Sarah Schneewind
Sarah Schneewind holds degrees from Cornell University, Yale University, and Columbia University. She has published two books on the relations between state and society during the Ming era (1368-1644): Community Schools and the State in Ming China, which studies the local implementation of one central policy, and A Tale of Two Melons, which traces the way the first Ming emperor, his advisors, and others wrote about one small lucky omen, and what it meant at the local level. She has also edited a collection of essays on the creation and use of the image of the Ming founder through today, called Long Live the Emperor! She teaches Chinese history up to about 1850, and, in the lower-division survey, Japanese and Korean history through about 1200. She has been President of the Society for Ming Studies, and runs a website called "The Ming History English Translation Project." Her current major project is on shrines to living officials in Ming and what they show about popular involvement in the autocratic, bureaucratic Ming government. She is also interested in the long history of East-West sharing of ideas and things and the related historiography.
They said to me:
We keep our dead among us, buried in the fields.
We plough around their mounds;
noontimes, we lie in their shade, chatting.
The occasional spadeful keeps them with us.
In stubble days, goats climb their modest height.
Until in rain and forgetfulness,
a great-grandson's ox ploughs through,
and their bones return to ours.
And I replied:
I keep myself among my dead, their endtables and sofas.
I dust around their tchotchkes;
evenings, I lean against their cushions, chatting.
The occasional mending keeps them with me.
In troubled nights, ghosts strum my modest memories.
Until in a change of fashion's season
some great-granddaughter will plough through,
and donate all our love to charity.
Cumberland Poetry Review, vol. 17.1 (Fall 1997).
Second-place winner of Robert Penn Warren Poetry Competition
copyright Sarah Schneewind 1997
would leap,
I had thought,
faithfully onto my shoulder
and consecrate my ear
with wild imaginings in regulated verse.
Instead
it meanders down the driveway at a dignified distance
on careful paws
stopping now for a chew of blade,
now to doze in the shade of the barn
or it bleats indignantly,
butting against the fence
of my preoccupations
or shifts under my toes like the scant sand
or prods my feet sharply like the gravel
of this road
or, as it drives by,
waves politely from a beat-up pick-up
leaving me
in a shuffle of dust.
Cumberland Poetry Review 18.1 (Fall 1998)
copyright Sarah Schneewind 1998
Waiting for the grind of tires, barefoot,
not sure just where I ought to snip, or if,
his rose bushes long planted, long ignored,
I heard an unfamiliar cry and turned
to face the moon. It rose from ruddy clay,
uncanny, earthy, red, full, and so low
my shears could almost reach. Instead I found
the perfect angle for those clean smooth cuts,
goodbyes to last year's unseen crimson blooms.
I severed thorny brown from green to let
red growth replace the woman I had been.
The moon still loomed orange above the pines,
but faded, before he got home, to white.
He said that whippoorwill could whoop all night.
Cumberland Poetry Review 18.1 (Fall 1998)
copyright Sarah Schneewind 1998
Stalactites of honey; catacomb
of waxen hive where generous holy swarms
for centuries have worked in stony womb,
where fragrant humming air each morning warms
and melts for Cretan tongues the ancient stores
each one of us tastes of and never harms
as it seeps from mid-cliff through rocky pores.
So narrow-waisted bees, since Midas' day,
have sweetened this down-trodden people's chores.
A sailor, once, scoffed at our Cretan way,
scaled the hill, and rapelled down to take
a vessel full to sell.
Can insects pray?
The twisted cord became a hissing snake --
or so he shouted, fumbling with his sheath --
and swinging in air he slashed and fell, to break
in screams upon the flowering rock beneath.
Doge, Sultan, Führer: despoilers come
and leave. We live on what the gods bequeath.
Cumberland Poetry Review 18.1 (Fall 1998)
copyright Sarah Schneewind 1998