Poems of Meng Jiao
North of Li River, autumn sky clears
Last night's rain still here at dawn.
Bleak outside, with rushing water.
Lingering star makes me feel young,
Its light shining into my autumn darkness.
I've long known I was half messed-up,
My mind often contrary to reason.
Can't drink my fill without fear of getting drunk --
A timid official, pious like a schoolboy.
Distinguished guests have their fancy places.
Down here, there's a tattered old shack by the cliff.
I bow profoundly to all living creatures.
It's my own fault, not theirs, it's so hard to fit in.
That's a pretty wonderful poem. A self-revelation of self-doubt. Most poets don't live long enough to write a poem like this. And most who do, can't. You have to survive the darkness of your later fifties in order to come back out into the light. All that growing up you tried to do, you have to let go of it and be yourself again. Or that grown-up will kill you.