My creative outbursts are always in overdrive during exams. I had a great many things to write about over the last two weeks, but such urges were quashed as I chained myself to my laptop in order to write my thesis and study mundane things like Stochastic Analysis. Now that everything is finished and done (forever!) I feel my brain shrivel up like a prune.
Last week, the Mallavian Whiz told me about his favourite poem. He sent it to me, possibly hoping I could derive some inspiration from it during the exams. No such luck. I was as lacking in inspiration to write my thesis as ever. Frankly, as far as the thesis was concerned, there was no better inspiration than mugs of coffee without any sleep for several nights.
I could not draw any inspiration from the MW’s favourite poem because it was in Chinese and written hundreds of years ago. My modern Chinese tongue is lacking in proficiency at the best of times (dare I remind you about the Olympic diver episode?), so the cryptic limericks of dynasties from yesteryears sent me into a spin.
I asked the wise Pixie for help to decode the poem. O wise Pixie, at least she can read the gossip columns in the Chinese papers without confusion.
Alas, Pixie had much more fun poking fun at my current supposedly ambiguous friendship than being of any help. She emailed back with the following interpretation:
“See that last word on the first line? It’s another word for the robes scholars used to wear,” Dad pointed out.
“I’m not too sure about that word in the last line,” Mum contributed. “I have never seen it in my life.”
Before any progress was made in Ancient Chinese Poetry Appreciation 101, my kind parents morphed into the overly concerned parents of only child; they questioned my sudden interest in own culture after years of perceived denial.
“Why is this young man writing you poems?” Mum asked, but obviously thinking, how long have you known this young man? Should we be worried about possible grandchildren?
“He didn’t write it. It’s a poem from the Tang dynasty.” Dad smugly said, but obviously thinking, bloody fool couldn’t come up with anything original.
“What sort of person is he?” Mum continued with her questions, but obviously wanting to know, is he good enough for my baby girl?
“How did you meet this boy?” Dad asked, but obviously implying, I hope you didn’t meet him at that club you went to last Saturday night.
Bugger. Why could it have been Browning, Plath, or Madonna? I would have been able to tear through the metaphors and alliterations with greater competence and without assistance coupled with interrogation.
Last week, the Mallavian Whiz told me about his favourite poem. He sent it to me, possibly hoping I could derive some inspiration from it during the exams. No such luck. I was as lacking in inspiration to write my thesis as ever. Frankly, as far as the thesis was concerned, there was no better inspiration than mugs of coffee without any sleep for several nights.
I could not draw any inspiration from the MW’s favourite poem because it was in Chinese and written hundreds of years ago. My modern Chinese tongue is lacking in proficiency at the best of times (dare I remind you about the Olympic diver episode?), so the cryptic limericks of dynasties from yesteryears sent me into a spin.
I asked the wise Pixie for help to decode the poem. O wise Pixie, at least she can read the gossip columns in the Chinese papers without confusion.
Alas, Pixie had much more fun poking fun at my current supposedly ambiguous friendship than being of any help. She emailed back with the following interpretation:
Blue blue is thy robe,I decided to have a second opinion. What better people to ask than my own kind parents? So after dinner one night last week, we gathered around the dining room table for Ancient Chinese Poetry Appreciation 101.
Weary is my heart.
Obstacles on thy path,
When shall I dance to the music?
“See that last word on the first line? It’s another word for the robes scholars used to wear,” Dad pointed out.
“I’m not too sure about that word in the last line,” Mum contributed. “I have never seen it in my life.”
Before any progress was made in Ancient Chinese Poetry Appreciation 101, my kind parents morphed into the overly concerned parents of only child; they questioned my sudden interest in own culture after years of perceived denial.
“Why is this young man writing you poems?” Mum asked, but obviously thinking, how long have you known this young man? Should we be worried about possible grandchildren?
“He didn’t write it. It’s a poem from the Tang dynasty.” Dad smugly said, but obviously thinking, bloody fool couldn’t come up with anything original.
“What sort of person is he?” Mum continued with her questions, but obviously wanting to know, is he good enough for my baby girl?
“How did you meet this boy?” Dad asked, but obviously implying, I hope you didn’t meet him at that club you went to last Saturday night.
Bugger. Why could it have been Browning, Plath, or Madonna? I would have been able to tear through the metaphors and alliterations with greater competence and without assistance coupled with interrogation.
Post a Comment