The sea stands here,
sleeps here and most days
has nothing to do.

Clouds come and go,
blue magpies sing
of Formosa days – no longer
serving the enemy.

A new start, and a walk to the
ocean to cool off sorrow.

Today, I am moved
by the mountains and wind.
The nearest thing
to being alive.

Scattered showers,
a single ladybird
lies on a Taiwan street.
Waiting for me
to give it life.
The voice of a poet
from the nether world.
A wind, more than a whisper.

Now, I ask questions
from a distance.
No more ways, I can try.

To make all this meaningful,
I write a poem once a day,
without fail.

Letters of the alphabet,
like a living fire – bare
witness to a long invasion.

And justify, my renewed hope
in the ways of
these island peoples.

Innumerable

raindrops, on the streets

of Kaohsiung.

Distant thunder, the length

of the shortcut.

But each river enters the sea.

With full applause and raised fists.

Flirting, then denying a shared past.

And an arrows unfished flight.

Back again,
an uneven edge
damp with spring rain.
This now is my life,
a magpie’s lift.
And a door to the future,
on this small island.

I read Neruda on a train
in Kaohsiung,
an ode to a dictionary.
A single fragment of a blade,
plucked from Spanish offspring.

Outside, an island
moistened by ancient friendships.
A single beast,
from Taipei to Kenting.
This land of wandering strangers
and desolate cries.

Everything seems to hang together,
disciple or friend –
a foreigner or fallen hero.
An earthly victory in dark times.

So few certainties,
but grass in Antarctica.
No food in Zimbabwe,
and Captain Tom is Knighted.
I just wash my hands, again
and notice the clouds.
As everything stays the same.

Onto the cloud wall above,
a single soul braves
the dark rain clouds.
Thoughts come
and there is loneliness.
But always, a single plum
blossom in new grass.
Stabbing descending darkness,
a black cloudbank broken.
And a morning-glory gazing.

I am isolated on this island.
Attacking my mind,
my body and soul.
A deep and inner sojourn,
down to the very bone.
But life has never
come to a standstill.
I am always ‘in life’.
thinking, writing
and continually pondering.
A foundation of hope,
with no condemnation.

Retreating sea, how long since
we have heard a blue magpie sing?
Or the baying fish shout
before the summer dawn?

With white wind eyes,
a drowning man saved by the island.
Resuscitated by an old lover,
bearing down and alive again.