Saturday, February 29, 2020
THE DELICIOUS
The delicious
elision of
love-making.
Wet clay
on the potter's
wheel. What
the hands do
until the fire
is ready.
I HAVE LIVED
Friday, February 28, 2020
HOLINESS
Holiness
without poetry
is empty.
The God
who forbids
singing is
a monster.
Without our
dancing you
couldn't tell us
from animals.
If they ask
you to pray,
kiss them, kiss
them hard.
Let that be
the wisdom
you leave.
EVERYTHING / IS
Thursday, February 27, 2020
OF THE WIND
One should not
speak
to the wind
of the wind
for the wind
gets confused
thinking of
itself.
This is when
storms occur.
SO MUCH
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
HAWK WITH
LIGHT/HAWK
Tuesday, February 25, 2020
IN THE / DESERT
FRAG-
Monday, February 24, 2020
DO NOT LISTEN
IS IT
Sunday, February 23, 2020
FAMILY ALBUM
If the old
photographs
did not fade
how would we
know that when
the dead are
dead they are
gone from us.
Saturday, February 22, 2020
A MOURNING DOVE
Friday, February 21, 2020
WE ARE
bandits
of morning,
raiders
of dawn,
poets
of hope.
We face
the sun
like hawks,
waiting,
and for
prayer
we count
our blessings.
AFTER THE CHINESE MASTERS
AFTER LIU TSUNG-YUAN'S
"RIVER SNOW"
All these mountains
and no birds.
All the trails
and no one on them.
Here, an old man --
hat and raincoat, boat --
fishing the cold river
in snow, alone.
~
AFTER RWAN JI'S
"SPRING FEELINGS"
I'm sleepless
tonight. I rise
and play my guitar.
I can see the moon
through the curtains
and breeze rustles
my clothes. Somewhere
a lone goose calls.
Birds cry out
in the dark woods.
Then I'm pacing,
wondering what
do I want
alone here with
my wounded heart.
~
AFTER BAI JUYI'S
"NIGHT SNOW"
I am surprised
by how cold
my pillow
and covers
are, and by
brightness at
the window.
Tonight's snow
is heavy
and sometimes
I can hear
the hard crack
of trees out
there snapping.
~
AFTER BAI JUYI'S
"SPRING SLEEP"
Soft pillow, warm covers,
he's still in bed.
The sun is at the door,
the curtains not yet open.
A green taste in the air.
Spring comes even
while you're sleeping.
~
AFTER BAI JUYI'S
"ON THE LAKE (1)"
Two monks sit
playing chess
on the mountain.
The shadow
of a tree
marks their board.
Neither monk
notices.
Sometimes you
can hear them
make their moves.
~
"RIVER SNOW"
All these mountains
and no birds.
All the trails
and no one on them.
Here, an old man --
hat and raincoat, boat --
fishing the cold river
in snow, alone.
~
AFTER RWAN JI'S
"SPRING FEELINGS"
I'm sleepless
tonight. I rise
and play my guitar.
I can see the moon
through the curtains
and breeze rustles
my clothes. Somewhere
a lone goose calls.
Birds cry out
in the dark woods.
Then I'm pacing,
wondering what
do I want
alone here with
my wounded heart.
~
AFTER BAI JUYI'S
"NIGHT SNOW"
I am surprised
by how cold
my pillow
and covers
are, and by
brightness at
the window.
Tonight's snow
is heavy
and sometimes
I can hear
the hard crack
of trees out
there snapping.
~
AFTER BAI JUYI'S
"SPRING SLEEP"
Soft pillow, warm covers,
he's still in bed.
The sun is at the door,
the curtains not yet open.
A green taste in the air.
Spring comes even
while you're sleeping.
~
AFTER BAI JUYI'S
"ON THE LAKE (1)"
Two monks sit
playing chess
on the mountain.
The shadow
of a tree
marks their board.
Neither monk
notices.
Sometimes you
can hear them
make their moves.
~
Thursday, February 20, 2020
FARM BOY AT SUNSET
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
IS IT ENOUGH
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
THE CRANES HAVE
VIEW FROM SOUTH MOUNTAIN
From the top of
South Mountain
I see
North Mountain
and everything
between,
the city,
the desert,
the cactus,
dust the color
of blossoms.
Monday, February 17, 2020
BLACK-BLADED
AFTER THE CHINESE MASTERS
AFTER LI CHING-JAU'S
"TUNE: SPRING IN WU-LING"
The wind has stopped.
The dust is pungent.
The flowers are gone.
Evening comes.
I comb my tired hair.
His things remain
but he is gone.
His life is over.
I want to speak, I try,
the tears come rushing.
I hear spring is lovely
still at Double Creek
and I like to go there,
sailing, but I fear
the tiny boats they have
won't carry my sorrow.
~
AFTER SOME LINES
BY GAU SHR FROM "HEARING
JANG LI-BEN'S DAUGHTER SING"
She is alone
in the courtyard
enjoying the night.
With a jade hairpin
she taps the beat
on a tree trunk
and -- high and clear --
she sings her song:
"The moon is like frost."
~
AFTER BAI JYU-YI'S
"AN INVITATION TO
MY FRIEND LYOU"
Green scum on
the new wine.
A red clay
warming pot.
Evening comes,
snow with it.
Won't you drink
a cup with me?
~
AFTER SOME LINES
BY CHYEN CHI
FROM "SEEING OFF
A MONK RETURNING
TO JAPAN"
The moon
on the water
understands
the stillness
of Zen. Even
the fish can
hear your prayers.
Old friend,
I will cherish
your wisdom
across the ten
thousand miles
between us.
~
AFTER BAI JYU-YI'S
"NIGHT RAIN"
A late cricket
chirps and pauses.
The lamp
sputters and flares.
I know it's raining
outside the window.
I heard it first
among the trees.
~
"TUNE: SPRING IN WU-LING"
The wind has stopped.
The dust is pungent.
The flowers are gone.
Evening comes.
I comb my tired hair.
His things remain
but he is gone.
His life is over.
I want to speak, I try,
the tears come rushing.
I hear spring is lovely
still at Double Creek
and I like to go there,
sailing, but I fear
the tiny boats they have
won't carry my sorrow.
~
AFTER SOME LINES
BY GAU SHR FROM "HEARING
JANG LI-BEN'S DAUGHTER SING"
She is alone
in the courtyard
enjoying the night.
With a jade hairpin
she taps the beat
on a tree trunk
and -- high and clear --
she sings her song:
"The moon is like frost."
~
AFTER BAI JYU-YI'S
"AN INVITATION TO
MY FRIEND LYOU"
Green scum on
the new wine.
A red clay
warming pot.
Evening comes,
snow with it.
Won't you drink
a cup with me?
~
AFTER SOME LINES
BY CHYEN CHI
FROM "SEEING OFF
A MONK RETURNING
TO JAPAN"
The moon
on the water
understands
the stillness
of Zen. Even
the fish can
hear your prayers.
Old friend,
I will cherish
your wisdom
across the ten
thousand miles
between us.
~
AFTER BAI JYU-YI'S
"NIGHT RAIN"
A late cricket
chirps and pauses.
The lamp
sputters and flares.
I know it's raining
outside the window.
I heard it first
among the trees.
~
SHUDDER
Sunday, February 16, 2020
A FALLEN LEAF
FOR POETS, PRIZES
Saturday, February 15, 2020
DO NOT
IF I SPOKE
If I spoke
with stones
in my mouth
would I be
any less
the poet?
You heart will
know the truth
you hear.
Friday, February 14, 2020
CURL-TAILED
Curl-tailed
squirrel
in the autumn-
colored
tree. He
doesn't
know what
he is
emblem
of, and
doesn't
care.
AFTER THE CHINESE MASTERS
AFTER WANG WEI'S
"WEI CITY SONG"
Morning rain
lays the dust.
The willows
at the inn
are fresh, green.
Have another
cup of wine
with me, yes?
West of here
you won't have
such good friends.
~
AFTER LI PO'S
"SPRING LONGING"
There where you are
the northern grasses must
be bright, green threads.
Here the mulberry trees
hang heavy with spring.
Husband, come home.
The randy wind is
stirring the curtains
around my bed.
~
AFTER LADY NIGHT'S
"SONG OF AUTUMN"
She opens the window,
lets in the moonlight,
puts out the candle,
takes off her dress.
She climbs into bed,
smiling, and adjusts
her body. It is more
fragrant than orchids.
~
AFTER YAU YWE-HAW'S
"HE DOES NOT COME"
I have waited
and waited for him,
candles lit,
the wine cups full.
I've gone out to watch
and come back in.
The sky has already
started to brighten.
The moon is going down,
the stars are disappearing,
and still I wait.
He does not come.
Now I hear a magpie
beating its wings among
the willows and stealing
my happiness away.
~
AFTER THREE LINES
BY LI CHING-JAU
FROM "TUNE: TIPSY IN
THE FLOWERS' SHADE"
Don't say my soul
is not weary.
As curtains fade
in light and wind,
I'm a wilting
chrysanthemum.
~
"WEI CITY SONG"
Morning rain
lays the dust.
The willows
at the inn
are fresh, green.
Have another
cup of wine
with me, yes?
West of here
you won't have
such good friends.
~
AFTER LI PO'S
"SPRING LONGING"
There where you are
the northern grasses must
be bright, green threads.
Here the mulberry trees
hang heavy with spring.
Husband, come home.
The randy wind is
stirring the curtains
around my bed.
~
AFTER LADY NIGHT'S
"SONG OF AUTUMN"
She opens the window,
lets in the moonlight,
puts out the candle,
takes off her dress.
She climbs into bed,
smiling, and adjusts
her body. It is more
fragrant than orchids.
~
AFTER YAU YWE-HAW'S
"HE DOES NOT COME"
I have waited
and waited for him,
candles lit,
the wine cups full.
I've gone out to watch
and come back in.
The sky has already
started to brighten.
The moon is going down,
the stars are disappearing,
and still I wait.
He does not come.
Now I hear a magpie
beating its wings among
the willows and stealing
my happiness away.
~
AFTER THREE LINES
BY LI CHING-JAU
FROM "TUNE: TIPSY IN
THE FLOWERS' SHADE"
Don't say my soul
is not weary.
As curtains fade
in light and wind,
I'm a wilting
chrysanthemum.
~
NIGHT IS
Thursday, February 13, 2020
NOTHING IS
THIS HERMITAGE
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
I MUST SPEND
I must spend
more time
standing in
wind learning
to fly like
sky, grasses,
leaves, learning
to let go,
to go.
I could stand
in sun, or
shadow,
either -- it
won't matter --
for when
I finally
flee this
body there
will be light
on the
other side,
and darkness,
and there will
be plenty
of flying
to keep pace
with that great
ache of stars.
NOT THE BIRD
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
SHOULD WE CONVERSE
Should we converse
for more than
an hour
the way they
did, those whales
I listened to,
two adults and
a youngster,
giving call and
response, call
and response,
the young one
almost purring,
as if to say,
Do not go so far
I cannot follow.
POET'S DILEMMA
Monday, February 10, 2020
THE TREES ARE
The trees are
teaching the wind
what it means
to love the earth.
The wind is
teaching the trees
what it means
to be sky.
The earth does not
teach anything.
It has trees and sky
and the dirt it needs.
AFTER THE CHINESE MASTERS
AFTER SOME LINES
FROM CHOU PANG-YEN'S
"TUNE: PRINCE LAN-LING"
We stand
on the bridge
under the moon
listening
to flutes.
The past
is a dream
with tears.
~
AFTER KUAN HAN-CH'ING'S
"TUNE: VAST VIRTUE"
Wind is what wind is
and rain is rain.
No one sleeps.
Sadness is an old shirt
and rain is sorrow.
Cicadas and crickets
have gone quiet.
There's nothing here
now but rain,
beating the leaves.
~
AFTER MA CHIH-YUAN'S
"TUNE: SONG OF CLEAR RIVER"
The moon is low.
The woodcutter rises.
An old fisherman
stops for a visit.
One puts aside
his axe, the other
leaves his boat.
So much depends
on where they sit.
~
AFTER WANG WEI'S
"ANSWER TO VICE-PREFECT CHANG"
In my last years
I want only
quiet. Your business
is none of mine.
I have no plans
but staying home,
listening to wind
fill the pines,
loosening my belt,
and playing
my guitar beneath
the mountain moon.
You ask my advice.
I say: sing like
a fisherman.
~
AFTER WANG CHANG-LING'S
"BORDER SONG"
My horse drinks
crossing the river,
the water cold,
wind like a knife.
The sun is setting
beyond these sands.
Once there were
high-spirited battles
where the Long Wall
begins here. Now
only yellow dust
remains, and --
among some weeds --
naked bones.
~
FROM CHOU PANG-YEN'S
"TUNE: PRINCE LAN-LING"
We stand
on the bridge
under the moon
listening
to flutes.
The past
is a dream
with tears.
~
AFTER KUAN HAN-CH'ING'S
"TUNE: VAST VIRTUE"
Wind is what wind is
and rain is rain.
No one sleeps.
Sadness is an old shirt
and rain is sorrow.
Cicadas and crickets
have gone quiet.
There's nothing here
now but rain,
beating the leaves.
~
AFTER MA CHIH-YUAN'S
"TUNE: SONG OF CLEAR RIVER"
The moon is low.
The woodcutter rises.
An old fisherman
stops for a visit.
One puts aside
his axe, the other
leaves his boat.
So much depends
on where they sit.
~
AFTER WANG WEI'S
"ANSWER TO VICE-PREFECT CHANG"
In my last years
I want only
quiet. Your business
is none of mine.
I have no plans
but staying home,
listening to wind
fill the pines,
loosening my belt,
and playing
my guitar beneath
the mountain moon.
You ask my advice.
I say: sing like
a fisherman.
~
AFTER WANG CHANG-LING'S
"BORDER SONG"
My horse drinks
crossing the river,
the water cold,
wind like a knife.
The sun is setting
beyond these sands.
Once there were
high-spirited battles
where the Long Wall
begins here. Now
only yellow dust
remains, and --
among some weeds --
naked bones.
~
SOLITUDE
Sunday, February 09, 2020
LONELINESS OF THE POET
It is deeper
than a river,
running near
rough mountains,
the immense
loneliness
of the poet.
Solitude is
where the soul
sings its own
song, finally.
You must want
it, or else
a black wind
comes and hides
the distance from
where you are
to where you are.
THERE ARE NO / WORDS
There are no
words for saying
nothing, so
why do I
try and keep
trying?
The stillness
doesn't stop
singing.
Saturday, February 08, 2020
BARK OF THE TREE
Bark of the tree,
a ragged pine,
the aged face of
one of your own.
You turn away,
thinking the world
does not need
such cross-species
love. Then you turn
back, knowing
we can't live
without it.
A SILENCE
A silence
late at night.
You try to
write a poem
to charge the
darkness with
furious light.
A train in
the distance
promises
another
dawn. At this
hour you take
what you get,
any sound
which pleases.
More than that
is wasted.
Friday, February 07, 2020
IN THIS LINE
In this line, only the thing
doing what the thing does.
In this line, another thing
also doing what it does.
These things are not alike
and yet are not so different.
If we wait, patient, we might
hear them resonate. You can't
prove this by commanding
proof. Proof is a false kind
of solace in any case.
You simply wait. You listen.
You look at what is. You see
the largeness about it, which
is where the poetry is.
AFTER THE CHINESE MASTERS
AFTER LU YOU'S
"I WANT TO GO OUT
BUT IT'S RAINING"
An east wind
blows rain, enough
to bother
the wanderer.
The whole road's
a mess, mud
where there
had been dust.
The flowers
and willows
are sleepy-
eyed. Spring
itself seems
sluggish.
And -- who knew --
your poet
is even
more lazy.
~
AFTER WANG WEI'S
"BAMBOO GROVE"
I sit here alone
among the dark trees,
strumming my guitar,
singing. The forest
is deep and no one
can hear me. The moon
is my only friend.
~
AFTER WEI YING-WU'S
"AUTUMN NIGHT:
A LETTER SENT TO CH'IU"
Autumn and night.
I am thinking
of you. I am
walking, speaking
to stars. In the
empty mountains
pine cones fall. Am
I the only
one still awake?
~
AFTER LI PO"S
"HEARING THE FLUTE
IN THE CITY OF LOYANG
IN A SPRING NIGHT"
Whose jade flute
sings in darkness
riding spring wind
across the city?
Hearing that tune
who would not
long for home?
~
AFTER LI YU'S
"THE BEAUTIFUL LADY YU"
Spring flowers,
an autumn moon.
Where does it end?
What do we know?
Last night again
an east wind
under bright moon.
I couldn't bear
to think of home,
house still lovely,
the people old now.
How much sorrow
can we carry?
Life is a river
flowing away.
~
"I WANT TO GO OUT
BUT IT'S RAINING"
An east wind
blows rain, enough
to bother
the wanderer.
The whole road's
a mess, mud
where there
had been dust.
The flowers
and willows
are sleepy-
eyed. Spring
itself seems
sluggish.
And -- who knew --
your poet
is even
more lazy.
~
AFTER WANG WEI'S
"BAMBOO GROVE"
I sit here alone
among the dark trees,
strumming my guitar,
singing. The forest
is deep and no one
can hear me. The moon
is my only friend.
~
AFTER WEI YING-WU'S
"AUTUMN NIGHT:
A LETTER SENT TO CH'IU"
Autumn and night.
I am thinking
of you. I am
walking, speaking
to stars. In the
empty mountains
pine cones fall. Am
I the only
one still awake?
~
AFTER LI PO"S
"HEARING THE FLUTE
IN THE CITY OF LOYANG
IN A SPRING NIGHT"
Whose jade flute
sings in darkness
riding spring wind
across the city?
Hearing that tune
who would not
long for home?
~
AFTER LI YU'S
"THE BEAUTIFUL LADY YU"
Spring flowers,
an autumn moon.
Where does it end?
What do we know?
Last night again
an east wind
under bright moon.
I couldn't bear
to think of home,
house still lovely,
the people old now.
How much sorrow
can we carry?
Life is a river
flowing away.
~
SO, YES
So, yes, we
must speak two
languages,
one which sounds
in the mouth,
the other
which speaks for
the stillness.
Thursday, February 06, 2020
IN A DARKNESS
In a darkness
where sudden light
is terror
the heart gallops
like a horse with
a strange rider.
Dust and a taste
of wind, then the slow
walk back to where
they began.
BLACK HOLE
Black hole at
the Milky
Way's center
taking us
the same way
the hole at
the heart of
love does, the
emptiness
so heavy
with grief.
Wednesday, February 05, 2020
DARKNESS IS NOTHING
Darkness is nothing
other than darkness.
Do not take it for
loneliness, nor for
sorrow. Do not think
that a heart has turned
away. The night is
the night; pain is pain:
each its own thing. That's
all you have to say.
NOTICING MERWIN
Tuesday, February 04, 2020
IF THE STARS THEMSELVES
If the stars themselves
did not die, we might
hope we could live for-
ever. That would be
the last foolishness
for an old poet
like me, for death is
not something to be
worried of. It's the
left hand of a right-
handed life, natural
as breathing. Indeed
it is another
kind of breath, the last
one you get in this
body's physical
configuration.
You may think loss is
all you get out of
it, but listen to
the stars. They will tell
you: when one star dies
it becomes the stuff
to make other stars.
ANY SONG
Monday, February 03, 2020
OR PERHAPS
AFTER THE CHINESE MASTERS
AFTER LIU TSUNG-YUAN'S
"MORNING WALK IN AUTUMN
TO SOUTH VALLEY PASSING
AN ABANDONED VILLAGE"
Autumn has turned.
The frost is heavy.
I rise early
and walk the valley.
Yellowed leaves
cover the bridge
above the river.
Aging trees,
a deserted village,
some few dead flowers.
A secluded spring
you can barely hear.
I've already forgotten
what startled
the shy young deer.
~
AFTER LI PO'S
"QUESTION AND ANSWER
IN THE MOUNTAINS"
Go ahead, ask me
why I live here.
I will answer
with only a smile.
I am a man
at ease, content
as peach blossoms
floating on water.
There are many worlds
not like yours.
~
AFTER TU FU'S
"TRAVELING AT NIGHT"
A small wind
in the grasses
along the river,
my boat alone
in the darkness.
The stars hang
all the way
down onto
the wide plains.
The moon leaps
the universe.
Poetry has not
made me famous.
Now I'm old
and failing
and I've had to
quit my job.
With the wind
against me,
I'm only
a sand gull
caught somewhere
between earth
and heaven.
~
AFTER LADY NIGHT'S
"SONG OF SPRING"
Spring woods,
and the flowers
are lovely.
The birds, though,
are making
sad sounds.
And the wind
has a mind
of its own:
it blows my silk
skirt open.
~
AFTER MENG HAO-JAN'S
"SPRING SUNRISE"
I wake after
sunrise. Every-
where the birds are
noisy. I heard
the wind and rain
all night knocking
down the flowers--
who knows how many.
~
"MORNING WALK IN AUTUMN
TO SOUTH VALLEY PASSING
AN ABANDONED VILLAGE"
Autumn has turned.
The frost is heavy.
I rise early
and walk the valley.
Yellowed leaves
cover the bridge
above the river.
Aging trees,
a deserted village,
some few dead flowers.
A secluded spring
you can barely hear.
I've already forgotten
what startled
the shy young deer.
~
AFTER LI PO'S
"QUESTION AND ANSWER
IN THE MOUNTAINS"
Go ahead, ask me
why I live here.
I will answer
with only a smile.
I am a man
at ease, content
as peach blossoms
floating on water.
There are many worlds
not like yours.
~
AFTER TU FU'S
"TRAVELING AT NIGHT"
A small wind
in the grasses
along the river,
my boat alone
in the darkness.
The stars hang
all the way
down onto
the wide plains.
The moon leaps
the universe.
Poetry has not
made me famous.
Now I'm old
and failing
and I've had to
quit my job.
With the wind
against me,
I'm only
a sand gull
caught somewhere
between earth
and heaven.
~
AFTER LADY NIGHT'S
"SONG OF SPRING"
Spring woods,
and the flowers
are lovely.
The birds, though,
are making
sad sounds.
And the wind
has a mind
of its own:
it blows my silk
skirt open.
~
AFTER MENG HAO-JAN'S
"SPRING SUNRISE"
I wake after
sunrise. Every-
where the birds are
noisy. I heard
the wind and rain
all night knocking
down the flowers--
who knows how many.
~
BRIGHTNESS
Sunday, February 02, 2020
IN DEFENSE OF POETRY
Poetry needs no defense.
It is as a snake is in the grass,
as a thunderstorm comes at us from the west,
as a knife glistens in moonlight.
It is the blood on the knife.
The silence of the owl, even as it strikes.
The stillness after love, as we fall back to our own bodies.
Poetry is that which can say itself
whether you choose to listen or not.
THE
Saturday, February 01, 2020
WE KEEP SMASHING
We keep smashing
atoms, looking
for a smaller
particle, as if
the Higgs' Boson
could tell us the
final secret.
It can't. Instead
we need to look
in the other
direction, towards
the great largeness
of those things more
amazing than mere
scientific
understanding.
TURKEY VULTURE LOVE
