Poem of the Month April 2002
		Song of an Arrowhead from the Battlefield of Chang-ping by Li He (A.D. 719-817), translated from the Chinese by Stephen Owen Char of lacquer, powder of bone,      pebble of cinnabar: in the chill gloom the ancient blood      blooms flowers in the bronze. The white feather and gilt shaft      have gone in the rains, And all that remains is this      three-spined, broken wolf's fang. I went searching over the level plain,      driving my two-horse team, through the stony fields east of the station      by the foot of a weed-grown slope; Daylight shortened, the wind was steady,      stars hung in its moaning, black banners of cloud were draped soaking      in the empty night sky. To my right and left their wraiths      cried out, starving, lean: I poured a jug of cream in libation,      took a lamb to roast. Insects settled, the geese flew sick,      the sprouts of reeds turned red, and spiraling gusts sent the traveler on his way,      blowing their shadowy fires. Seeker of the past, tears streaming,      I reaped this snapped barb, whose broken point and red-brown cracks      once cut through flesh. On a southern lane in the capital's eastern ward      a boy on horseback tried to get me to trade the metal      for an offering basket.
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