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 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.

Strange Currencies

27th Sep 201827th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Pictures: Vietnam Military History Museum; Hanoi, Vietnam

A sullen walk, bones and
souls delivered to a dying audience.
The outnumbered sleepers
cast a mile to face the torrents
of halcyon days.

Sometimes strange things happen.

A communist asked me

“Do you know the difference
between Vietnamese Communism
and Chinese Communism?”

To be honest…I did not.
A soul and body question
not left to simply stand.

I sensed the passion,
a soul fierce and mean.
A love grown cold from
distant memory flashbacks.
Pitch black with surround sound.
And mutilated by loss of gentle light
and news of the old brigades.

So I said:

“The characterization of the struggle”

I put attention and love into this answer.
A potent phenomenon with
no time for ignorance or fears unknown.

Was the communist satisfied?
I don’t know…..
But we all learn to do necessary things.

The Warmest Night Of The Year

27th Sep 201827th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: River Wei: Xinxiang City: Henan Province, China.

The warmest night of the year,
I walked a straight road by the River Wei.
People passed by, children not answering.
Dogs dressed in pink boots, and couples
a great distance to be spoken.

The world seemed dimly white,
hidden and slanting.
Shy is its lonely wonder.
A squeaked rodent ran passed, pleasing life
for an unknown future.
A solemn thing, I think.

Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas,
smiled at me, alone in spirit and indifference.
Dancing dragonflies, ascending and descending
like a madness of Sisyphus, danced all night.
And a tiny breeze passed by, more in
placid hope than how to do things.

A small road, transporting and fleeting.
A clearing of the mind.
Lie good night, lie good night.

Conversation No 2

26th Sep 201826th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Pictures: Hue Art Gallery, Vietnam

I met two Vietnamese
men this morning, visiting China.
They invited me to drink tea
and flexed about philosophy.

One of them told me that
Le Quy Don was the greatest
scholar that Vietnam has produced.

The other one disagreed,
and wanted to tell me about
Tran Duc Thao

“He’s a Marxist and traitor”
Said Le Quy Don’s man.
I just drank some tea and listened.
And thought about literature
not made from literature.

Now some say how can this be?
You cannot speak Vietnamese,
and their English is poor.

So I tell them I keep searching
the streets and wonder about words.
And the next thing is that
everything is still there.
A blast of colour is a silent world.

The Harshness of Life

25th Sep 201825th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / 2 Comments

My Picture: ‘Great Wall of China: Beijing, China.

A coffee in my favourite cafe,
escaping the harshness of the
cautious lovers.
A slumber to avoid what exists.

The Carpenters played
in the background, every word
a deceitful relationship.

From the corner of my eye,
a woman told a man they were
finished.

She told him he could go to hell.

Someone once told me to go to hell.
It was just after we made love,
and the phone call from a strange woman.

I only met her once, when I was drunk
And probably said ‘I love you’

That was my mistake.

Beijing Airport

25th Sep 201825th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Beijing Airport, China (China Daily)

A woman walked passed me.
Her eyes seemed wet with tears.
Or maybe she had just been
to the bathroom.
Seeing herself through circles
of confusion, a state of soul.

But I wondered about those eyes.
Drowned in the dim lit Beijing rain.
Tangled and twisted in toils.
Or love confused and the world
moving at a normal pace.
Beyond the confines of right and wrong

Coffee Time

24th Sep 201824th Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

Coffee Time Cafe: Xinxiang: Henan Province, China.

Everybody here is fresh and young.
Unscratched, and never tired
of looking at each other.

I took a seat and opened my copy of
“The Last Night of the Earth Poems”
And felt like the oldest person in China.

The coffee is hot and clean, I come
here mainly for the coffee.
And the old waitress who always
says “hello” in practiced English.

There is a young couple across from me.
He wants to touch her, pressing for a kiss
at least in mind and spirit.

But this is not the way it happens in China.
And she is having none of it.

A quick look and a smile at me.
And without minor notice,
she decides to leave.

So now I am alone again,
a little earlier than I expected today.

A Walking Moment

23rd Sep 201823rd Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

For me poetry is about moments, bite-sized pieces of my life, and the truth is I never really know when these moments are going to happen. There is not always a ‘signal’. I just walk, listen, watch, look, hear and taste what is around me.

Yesterday was a warm day, so I walked by the river and a ‘poetry moment’ happened. I guess ‘life’ happens like this….but maybe we do not always see it.

So I wrote this poem.

A Walking Moment

My Picture: River Wei. Xinxiang City, Henan Province, China.

An out-of-nowhere moment.
A mother breast feeding her baby,
a knowing nod and a peeking way.
My secret nourisher in a lonely place.

Two sleeping dogs, tethered
with rope and chain.
Enacting a punishment of
pain and pleasure.

A tidy breeze, unfastening frames
with great seriousness.
That spoke to me from the inside.

The rush of traffic stacked away
and slowed down by silence.
An armored peace to meet
my solitude.

An orange coated beetle caught
up in a freezing lament.
Rotting and waiting to die.
As the old man, consumed
by thoughts of his demise
drinks the last drop of Baijiu.

And a carefree boy walking
the silent streets, turns slowly round
and smiles anxiously as time sleeps again.
I still believe in moments.

Mid-Autumn No 2

22nd Sep 201822nd Sep 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

This weekend here in China, and other parts of Asia we are celebrating mid-autumn festival. Mid -Autumn Day is Monday September 24th. In China this is a national holiday.

Mid-Autumn Festival. … Falling on the 15th day of the 8th month according to the Chinese lunar calendar, the Mid-Autumn Festival is the second grandest festival in China after the Chinese New Year. It takes its name from the fact that it is always celebrated in the middle of the autumn season.

The moon is a symbol of fertility, prosperity and peace, it also indicates nurturing of our dreams, and passion. The full moon symbolises family reunion and an auspicious token of abundance, harmony, and luck. The harvest festival also encompasses the fruits of labour by the farmers.

So..I wrote this poem this morning. I guess we all see the moon differently.

Mid-Autumn No 2.

Lugou Bridge, Beijing, China (China Daily)

The moon, now full grown
Cold and darker.
A statue through a
gauze-draped window.
Disappearing, as pain stains
from mountain less risings.

A crystal bottle of liqueur
by its side, so cruel and crazy.
And the blackest of Chinese ink,
draws the ink dark moon.
As the ten suns rise,
silent as the night’s rough husk.

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.

A sullen walk, bones and souls delivered to a dying audience. The outnumbered sleepers cast a mile to face the torrents of halcyon days.

Sometimes strange things happen.

A communist asked me

“Do you know the difference between Vietnamese Communism and Chinese Communism?”

To be honest…I did not. A soul and body question not left to simply stand.

I sensed the passion, a soul fierce and mean. A love grown cold from distant memory flashbacks. Pitch black with surround sound. And mutilated by loss of gentle light and news of the old brigades.

So I said:

“The characterization of the struggle”

I put attention and love into this answer. A potent phenomenon with no time for ignorance or fears unknown.

Was the communist satisfied? I don’t know….. But we all learn to do necessary things.

The warmest night of the year, I walked a straight road by the River Wei. People passed by, children not answering. Dogs dressed in pink boots, and couples a great distance to be spoken.

The world seemed dimly white, hidden and slanting. Shy is its lonely wonder. A squeaked rodent ran passed, pleasing life for an unknown future. A solemn thing, I think.

Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas, smiled at me, alone in spirit and indifference. Dancing dragonflies, ascending and descending like a madness of Sisyphus, danced all night. And a tiny breeze passed by, more in placid hope than how to do things.

A small road, transporting and fleeting. A clearing of the mind. Lie good night, lie good night.

I met two Vietnamese men this morning, visiting China. They invited me to drink tea and flexed about philosophy.

One of them told me that Le Quy Don was the greatest scholar that Vietnam has produced.

The other one disagreed, and wanted to tell me about Tran Duc Thao

“He’s a Marxist and traitor” Said Le Quy Don’s man. I just drank some tea and listened. And thought about literature not made from literature.

Now some say how can this be? You cannot speak Vietnamese, and their English is poor.

So I tell them I keep searching the streets and wonder about words. And the next thing is that everything is still there. A blast of colour is a silent world.

A coffee in my favourite cafe, escaping the harshness of the cautious lovers. A slumber to avoid what exists.

The Carpenters played in the background, every word a deceitful relationship.

From the corner of my eye, a woman told a man they were finished.

She told him he could go to hell.

Someone once told me to go to hell. It was just after we made love, and the phone call from a strange woman.

I only met her once, when I was drunk And probably said ‘I love you’

That was my mistake.

A woman walked passed me. Her eyes seemed wet with tears. Or maybe she had just been to the bathroom. Seeing herself through circles of confusion, a state of soul.

But I wondered about those eyes. Drowned in the dim lit Beijing rain. Tangled and twisted in toils. Or love confused and the world moving at a normal pace. Beyond the confines of right and wrong

Coffee Time Cafe: Xinxiang: Henan Province, China.

Everybody here is fresh and young. Unscratched, and never tired of looking at each other.

I took a seat and opened my copy of “The Last Night of the Earth Poems” And felt like the oldest person in China.

The coffee is hot and clean, I come here mainly for the coffee. And the old waitress who always says “hello” in practiced English.

There is a young couple across from me. He wants to touch her, pressing for a kiss at least in mind and spirit.

But this is not the way it happens in China. And she is having none of it.

A quick look and a smile at me. And without minor notice, she decides to leave.

So now I am alone again, a little earlier than I expected today.

For me poetry is about moments, bite-sized pieces of my life, and the truth is I never really know when these moments are going to happen. There is not always a ‘signal’. I just walk, listen, watch, look, hear and taste what is around me.

Yesterday was a warm day, so I walked by the river and a ‘poetry moment’ happened. I guess ‘life’ happens like this….but maybe we do not always see it.

So I wrote this poem.

A Walking Moment

An out-of-nowhere moment. A mother breast feeding her baby, a knowing nod and a peeking way. My secret nourisher in a lonely place.

Two sleeping dogs, tethered with rope and chain. Enacting a punishment of pain and pleasure.

A tidy breeze, unfastening frames with great seriousness. That spoke to me from the inside.

The rush of traffic stacked away and slowed down by silence. An armored peace to meet my solitude.

An orange coated beetle caught up in a freezing lament. Rotting and waiting to die. As the old man, consumed by thoughts of his demise drinks the last drop of Baijiu.

And a carefree boy walking the silent streets, turns slowly round and smiles anxiously as time sleeps again. I still believe in moments.

This weekend here in China, and other parts of Asia we are celebrating mid-autumn festival. Mid -Autumn Day is Monday September 24th. In China this is a national holiday.

Mid-Autumn Festival. … Falling on the 15th day of the 8th month according to the Chinese lunar calendar, the Mid-Autumn Festival is the second grandest festival in China after the Chinese New Year. It takes its name from the fact that it is always celebrated in the middle of the autumn season.

The moon is a symbol of fertility, prosperity and peace, it also indicates nurturing of our dreams, and passion. The full moon symbolises family reunion and an auspicious token of abundance, harmony, and luck. The harvest festival also encompasses the fruits of labour by the farmers.

So..I wrote this poem this morning. I guess we all see the moon differently.

Mid-Autumn No 2.

The moon, now full grown Cold and darker. A statue through a gauze-draped window. Disappearing, as pain stains from mountain less risings.

A crystal bottle of liqueur by its side, so cruel and crazy. And the blackest of Chinese ink, draws the ink dark moon. As the ten suns rise, silent as the night’s rough husk.

How sad to think of the moon like this. A pale white shadow, drifting in silver fields above the mountains rim. To know that once the song was sweet.

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.

A sullen walk, bones and
souls delivered to a dying audience.
The outnumbered sleepers
cast a mile to face the torrents
of halcyon days.

“Do you know the difference
between Vietnamese Communism
and Chinese Communism?”

To be honest…I did not.
A soul and body question
not left to simply stand.

I sensed the passion,
a soul fierce and mean.
A love grown cold from
distant memory flashbacks.
Pitch black with surround sound.
And mutilated by loss of gentle light
and news of the old brigades.

I put attention and love into this answer.
A potent phenomenon with
no time for ignorance or fears unknown.

Was the communist satisfied?
I don’t know…..
But we all learn to do necessary things.

The warmest night of the year,
I walked a straight road by the River Wei.
People passed by, children not answering.
Dogs dressed in pink boots, and couples
a great distance to be spoken.

The world seemed dimly white,
hidden and slanting.
Shy is its lonely wonder.
A squeaked rodent ran passed, pleasing life
for an unknown future.
A solemn thing, I think.

Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas,
smiled at me, alone in spirit and indifference.
Dancing dragonflies, ascending and descending
like a madness of Sisyphus, danced all night.
And a tiny breeze passed by, more in
placid hope than how to do things.

A small road, transporting and fleeting.
A clearing of the mind.
Lie good night, lie good night.

I met two Vietnamese
men this morning, visiting China.
They invited me to drink tea
and flexed about philosophy.

One of them told me that
Le Quy Don was the greatest
scholar that Vietnam has produced.

The other one disagreed,
and wanted to tell me about
Tran Duc Thao

“He’s a Marxist and traitor”
Said Le Quy Don’s man.
I just drank some tea and listened.
And thought about literature
not made from literature.

Now some say how can this be?
You cannot speak Vietnamese,
and their English is poor.

So I tell them I keep searching
the streets and wonder about words.
And the next thing is that
everything is still there.
A blast of colour is a silent world.

A coffee in my favourite cafe,
escaping the harshness of the
cautious lovers.
A slumber to avoid what exists.

The Carpenters played
in the background, every word
a deceitful relationship.

From the corner of my eye,
a woman told a man they were
finished.

Someone once told me to go to hell.
It was just after we made love,
and the phone call from a strange woman.

I only met her once, when I was drunk
And probably said ‘I love you’

A woman walked passed me.
Her eyes seemed wet with tears.
Or maybe she had just been
to the bathroom.
Seeing herself through circles
of confusion, a state of soul.

But I wondered about those eyes.
Drowned in the dim lit Beijing rain.
Tangled and twisted in toils.
Or love confused and the world
moving at a normal pace.
Beyond the confines of right and wrong

Everybody here is fresh and young.
Unscratched, and never tired
of looking at each other.

I took a seat and opened my copy of
“The Last Night of the Earth Poems”
And felt like the oldest person in China.

The coffee is hot and clean, I come
here mainly for the coffee.
And the old waitress who always
says “hello” in practiced English.

There is a young couple across from me.
He wants to touch her, pressing for a kiss
at least in mind and spirit.

But this is not the way it happens in China.
And she is having none of it.

A quick look and a smile at me.
And without minor notice,
she decides to leave.

So now I am alone again,
a little earlier than I expected today.

An out-of-nowhere moment.
A mother breast feeding her baby,
a knowing nod and a peeking way.
My secret nourisher in a lonely place.

Two sleeping dogs, tethered
with rope and chain.
Enacting a punishment of
pain and pleasure.

A tidy breeze, unfastening frames
with great seriousness.
That spoke to me from the inside.

The rush of traffic stacked away
and slowed down by silence.
An armored peace to meet
my solitude.

An orange coated beetle caught
up in a freezing lament.
Rotting and waiting to die.
As the old man, consumed
by thoughts of his demise
drinks the last drop of Baijiu.

And a carefree boy walking
the silent streets, turns slowly round
and smiles anxiously as time sleeps again.
I still believe in moments.

The moon, now full grown
Cold and darker.
A statue through a
gauze-draped window.
Disappearing, as pain stains
from mountain less risings.

A crystal bottle of liqueur
by its side, so cruel and crazy.
And the blackest of Chinese ink,
draws the ink dark moon.
As the ten suns rise,
silent as the night’s rough husk.

How sad to think of the moon like this.
A pale white shadow, drifting in silver fields
above the mountains rim.
To know that once the song was sweet.