Sailing in a fragile paper boat, I rock once, then a second and third time,
Back, and ever forth on a stormy sea between two noble lands,
Between the harder land of my conscious, the Ying,
And the softer realm of my unconscious, the Yang.
I am the thought, the idea, the memory,
The synthesis of inner sense and outer perception, meanwhile,
I witness the sorry snake that swallows her tail,
And hisses at me like the morning kettle,
Bringing back into mind the sorry human state,
And the painful slipping and sliding of time,
Torentially, like the fragmented sound of raindrops striking the ground.
Carried by a salty, foamy wave I meet the folly chaos of the bedroom,
Where the items seem arranged as the pretty petals of a chrysanthemum,
Who calls to mind my muse, in her universal grace and serenity,
Her pretty face and delicate, tasteful vanity.
I had not realised at the time, when I was wakeful,
But the ever-shifting landscape of the powerful ocean told me such things,
In its ever-growing wisdom and experience it told me,
And will tell me again and again, and it holds me at its mercy right now,
As I write and feel and talk and assess the ideas within,
And as I perceive that which is before me I again wonder more,
Whether the shape of this poem is truly a form to behold,
Maybe bearing the jumpy form of a statistical graph,
Even a fateful polygraph, perhaps,
Or possibly like the speech of the wave.
What have I seen, that I do not know ?
That which brings me here to write, that which I can't control.
On the sea, I am weak,
Though I paddle I am meek, and meagre,
And the sail whisks me away in the storm,
And I am left, wondering, forever more.