all that is not gold

HYMNUS AD PATREM SINENSIS

I praise those ancient Chinamen
Who left me a few words,
Usually a pointless joke or a silly
     question
A line of poetry drunkenly scrawled
     on the margin of a quick
                    splashed picture—bug, leaf,
                    caricature of Teacher
on paper held together now by little
     more than ink
& their own strength brushed 
     momentarily over it

Their world and several others since
Gone to hell in a handbasket, they
      knew it—
Cheered as it whizzed by—
& conked out among the busted
      spring rain cherryblossom
      winejars
Happy to have saved us all.

                                Philip Whelan

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