Programme Note

Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles is a six-minute piece for narrator, flute, viola and harp based on the poem of the same title by American poet Billy Collins (the U.S. Poet Laureate 2001-03). As a composer, this piece is my musical reaction to the poem, which inspired me with its sparse, imagistic words and dry sense of humor. Like many other Collins’ poems, Reading an Anthology… also carries a great sense of delicacy and tenderness, and I cannot think of a better instrumentation than the combination of flute, viola and harp to present such qualities. The work was commissioned by Music in the Loft, Chicago’s chamber music series. It is part of The Billy Collins Suite.
—Zhou Tian

TEXT

Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of The Sung Dynasty, I Pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles
Billy Collins

It seems these poets have nothing
up their ample sleeves
they turn over so many cards so early,
telling us before the first line
whether it is wet or dry,
night or day, the season the man is standing in,
even how much he has had to drink.

Maybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow.
Maybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name.

“Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune
on a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Sun Tung Po’s.
“Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea”
is another one, or just
“On a Boat, Awake at Night.”

And Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with
“In a Boat on a Summer Evening
I Heard the Cry of a Waterbird.
It Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying
My Woman Is Cruel–Moved, I Wrote This Poem.”

There is no iron turnstile to push against here
as with headings like “Vortex on a String,”
“The Horn of Neurosis,” or whatever.
No confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over.

Instead, “I Walk Out on a Summer Morning
to the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall”
is a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders.

And “Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors”
is a servant who shows me into the room
where a poet with a thin beard

is sitting on a mat with a jug of wine
whispering something about clouds and cold wind,
about sickness and the loss of friends.

How easy he has made it for me to enter here,
to sit down in a corner,
cross my legs like his, and listen.