Poem
Hsia Yü (Xia Yu)
The Ripest Rankest Juiciest Summer Ever
Summer sinks into the clock-face of the cat’s eyeSinks into chestnut colored limbs
A 17 franc basket of peaches
Day four and already summer has run from ripe to rank
All spring long we dined as if we had all the time in the world
Followed with interest the color, light and atmosphere
Observed the shadows of the grapevines advancing to this
Last evening of the postimpressionists
The dabs of light thicken on the hammock
Grow thin on the windblown curtain
Each stroke acquiring definition
Until the last stroke added bursts grape-skin
Must be August
Ripe for the Fauvists
Never again will mere light so delight us
And O how we weary of atmosphere
Our idle conversation spreads like vines in the arbor
In this ripest rankest juiciest summer ever
And O how we weary of style
Does style, after all, exist
So like the snow
Defiled at the merest touch
But while the snow does not exist
The hammock is more manifest than ever
More than an April iris or an aperitif at six
Although compared to soccer broadcast live hardly anything exists
Our guest, an enthusiast of “Old Cathay” asserts that in these fallen days
Only armed revolution presents so many tragic implications
And then there is soccer
O how we dine as if we had all the time in the world
Smoked salmon, crab and lobster
And will you look at the size of this oyster
If we could but find the proper outlet
To release our leftist tendencies
1906, Cezanne, caught in a storm, returns to his studio
Removes his hat and coat and collapses by the window
Taking stock of the table, its overturned basket of apples, he notices
The “appleness of the apples” and their shadows, the three skulls
The wardrobe, the pitcher, the crock
The half-opened drawer, the clock
It occurs to him proportion is hardly worth making a fuss about
He will not fret over whether the table is level or not
He closes his eyes and dies
His eyelids trace a line pointing straight to three o’clock
Still, there is something wanting in all this
Must be time for Matisse
© Translation: 2001, Steve Bradbury
From: Fusion Kitsch: Poems from the Chinese of Hsia Yü
Publisher: Zephyr Press, Brookline, Massachusetts, 2001
From: Fusion Kitsch: Poems from the Chinese of Hsia Yü
Publisher: Zephyr Press, Brookline, Massachusetts, 2001
THE RIPEST RANKEST JUICIEST SUMMER EVER
Poems
Poems of Hsia Yü (Xia Yu)
Close
The Ripest Rankest Juiciest Summer Ever
Summer sinks into the clock-face of the cat’s eyeSinks into chestnut colored limbs
A 17 franc basket of peaches
Day four and already summer has run from ripe to rank
All spring long we dined as if we had all the time in the world
Followed with interest the color, light and atmosphere
Observed the shadows of the grapevines advancing to this
Last evening of the postimpressionists
The dabs of light thicken on the hammock
Grow thin on the windblown curtain
Each stroke acquiring definition
Until the last stroke added bursts grape-skin
Must be August
Ripe for the Fauvists
Never again will mere light so delight us
And O how we weary of atmosphere
Our idle conversation spreads like vines in the arbor
In this ripest rankest juiciest summer ever
And O how we weary of style
Does style, after all, exist
So like the snow
Defiled at the merest touch
But while the snow does not exist
The hammock is more manifest than ever
More than an April iris or an aperitif at six
Although compared to soccer broadcast live hardly anything exists
Our guest, an enthusiast of “Old Cathay” asserts that in these fallen days
Only armed revolution presents so many tragic implications
And then there is soccer
O how we dine as if we had all the time in the world
Smoked salmon, crab and lobster
And will you look at the size of this oyster
If we could but find the proper outlet
To release our leftist tendencies
1906, Cezanne, caught in a storm, returns to his studio
Removes his hat and coat and collapses by the window
Taking stock of the table, its overturned basket of apples, he notices
The “appleness of the apples” and their shadows, the three skulls
The wardrobe, the pitcher, the crock
The half-opened drawer, the clock
It occurs to him proportion is hardly worth making a fuss about
He will not fret over whether the table is level or not
He closes his eyes and dies
His eyelids trace a line pointing straight to three o’clock
Still, there is something wanting in all this
Must be time for Matisse
© 2001, Steve Bradbury
From: Fusion Kitsch: Poems from the Chinese of Hsia Yü
Publisher: 2001, Zephyr Press, Brookline, Massachusetts
From: Fusion Kitsch: Poems from the Chinese of Hsia Yü
Publisher: 2001, Zephyr Press, Brookline, Massachusetts
The Ripest Rankest Juiciest Summer Ever
Summer sinks into the clock-face of the cat’s eyeSinks into chestnut colored limbs
A 17 franc basket of peaches
Day four and already summer has run from ripe to rank
All spring long we dined as if we had all the time in the world
Followed with interest the color, light and atmosphere
Observed the shadows of the grapevines advancing to this
Last evening of the postimpressionists
The dabs of light thicken on the hammock
Grow thin on the windblown curtain
Each stroke acquiring definition
Until the last stroke added bursts grape-skin
Must be August
Ripe for the Fauvists
Never again will mere light so delight us
And O how we weary of atmosphere
Our idle conversation spreads like vines in the arbor
In this ripest rankest juiciest summer ever
And O how we weary of style
Does style, after all, exist
So like the snow
Defiled at the merest touch
But while the snow does not exist
The hammock is more manifest than ever
More than an April iris or an aperitif at six
Although compared to soccer broadcast live hardly anything exists
Our guest, an enthusiast of “Old Cathay” asserts that in these fallen days
Only armed revolution presents so many tragic implications
And then there is soccer
O how we dine as if we had all the time in the world
Smoked salmon, crab and lobster
And will you look at the size of this oyster
If we could but find the proper outlet
To release our leftist tendencies
1906, Cezanne, caught in a storm, returns to his studio
Removes his hat and coat and collapses by the window
Taking stock of the table, its overturned basket of apples, he notices
The “appleness of the apples” and their shadows, the three skulls
The wardrobe, the pitcher, the crock
The half-opened drawer, the clock
It occurs to him proportion is hardly worth making a fuss about
He will not fret over whether the table is level or not
He closes his eyes and dies
His eyelids trace a line pointing straight to three o’clock
Still, there is something wanting in all this
Must be time for Matisse
© 2001, Steve Bradbury
From: Fusion Kitsch: Poems from the Chinese of Hsia Yü
Publisher: 2001, Zephyr Press, Brookline, Massachusetts
From: Fusion Kitsch: Poems from the Chinese of Hsia Yü
Publisher: 2001, Zephyr Press, Brookline, Massachusetts
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