Puck Hee Lee

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Born in 1925, in Rangoon, Burma. Educated at the St. Paul's English Institution. Went to Calcutta, India in 1941. Graduated from a medical course with Diploma: Licentiate of the State Medical Faculty of Bengal. In Burma, early in his thirties, served as a Medical Officer for Kokang State. Later, in China, worked as a physician at the Outpatient Department of Taishan People's Hospital. In 1980, came as a legal immigrant to United States. In 1981 worked as a hospital aide at John J. Kane Hospital. Retired in 1990. Became a naturalized United States citizen in 1987.

On Kokang

Beneath those lofty Kokang peaks,
There is hardly any pleasure to seek.
Faint mule tracks are the only ways
To Kokang's heart by monotonous days.

By monsoon season ways turn to pools,
And skillful riders become fools,
Slipping down with thunderous sound.
When riders and horses fall asunder,
Legs and hands become broken members.

By day the Kunlong Valley bears great heat,
By night mosquitoes wander in great fleets.
But noisy and bright are market days,
When Shan belles don on colours light and gay.

The clumsy movement of stubborn mules
Adds much curiosity to one's view.
And petty merchants fat, big, and small,
All yelling beside wooden stalls.

Scaling down from the high hill crags,
Are the inhabitants in jet-blue black,
All carrying baskets and big brown sacks.
While swooping down, they look like clowns,
With animals making lugubrious sounds.

And not until dusk,
The vendors have finished their varied tasks.
By twilight all retire to the clouded hills,
Crossing the crooked paths and the soil they till:
All shivering with benumbing cold,
Except Tibetan visitors young and old -
Who still wave their ancient fans
To cool off the heat of the legs and hands
They sigh: "This heat spoils this wonderland!"
Another Tibetan is heard to cry,
"Friends, good and kind,
Buy my strong gallbladder wine
To set at naught your so-called cold,
Which to me is heat fierce and bold.
And my tiger-bone juice though low-priced in coins,
Is a magic healer for your swollen joints.
And my musk so precious and old,
I would not exchange save for gold,
For it can relieve suffering much untold."

At night many gather round,
To talk of heroes and battlegrounds,
Then a prince, in humorous tune,
Ask them how big is the moon.
One raises his hand very soon,
And says that it is no bigger than the pot,
With which he cooks his tasty broth.
Another says he is wrong,
And has said things with mind unsound.