A State of Mind

2nd Oct 20182nd Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Picture: China Daily

I met a man today with Parkinson’s disease,
his hands permanently clenched shut.
The power, once contagious at birth
no longer accepts the next morsel.

His wife, seemed spat from reshuffled pain,
and leading him into a known future.

I watched them closely.
They once dreamed of sweet genesis,
a life grown of man’s new strength.

They danced on the same floor,
touched in slow succession
on damp common ground.

Now, she takes him to the toilet and
wipes him clean again and again.

“Is it dirty
does it look dirty”
She asked

I held his hand.
And sitting softly, in my soul
I told him that his
life has not yet been cancelled.

Note

Statistics show that almost half of the ten million people affected by Parkinson’s Disease, or PD, worldwide are in China. The disease has become the third most deadly disease for elderly people in China. About 1.7% of the country’s population above 65 suffers from PD and nearly 100 thousand new cases emerge each year. The World Health Organization estimates China will see six million PD patients by 2030.

Fragments

1st Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Outside Sculpture: Hoi An, Vietnam.

.

When alone, I think
I’ve lived half a life.
A small corner of the noise.
Half a fish.
Half, come winter.
A small white canvas, unfinished.
Smaller, and more smaller.

Half a heart from birth to now.
My eyes, half open barely
touching the ground.

A life waiting for halls of pleasure.
Only half caring a moment longer.
A day half offered, slowed to silence
that roles towards well, wanted solitude.

Shall I disturb this measured
life, and lessen my hopes of harder love.
Or wait…
to meet tomorrow, and beyond.

On The Move

1st Oct 20181st Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Ethnic Headdress: Beijing Culture Museum, Beijing China.

Everybody in China is moving now,
clapping hands for fair visions
and dreams half-forgotten.

It is the national holiday
when the sun shines brighter.
The old, familiar songs
a voice, a chime.

Now everybody
carries something.
Names, stories, memories
from the mountains.
And the dust from
the cities of concrete.

On days like these
there is no sadness,
no rancor.

Just a desire to taste
the salted tea.
And the wind breath
of the naked river beds
at dawn.

The daughters of the nomads
cry once again on padded knees.
And call upon the distant
twilight ghosts, shy and sullen
to lift the veil once more.

In the end, they make it.
And the last race is over,
for another year.

Anger at 11, 000 feet

30th Sep 201830th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / 4 Comments

WeChat Image_20180930210901

Why do people become angry?
Sadness, a sense of injustice…
The gaps between

“Who are you?”

and

“I won’t”

Who knows?

An air hostess is angry with a passenger,
way beyond what is permissible.

Anger is energy.
The air hostess cries,
but still wants to get her point across.
I guess that is why people become angry.

How to Characterize Pain and Suffering

30th Sep 20181st Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / 2 Comments

My Picture: War Museum” Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Pain and suffering is all around us and how ‘we’ as human beings address and characterize this aspect of the human condition is important now and for the future.

I teach medical English to medical students in China and one of the classes I teach is medical humanities. I would define this as ‘creating a sense of space for pain, suffering death and dying’. Of course this is a great challenge for me and my students. I use poetry as part of these conversations.

This is a poem I wrote

“Are you in pain?”

The nurse asked me about pain
“Does it rain” I told her.

Most days
I am in pain.
It falls upon my soul,
and devours my dreams.

It is a friend, a close friend
A pristine memory,
somewhere in darkened land.

I don’t ask its name,
it has no name worth knowing.

But I wish the pain to be stranger
and fly like a bird.

Moments in a Medical Education

29th Sep 201829th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

William Carlos Williams advocated poetry based on live contact with the world. He reproduces the details of what he sees. In some ways some of my poetry is an attempt at this observational poetry.

Many of my poems arise from moments of personal heightened consciousness, that I try and develop and extend by writing a responsive poetic line.

An example of this is this poem that I wrote yesterday after taking a class.

My Picture

Moments in a Medical Education

In the class there were 300
Chinese medical students,
full of red hot dreams and
having trouble with words.

I was asked to talk about medical
English, how they could learn.
So I talked about days
of nursing and poetry that
helps the dying.

I’m not sure their teacher
was too happy.

I think most sat there thinking
‘He is funny’ or maybe ‘He is crazy’.
Or maybe they were just nervous
and unsure.

After their teacher gave me a fierce
half-smile, I ran sharply to the point

“What can you do to learn?”

It went on for some time,
the silence.

Then I chose a student, who looked
disappointed that he was the one.

Right then time stopped for both of us.
The clouds outside seemed less than
clouds and the trees seemed to walk alone.

“I like poetry” he said.

The class laughed
and I noticed the faded white cotton curtains
blinked in surprise.
An out-of-nowhere moment
when nothing happens.

And their teacher looked directly at me
More like everything else.

How I Became a Poet

28th Sep 201828th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

WeChat Image_20180928083013

I often think about the how I became a poet.
All those years of reading, when nobody
was nearly interested.

My father was a romantic.
He could read aloud poems by
Keats, Shelley and Byron.
I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could.
But it sounded good.

I settled into a life,
evoked of love and steadfast promises.
And discovered Neruda and personal
colours of hope.

But in life
the dark mornings always come.
Just listen to the coughs,
and the blood stained phlegm of cancer
You will know what I mean.
Then I found Bukowski
and began to see
that being a fool is normal.
And shit happens in life.

I met a man today with Parkinson’s disease, his hands permanently clenched shut. The power, once contagious at birth no longer accepts the next morsel.

His wife, seemed spat from reshuffled pain, and leading him into a known future.

I watched them closely. They once dreamed of sweet genesis, a life grown of man’s new strength.

They danced on the same floor, touched in slow succession on damp common ground.

Now, she takes him to the toilet and wipes him clean again and again.

“Is it dirty does it look dirty” She asked

I held his hand. And sitting softly, in my soul I told him that his life has not yet been cancelled.

.

When alone, I think I’ve lived half a life. A small corner of the noise. Half a fish. Half, come winter. A small white canvas, unfinished. Smaller, and more smaller.

Half a heart from birth to now. My eyes, half open barely touching the ground.

A life waiting for halls of pleasure. Only half caring a moment longer. A day half offered, slowed to silence that roles towards well, wanted solitude.

Shall I disturb this measured life, and lessen my hopes of harder love. Or wait… to meet tomorrow, and beyond.

Everybody in China is moving now, clapping hands for fair visions and dreams half-forgotten.

It is the national holiday when the sun shines brighter. The old, familiar songs a voice, a chime.

Now everybody carries something. Names, stories, memories from the mountains. And the dust from the cities of concrete.

On days like these there is no sadness, no rancor.

Just a desire to taste the salted tea. And the wind breath of the naked river beds at dawn.

The daughters of the nomads cry once again on padded knees. And call upon the distant twilight ghosts, shy and sullen to lift the veil once more.

In the end, they make it. And the last race is over, for another year.

Why do people become angry? Sadness, a sense of injustice… The gaps between

“Who are you?”

and

“I won’t”

Who knows?

An air hostess is angry with a passenger, way beyond what is permissible.

Anger is energy. The air hostess cries, but still wants to get her point across. I guess that is why people become angry.

Pain and suffering is all around us and how ‘we’ as human beings address and characterize this aspect of the human condition is important now and for the future.

This is a poem I wrote

“Are you in pain?”

The nurse asked me about pain “Does it rain” I told her.

Most days I am in pain. It falls upon my soul, and devours my dreams.

It is a friend, a close friend A pristine memory, somewhere in darkened land.

I don’t ask its name, it has no name worth knowing.

But I wish the pain to be stranger and fly like a bird.

William Carlos Williams advocated poetry based on live contact with the world. He reproduces the details of what he sees. In some ways some of my poetry is an attempt at this observational poetry.

Many of my poems arise from moments of personal heightened consciousness, that I try and develop and extend by writing a responsive poetic line.

An example of this is this poem that I wrote yesterday after taking a class.

Moments in a Medical Education

In the class there were 300 Chinese medical students, full of red hot dreams and having trouble with words.

I was asked to talk about medical English, how they could learn. So I talked about days of nursing and poetry that helps the dying.

I’m not sure their teacher was too happy.

I think most sat there thinking ‘He is funny’ or maybe ‘He is crazy’. Or maybe they were just nervous and unsure.

After their teacher gave me a fierce half-smile, I ran sharply to the point

“What can you do to learn?”

It went on for some time, the silence.

Then I chose a student, who looked disappointed that he was the one.

Right then time stopped for both of us. The clouds outside seemed less than clouds and the trees seemed to walk alone.

“I like poetry” he said.

The class laughed and I noticed the faded white cotton curtains blinked in surprise. An out-of-nowhere moment when nothing happens.

And their teacher looked directly at me More like everything else.

I often think about the how I became a poet. All those years of reading, when nobody was nearly interested.

My father was a romantic. He could read aloud poems by Keats, Shelley and Byron. I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could. But it sounded good.

I settled into a life, evoked of love and steadfast promises. And discovered Neruda and personal colours of hope.

But in life the dark mornings always come. Just listen to the coughs, and the blood stained phlegm of cancer You will know what I mean. Then I found Bukowski and began to see that being a fool is normal. And shit happens in life.

“I am a writer” he said. At least he endured trying.

So now….. I get out of bed and I write poems.

Sometimes a painful submission of words, that almost every poet thinks. But that’s normal….. at least for me.

I met a man today with Parkinson’s disease,
his hands permanently clenched shut.
The power, once contagious at birth
no longer accepts the next morsel.

His wife, seemed spat from reshuffled pain,
and leading him into a known future.

I watched them closely.
They once dreamed of sweet genesis,
a life grown of man’s new strength.

They danced on the same floor,
touched in slow succession
on damp common ground.

Now, she takes him to the toilet and
wipes him clean again and again.

“Is it dirty
does it look dirty”
She asked

I held his hand.
And sitting softly, in my soul
I told him that his
life has not yet been cancelled.

When alone, I think
I’ve lived half a life.
A small corner of the noise.
Half a fish.
Half, come winter.
A small white canvas, unfinished.
Smaller, and more smaller.

Half a heart from birth to now.
My eyes, half open barely
touching the ground.

A life waiting for halls of pleasure.
Only half caring a moment longer.
A day half offered, slowed to silence
that roles towards well, wanted solitude.

Shall I disturb this measured
life, and lessen my hopes of harder love.
Or wait…
to meet tomorrow, and beyond.

Everybody in China is moving now,
clapping hands for fair visions
and dreams half-forgotten.

It is the national holiday
when the sun shines brighter.
The old, familiar songs
a voice, a chime.

Now everybody
carries something.
Names, stories, memories
from the mountains.
And the dust from
the cities of concrete.

On days like these
there is no sadness,
no rancor.

Just a desire to taste
the salted tea.
And the wind breath
of the naked river beds
at dawn.

The daughters of the nomads
cry once again on padded knees.
And call upon the distant
twilight ghosts, shy and sullen
to lift the veil once more.

In the end, they make it.
And the last race is over,
for another year.

Why do people become angry?
Sadness, a sense of injustice…
The gaps between

An air hostess is angry with a passenger,
way beyond what is permissible.

Anger is energy.
The air hostess cries,
but still wants to get her point across.
I guess that is why people become angry.

The nurse asked me about pain
“Does it rain” I told her.

Most days
I am in pain.
It falls upon my soul,
and devours my dreams.

It is a friend, a close friend
A pristine memory,
somewhere in darkened land.

I don’t ask its name,
it has no name worth knowing.

But I wish the pain to be stranger
and fly like a bird.

In the class there were 300
Chinese medical students,
full of red hot dreams and
having trouble with words.

I was asked to talk about medical
English, how they could learn.
So I talked about days
of nursing and poetry that
helps the dying.

I’m not sure their teacher
was too happy.

I think most sat there thinking
‘He is funny’ or maybe ‘He is crazy’.
Or maybe they were just nervous
and unsure.

After their teacher gave me a fierce
half-smile, I ran sharply to the point

It went on for some time,
the silence.

Then I chose a student, who looked
disappointed that he was the one.

Right then time stopped for both of us.
The clouds outside seemed less than
clouds and the trees seemed to walk alone.

The class laughed
and I noticed the faded white cotton curtains
blinked in surprise.
An out-of-nowhere moment
when nothing happens.

And their teacher looked directly at me
More like everything else.

I often think about the how I became a poet.
All those years of reading, when nobody
was nearly interested.

My father was a romantic.
He could read aloud poems by
Keats, Shelley and Byron.
I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could.
But it sounded good.

I settled into a life,
evoked of love and steadfast promises.
And discovered Neruda and personal
colours of hope.

But in life
the dark mornings always come.
Just listen to the coughs,
and the blood stained phlegm of cancer
You will know what I mean.
Then I found Bukowski
and began to see
that being a fool is normal.
And shit happens in life.

“I am a writer” he said.
At least he endured trying.

So now….. I get out of bed
and I write poems.

Sometimes a painful submission of words,
that almost every poet thinks.
But that’s normal…..
at least for me.