On the Poetry of Bruce Lee

Over at The Rumpus, Dave Landsberger wrote a fascinating feature on Bruce Lee. That is, on his work as a poet and translator. The poems referenced, among others, can be found in Bruce Lee: Artist of Life by John Little.

Let's get to it! Landsberger breaks his feature into three parts: Bruce Lee "The Student", "The Master" and "The Man". We'll look at a sample from each part.

I

Bruce Lee was an accomplished poet who not only wrote his own work but translated the work of others. He was a man who took poetry so seriously that he even wrote an entire movie script (with the aid of Sterling Silliphant, the screenwriter of the Oscar winning In the Heat of the Night) based off of a poem that he composed. This poem, “The Silent Flute”, was even written into the titular script, set to be delivered as a final monologue for the hero, Cord (originally set to be played by James Coburn, one of Lee’s famous Hollywood students). It concludes:

Now I see that I will never find the light
Unless, like the candle, I am my own fuel,
Consuming myself.

II

There are lessons upon lessons to be found in the work of Lee’s poetry, lessons that I, as a poet, often find lacking in many, many poets. Poetry often inspires other poetry, but at its best it does not create production out of jealousy or competition, it creates knowledge. One of Bruce Lee’s greatest lessons in his own martial art, Jeet Kune Do, is that of self actualization vs. self-image actualization. The core of this is simple: spend your energy creating yourself, not creating yourself as you wish to be seen. Don’t fake it before you make it. Make it. Too often as poets we are obsessed with our soft-lit profile photos and the ideas that our lives have to be quirky, complicated, and different than “the normals”. We must backpack in some other country! Why? For poetry! I have a gajillion lovers! I am a poet! What’s wrong with a poet who eats at Pizza Hut buffet and likes poetry a lot? What’s wrong with a poet who loves one woman his entire life? What’s wrong with poetry?

III

There’s a photo of Bruce Lee I’ve always found to be so sensitive that when I see it that I feel invasive. Lee and his wife, Linda Lee Caldwell, are sitting in front of their grated fireplace. It’s black and white. Lee’s legs are stretched out in black shorts, Linda’s curled under herself in velour capris, they are at least 15 feet away from the camera. Linda’s hair is bouffant, she’s wearing a floral pattern that looks like it was duplicated on the easy chairs of the day. Fireplace poker, Buddha on the mantle, a furniture box television off in shade to the right. The lovers are off center. A stamped, addressed letter is sheathed in an intricate weaved iron piece at the end of the mantle. The carpet is imperfect; it looks like waves from a helicopter. The young couple is smiling, both very faintly.

They are butterflies.

Linda said that Bruce recited poetry to her often. She can even recite them from memory. From his poem, “Since You Left”

My boat glides down the tranquil river,
Beyond the orchard which borders the bank.

I leave you my poems.
Read them.

Read the entire piece here.