Starve The Poets (By Yi Sha)

by Yi Sha (translated by Denis Mair) As easy as you please, again You start to talk of farming Of proper tillage, and dripping sweat Like rain in the march of seasons, Until the wheat bears harvest. Do you think the kernels are yours, From the tears you shed for women? Does the wheat-awn seem as tender As whiskers against your cheek? That year you crowded the road with your wanderings; The wheat plants in the North grew on their own Then danced to curve on curve Of scythes in the sun, Severing stalks, their own necks, Severing last ties to the land, Letting you be yourselves. The poets have eaten their fill, A wheat field stretching out of sight Exudes a rich scent in their bellies. The city's consummate idlers Are blue-ribbon farmers of poetry. In the name of sun and rain I raise this cry, wheat plants: Starve them, The damned poets! But first of all starve me: Polluter with ink-stained fingers, I play my part Planting my bastardly strain in the field of art