Poems for John Darnielle: Song for Cleomenes

Today is big amalgamation of influences. First of all, this isn’t an original poem, this is a translation. It’s up to you how you interpret which parts of the work are my own, but this is a translation of one of my favorite “history poems” by Bertold Brecht about the creation of the Dao De Jing. This was a lot of fun and a lot of my interests really flow together in this little work (the Mountain Goats, German poetry of the left, daoism, translation, etc.). The meter feels quite unintuitive to write in in English, but it flows really well when its being read aloud. So I encourage you to do that, or maybe I’ll record my own version. I will also attach the original German poem in the footnotes. For a quick translation, without giving it time to rest and reviewing it properly, I’m quite happy about this. In keeping the strange rhyme scheme intact, I think I sacrifice some of the simple language of Brecht’s original that makes him such a people’s poet, although I don’t think it’s so bad as to be deviating from that goal.

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My music recommendation for today is Song for Cleomenes

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The Legend of the Daodejing’s Creation on Lao Tse’s Road to Hermitage¹

When he was seventy and old
the sage was pressed for quietude
for kindness in the land had once again been sold
and the malice had become acute.
He laced his boot.

And he packed all he would need:
Little. But some things he took under the sky:
the pipe, that he would on sundown heed
and the book, which he would always ply.
And bread by eye.

He enjoyed the valley once, then turned onto the mountain pass
and forgot the past, new paths under foot.
And his ox joyously partook of the fresh grass,
chewing as he carried the old coot
for he was in no hurry, and on the beast stayed put.

But on the fourth day in the boulders
a toll man stood square in his path:
“Goods to declare?” The geezer shrugged his shoulders
and the boy who led the oxen spoke: “He used to teach. A polymath.”
And that was that.

But the man in joyous feeling
asked: “And? What has he found?”
Spoke the boy: “That the water, soft and reeling
with time grinds the largest rock small and round.
You understand, the stronger cedes the ground.”

So not to lose the suns last shine
the lad drove the oxen forth.
And the three had all but gone behind a pine
when life befell our man of common birth
And he called: “Stop! You have wisdom to unearth!”

“What about this water? Tell me all you can!”
The sage had stopped: “You care?”
Spoke the guard: “I’m just a toll man
but who bests who is also my affair.
If you know, then share!”

“Write it down! Dictate to this lad!
Don’t take this wisdom to the grave.
At our home there is ink and paper to be had.
And a meal and bedding, if it’s rest you crave,
’tis not an offer you can lightly waive.”

Over his shoulder the old man saw:
the man wore no shoes, his clothes but rags
And the brow into heavy thought was drawn.
No. Of no victory could this man brag.
“You too?” he muttered quietly, and his body sagged.

To deny a polite request,
the sage was, it seemed, too old.
For he spoke: “To answer you, I think is best.
Who asks deserves an answer.” And the boy: “It’s getting cold.”
And they crossed the toll man’s threshold.

The guests behaved politely
and seven days the two of them wrote.
The man brought food (and only slightly
let his duties go afloat)
until they set the final quote.

And one day the boy did hand
the guard verses numbering eighty-one
And with thanks they did disband
and turned the bend on the path into the sun.
Tell me: What other way could it have been done?

But lets not honor just the sage
whose name’s emblazoned on the book!
One has to pull the wisdom to the page.
So thanks goes also to the mook²
Who from the sage the wisdom took.

Further Reading

• This Year – A Book of Days by John Darnielle

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