages. His discussions (mad though they were) on quality, hover around me as a writer and a teacher. If I thought I could name quality I'd point my finger at this poem. I find the duality in this poem really it's most interesting aspect: spring/fall, East/West, man/woman, cold/hot, earth/sky, journey/destination. The balance is achieved withot the feeling that it was forcced. There's that and the wonderful imagery. I'm a big fan of the compound adjective so my favorite image is of the leaves in their death-brillance. Nicely done. Thanks for the great read. Molly J
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-06-21 18:55:22
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Don: As with all your poetry, this one offers elegent sounds and rich images which which the reader may luxuriate. The gentle cadence allows a reader to linger with each thought; but it is the final lines of the poem which draw my most intense interest. What would you think of formatting the work in shorter lines? I found myself making 'natural pauses' at certain places as I read, and felt as if I might take the liberty of showing you how I sifted through these, my favorite lines. . .(with your kind indulgence) Of course you know how fickle a woman the moon is, her orb a granite breast ---what a fascinating thought - a breast of granite that yields no milk reclined across the sky. If you would listen to Phaedrus, you would hear the word of his testimony bleeding like stones draped in moonlight. The testimony of these lines is that all is changling/changeless. How alive these stones are, and how Phaedrus seems to step back in order to let his message be more prominent than his identity, lest we be distracted. You have said it, and I must say it here-- the phrasing is very Mary Oliveresque. I think of Stephen, the first martyr, who cried out crimson as stones laid down prostrate before the sky, whose gentle kiss raised him to paradise. This reminds me (forgive me for making comparisons) of Mary Oliver's "Yes!No!" This poem reflects the love-terror (at least for me) that is often found in her illuminating poetry. With this poem, as a reader I feel at a comfortable distance which allows me to observe. I enjoyed, especially, the sounds and images of "the leaves with their death-brilliance blow cold against the door." Thank you for this. Kudos, once more! All my best, Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-06-12 15:54:34
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Gosh, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintenance was a landmark book that I shared with my son when we had a series of discussions on ghosts of our own. I also enjoyed the Rilke quote. He is an old favorite. In China, I busied myself with Tang Dynasty poems writing no words to you [in English] for six months. Unless the non-receiver is not English speaking, wouldn’t the intended language of the correspondence be understood? I think the narrator is suggesting that the poems removed him from any thoughts in English at all – even perhaps thinking in a Western way – but that could be clearer unless I am reading it into the lines. Or did the writer send his loved one Chinese poems? Now leaves in their death-brilliance blow cold against the door. [what grand and rich phrasing!] I hear you calling from the sky—the face of God—you with your clouds carved in granite, This is an amazing image volcano bursts in suspension over Praetorian eyes.[powerful] I am digging my toes in the last green grass before spring, thankful for another chance to try and find what Phaedrus searched for in all his travels— something about pleasure in the journey, not the destination. Or... finding oneself firmly in the present I think- continually building the motorcycle of our “selves?” Something like that? You take steps which seek the dust shaken from the sandals of the apostles [you have a remarkable talent for making ideas come alive] while I read about the drunken state Li Bai sought before writing his elegant bambooed [great adjective here] verse. I can see him in his boat cursing at the moon whose cycle refuses to turn the tide or fit itself neatly into dynastic poetry. Really? I always thought it fit so nicely! Please explain this to me if you have time Of course you know how fickle a woman the moon is, her orb a granite breast reclined across the sky. If you would listen to Phaedrus, you would hear the word of his testimony bleeding like stones draped in moonlight. [wonderful] I think of Stephen, the first martyr, who cried out crimson as stones [aid down prostrate before the sky, whose gentle kiss raised him to paradise. As stones laid out crimson –were prostrated – or was it St. Steven? A little unclear to me and the last line is not as original and fraught with image as the rest of the piece. Splendid poem, Don Rachel
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2004-06-10 10:59:59
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Don, I think i get your point, but i'd quibble with the way it's put. I mean, "the idea that it is what you get out of the 'journey' rather than actually reaching your destination." Yeah, the journey is very, very important - you don't get to the destination without it. But the way you phrase it, it seems it allows a mulitplicity of different destinations, as if the destination were irrelevant. But I don't want to get into a philosophical or theological discussion on the poem. If you weren't a fellow Christian, i wouldn't have even mentioned it. I haven't read that book, so I can't appreciate the allusion. Gosh, i love that metaphor of the stones "laying down prostrate" before the sky. Even with their murderous intent, they aren't in control - there is something which overlooks even their destruction, something to which they prostrate themselves (albeit unknowingly), wonderfully concretized in the "gentle sky" that kisses Stephen to paradise. Grand, grand poem. One of the best i've read here, if not the. At least, I can't remember another that rivals it at the moment. Mark
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