cyaluminus

I just wrote an analysis of this poem (two pages, single-spaced) in an hour. Normally I shy away from literary analysis. I think that in doing such analyses we tend to divorce ourselves from the realities and the intent in a work.

Ten stanzas on the autumn rain (one of ten)
Yang Wanli (1127-1206CE)

I was sick of hearing the rain drip
from the beech beside the well,
I got up to see the drizzling sky
everywhere in my gaze.
The eastern hills lay stretched out
for thirty miles:
Beyond a curtain of pearls
an azure screen.


But I'm proud of how I analyzed this. I took it apart, put it back together, and in so doing found meaning. It's the nature of the genre, of course. The poet intended for the reader to puzzle, to parse and reparse.

I am reminded of how I used to (okay, I still do) tinker with everything I came across. What is it? What does it do? How does it do it? Why is this bit here? I took apart every toy I ever had, and put them all back together, once I knew what was happening inside them.

Perhaps this is the way I deal with people. It may be that this is why I bore so easily. People tend to consist of a single puzzle that is repeated over and over, a fractal mechanism. That's a point to ponder.

/i/I'm never gonna be the one for you.
I'm never gonna save the world for you.

They'll never be good to you, bad to you
They'll never be anything, anything at all/i/