Verses on Bird. Poems by Zhang Er

Who can write like this without sounding forced, or worse yet, corny? I can't believe the fluidity achieved in this writing. The images lead seamlessly into one another, forming a story and yet more stories within. I read and wonder how many levels of meaning I am missing. Plenty, doubtless. Zhang Er is a master of art. I would steal every element if I could.  I wish I could steal the mind that is the creation. I don't know if I have the ability in my soul to achieve writing like this...

What can be said here without my sounding childish and inept?

Something I would love to achieve in my own writing? The languid, slow movement of the words into images that mean more than meets the eye. I want to tell a story of life and art and embrace nature. And I want it to be poetry. I feel like Zhang Er reaches metaphysical heights using concrete images. I would like to be able to do that. I often falter and stay stuck in the concrete, never leaving the ground. In direct contrast Verses on Bird barely brushes the ground.

Elements of different art forms are woven in meticulously with poetry, nature, life...the length of the verses and sparsity of punctuation draw me in like a spring breeze bringing me into summer. She tells us how to paint, how to take a picture, how to write, how to see. And she fills her words with truths, and it is not all beauty, so it's real. Believable. Undeniable.

She writes, "One has to keep a certain distance to recognize things within a field of vision." It is precisely this distance I am lacking and I think it sometimes makes my writing feel forced. Zhang Er seems disciplined in her distance...which is promising because that means perhaps I can learn it.

There is a patience to her words, which is something else I can learn: (p27)

"Drizzling, or choosing words carefully in the rainy afternoon,
Yet through your orderly cool and fine details
I can see the sailless mast, erect and sliding down toward the river's mouth.
So I wait, wait for your silent display on the moonlit sea after the tide has drifted."

I rush. I hurry to get it all out, then I move on to the next thing. She sits with her subject, sits with her words, and waits patiently. I am like the adolescent while her maturity is evident in her writing.