Georg Simmel

20th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: A wonderful gift from a friend….The design of the pen is based on the ideas of the German philosopher Georg Simmel.

“What is nature
…..what is society?”
I asked my friend as I looked at the pen,
a gift across the divide.
He was unsure what I was talking about…..
a pen based on social boundaries and sense.
A name….. Georg Simmel
from those never knowing, so I explained.

“In this dark hour…there are levels of concern
harbours of eternal silences….”

But he was slowly drifting away,
another ladder day.
The west wind in spring and stigmatized innocence,
blew across the room and opened a familiar door
…..a semi -permanent thing.

Sleeping Beautiful

19th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My pictures: Sent to some of my students who have an exam next week…..motivational.

In the margins of sleep,
I think of apoptosis and narcosis.
Patches of every drop of life,
undulating in silence and
gathering here every day.

Welcome to happy hour,
secreted fillers of flesh.
Those terminal moments,
on lungs and breasts
a cure for the urban blues.

A letter

18th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture…a friend gave me a letter today…..

The letter was beautiful,
written in English.
A freeway of thoughts
and heartfelt emotions.
Like a closet being opened
to another world……
an earth therapy tugging at the future.

It is easy to think the world is shrinking,
and the mountains just repeat themselves…… for the few that
can still keep a straight face.

Yes, the world is smaller
but across those darkened skies
– a prelude to the awkward moments….
Words of magic and an acorn at the foot of an oak tree…. the future colds of winter.

Sanquan moment

17th Apr 201917th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: Taken this morning.

Dawn just breaking, a simile in my mirror.

A tiny spiders web

glistening on silken threads.

Catches thoughts unfurling, don’t worry. ….

wrong prey to pounce on today.

Me, you and sorrow

16th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My picture: A simple drawing

I often dream,
sometimes I can almost
taste the sea and the islands.
Your face is less clear now,
but I can hear the old songs
we danced to.
And see the sadness, grinning
in front of our faces.
Flowing in some bedroom, some street corner,
and some Spanish beach.
Always grinning…..

Then the morning arrives,
but I still think that someday…..
I will run my fingers through your
wet hair, as my lips purge your soft tender skin.
One more time…..

Rejected

15th Apr 201915th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture of my picture

My poetry was rejected this morning,
early morning China time.
A time when people are weary, unhappy and frustrated
……facing a long and uninventive day.

The magazine gave no reasons,
just the manner of things
No emotions…..
“We have decide not to keep your poems”

The curious thing for me
was that, I felt in good company.
Bukowski was rejected most days,
and Dickinson almost never published.

They just left large droppings of their lives, all around.
For people like me to pick-up,
in between reading Camus and Chomsky…..
spaces in their lives and the lives of their friends.

So, I made some coffee, drew a picture
and wrote a poem.
Not like Bukowski or Dickinson, like me.
A concrete man, then the real morning began.

Two worlds collide

14th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: TianNing Pagoda in Anyang…almost a 1000 years old…..taken yesterday on a trip to the city. A contrast between old and new….which reflects a discourse in China and the world….

She was given the world
one long shot into the darkness.
Laughing at the moon
more sound than song.

Now gasping for air,
so much she couldn’t see.
This passion, this heat…it’s in our DNA.
And we stay in our worlds.

The death of Fish

13th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Taken today in Anyang City, Henan, China.

Dead fish in the river and cloud-moisture.
Frantically whipping-up
the crisis below, unseen.
A tarnished bitter shame,
and freeze frame once more.

And the empty plastic bottles,
that cry like tears.
Surrounding the place
with their uselessness.
And nobody minded at all.

So, I went home and took a shower
with love and everything.
The heat turned up listening to AC/DC,
splattering the water and guitar riffs all over the place.
I think this will be good for the fish.

Wounds of Time

12th Apr 201912th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

fznor

hdrpl

My Pictures

And so
I drank my coffee
ate the carrot cake
Ms. Gu gave me.

Coffee
Cake
Ms. Gu

To a sound
of
‘The Carpenters’
attempting to mend love.

I listened
and
stared….
The young man called me ‘uncle’
“Have you ever been old” I asked.
But I think it was lost in translation.

But now ‘The Carpenters’,
a taste of wet gold
and fingers in the ashes.

And all around
dreams of that perfect love,
horses with gentleman.
And homemade carrot cake.

Black Hole

11th Apr 201911th Apr 2019 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

WeChat Image_20190411210639

https://www.wired.com/story/scientists-reveal-the-first-picture-of-a-black-hole/

I woke this morning to darkness visible,
a swift hand clock curled up in grains of sands.
Neutron and neutron to neutrons enmeshed……..
I wonder what is beyond….

A voice from the depths of nothingness,
who cried in pain for a long time searching.
A life…before it bursts……
It’s her….it’s her, waiting from a distant place.

“What is nature …..what is society?” I asked my friend as I looked at the pen, a gift across the divide. He was unsure what I was talking about….. a pen based on social boundaries and sense. A name….. Georg Simmel from those never knowing, so I explained.

“In this dark hour…there are levels of concern harbours of eternal silences….”

But he was slowly drifting away, another ladder day. The west wind in spring and stigmatized innocence, blew across the room and opened a familiar door …..a semi -permanent thing.

In the margins of sleep, I think of apoptosis and narcosis. Patches of every drop of life, undulating in silence and gathering here every day.

Welcome to happy hour, secreted fillers of flesh. Those terminal moments, on lungs and breasts a cure for the urban blues.

The letter was beautiful, written in English. A freeway of thoughts and heartfelt emotions. Like a closet being opened to another world…… an earth therapy tugging at the future.

It is easy to think the world is shrinking, and the mountains just repeat themselves…… for the few that can still keep a straight face.

Yes, the world is smaller but across those darkened skies – a prelude to the awkward moments…. Words of magic and an acorn at the foot of an oak tree…. the future colds of winter.

Dawn just breaking, a simile in my mirror.

A tiny spiders web

glistening on silken threads.

Catches thoughts unfurling, don’t worry. ….

wrong prey to pounce on today.

I often dream, sometimes I can almost taste the sea and the islands. Your face is less clear now, but I can hear the old songs we danced to. And see the sadness, grinning in front of our faces. Flowing in some bedroom, some street corner, and some Spanish beach. Always grinning…..

Then the morning arrives, but I still think that someday….. I will run my fingers through your wet hair, as my lips purge your soft tender skin. One more time…..

My poetry was rejected this morning, early morning China time. A time when people are weary, unhappy and frustrated ……facing a long and uninventive day.

The magazine gave no reasons, just the manner of things No emotions….. “We have decide not to keep your poems”

The curious thing for me was that, I felt in good company. Bukowski was rejected most days, and Dickinson almost never published.

They just left large droppings of their lives, all around. For people like me to pick-up, in between reading Camus and Chomsky….. spaces in their lives and the lives of their friends.

So, I made some coffee, drew a picture and wrote a poem. Not like Bukowski or Dickinson, like me. A concrete man, then the real morning began.

She was given the world one long shot into the darkness. Laughing at the moon more sound than song.

Now gasping for air, so much she couldn’t see. This passion, this heat…it’s in our DNA. And we stay in our worlds.

Dead fish in the river and cloud-moisture. Frantically whipping-up the crisis below, unseen. A tarnished bitter shame, and freeze frame once more.

And the empty plastic bottles, that cry like tears. Surrounding the place with their uselessness. And nobody minded at all.

So, I went home and took a shower with love and everything. The heat turned up listening to AC/DC, splattering the water and guitar riffs all over the place. I think this will be good for the fish.

And so I drank my coffee ate the carrot cake Ms. Gu gave me.

Coffee Cake Ms. Gu

To a sound of ‘The Carpenters’ attempting to mend love.

I listened and stared…. The young man called me ‘uncle’ “Have you ever been old” I asked. But I think it was lost in translation.

But now ‘The Carpenters’, a taste of wet gold and fingers in the ashes.

And all around dreams of that perfect love, horses with gentleman. And homemade carrot cake.

I woke this morning to darkness visible, a swift hand clock curled up in grains of sands. Neutron and neutron to neutrons enmeshed…….. I wonder what is beyond….

A voice from the depths of nothingness, who cried in pain for a long time searching. A life…before it bursts…… It’s her….it’s her, waiting from a distant place.