Paper Scissors Stone

Four Treasures of the Scholar’s Studio

51 Four Treasures of the Scholar’s Studio ‘The Emperor Ai of Han was sleeping in the daytime with Dong Xian stretched out across his sleeve. When the emperor wanted to get up, Dong Xian was still asleep. Because he did not want to disturb him, the emperor cut off his own sleeve and got up.’ –‘Passions of the Cut Sleeve’, Records of the Grand Historian I In the nick of time you hand over the bow tear off your sleeve hold me in a blindfold Close your eyes my dear as if you were looking at the past through a glass mountain Your fingertips spine-head and the shaft of the arrow between our hands a stir in the shrub Now you whisper and I release my breath the two of us here disembodied reduced to the enlarged pupils of our eyes the smell of the mist rises the path downhill swerves my thought says you will be gone in two days and I will soften the hare’s purple hair in its blood wind-dry it overnight and bind it with silk paint with lacquer marry with a handle of the best bamboo in the land so next time you write the brush will be keen as a knife and in time I will decipher the true meaning of your characters 52 II Not far out of earshot the season of felling pines in the hillside arrived in the courtyard each strike a throb my heart lingered behind the screen and you came closer undressed all false pretences gone in an instant the pines turned into soot mixed with gold cinnabar the ink stick hidden in my sleeve the brush I took to wash in the pond where I practised your words move of your wrist each stroke on water stained my mind pondered another eye shone through a mirror Now three months later in pure coincidence you turn to me and ask why the lotus has grown so dark I am a pool of frozen water a black froglet dives into the shade 53 III on the third night our eyes met on the spur of the moment deep frost clutched the roof tiles room within room lanterns flickering Lock the door behind you said and slipped the ink stone into the collar against my chest sparks went down my spine and your sleeve held across my lips whispering Stay there the smell of candles far from home the warm stone in your palm the ink stick in my hand our tears sour as snowdrops All these you said form the base of good ink All I saw was the muddy shale a brush of thick clouds was all I thought I saw 54 IV In a split second your handwriting sinks out of sight my sleeve lingers at your desk the brush sits inkless on the stone I sit in the chair you always sit in reading your letter word by word a boat on a soft tide will return in two days the snow will fall and what came across that spring in the most literal sense of the word Now this winter a fire a foot away opens the ground and takes hold of the dry leaves while in your own hand each character burns through the paper sinks out of sight second by second in that first split second ...