Zhen Shan Ren Poem

Here's a more formal poem, also about Asia in a way, also generated by a writing contest. This one specified formal poetry for a collection, from which somebody would receive a cash prize, but the purpose of the collection was to be sent to the Chinese government on behalf of members of the Falun Gong whatever-it-is who claim to be facing religious persecution. So, a formal poem about the history of religious persecution seemed appropriate. Zhen, Shan, Ren sounded like terza rima in English... This poem wasn't written as comically Bad Poetry; it's serious, but "Bad Poetry" is the label this web site uses for verse by the writer known as Priscilla King and we're sticking to it.

I know very little about Falun Gong beyond what's posted on their web site; if members of the group are being prosecuted for something other than their stated teachings and practices, the world wants to know what that might be. Although this web site has no foreign policy, I think the Chinese government needs to know that it's being accused of religious persecution, and clear itself of those accusations in the Global Court of Public Opinion.

“Surrounded and outnumbered; how then can

God save me? Tell me, prophet,” said the king.

“Bow to the enemy as the common man

bows down to you,” the prophet said. “What? Fling

this prophet in the cesspit!” This being done,

the troops defined the forces in the ring

around them, and they fell before the sun

went down. The prophet suffered damp and cold

till, when a friend obtained consent to run

a rope down to him, his hands could not hold.

The enemy put the king to death in shame,

enslaved his people, melted down his gold.

The prophet lived, and honored is his name.

Some say his later prophecies foretell

a righteous man so wholly free from blame

his virtue saved the entire world from Hell.

Most said, “No mortal creature is so fine;

through some misdeed, alleged or real, he fell.

A perfect man would have to be divine,

and though our leaders are our gods’ own heirs,

perfection’s not found, even in their line.

This disagreement, tolerated, tears

away our leaders’ worship, which is wrong.”

Rejoicing in their freedom from all cares

the Christian Martyrs welcomed death with song

while Pagan Rome lost its collective mind

and crumbled from within, though ne’er so strong,

and the whole world rejoiced as Rome declined.

The Christian faith, like an imperial tree,

grew from the fame the martyrs’ death assigned,

but China, far away as land could be,

kept its own sense of duty to a Way

of truth past all that mortal eyes can see.

Once duty was to suffer pain, they say.

Now duty’s to keep bodies straight and strong

and fit for service, to their final day.

Even old bodies can do Falun Gong.

Grandchildren whose grandmothers’ feet were bound

stretch, flex, stand fit and tall: can this be wrong?

Grandparents, now, themselves, they rally round

the discipline of bodies well maintained.

They stretch with music, or dance without sound.

They seek to demonstrate they have attained

some right to be respected by young men.

What sort of government could have complained

that elders want to live and serve? Oh, Zhen,

Truthfulness! Tolerance! Compassion! Shan,

Where has the public spirit gone? Ah, Ren…

Amazon link? The resources of Amazon are astonishing. Here, although I'm not sure I'd recommend it if I'd read it, is a book about the imperial tree, also known as the Empress' tree, Princess' tree, Paulownia tree, or Paulownia tomentosa. Though native to Asia, it thrives in the Eastern States and is becoming a familiar "exotic" sight; some even worry about its becoming "invasive."