Night Time Friends

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

My Picture: Taiyuan City., Shanxi Province, China

There was a time when it ended
that I drank all the time.
I would drink with Jim, the policeman
until one in the morning.

He would tell me how most women
did not understand him.
And how his latest girlfriend
satisfied him, most of the time.

He felt sure this was the right one.
But he had said this before.

I would drink with my neighbour,
she was older than me and always
answered in the negative.

Listening to her was painful, the more
she talked, the more I needed a drink.

As each evening tailed off into the night,
I would see the embittered face of my father.

And an early morning smile from you.
That told me I was waking up and no
harm would come to me.

I’ll never forget the smile as long as I live.

So I made up my mind to quit my drinking,
and write about unsavory details and delighted
moments, in all its forms of existence.

Oh yes.

31st Oct 201831st Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Vietnam Cultural Museum, Hanoi Vietnam.

The music started to play early this morning.
Not the usual traditional Vietnamese music,
but Celine Dion singling about love
…..Canadian style.

The swimming pool was full, of Spanish guests I think.
Jumping and screaming and wearing shades.

‘Mia’ the beautiful receptionist,
wearing an expensive and tight fitting
silk dress
asked me if I would like coffee this morning.

I looked at her face, her black hair and the dress.
She smiled at me.
“Yes” I said.

But I would have said ‘yes’ to anything right then.
I thought to myself,
it’s a good start to the day.

Lost Soul

30th Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / 1 Comment

WeChat Image_20181030061227

Trying to find Charles Bukowski,
in some places is not easy.

It is easy to find Keats and Tagore.
They come running at you,
like a bright and dusty sun.
As subtle as love making on a drunken
Saturday night.

Yesterday a friend asked me
“Why would you wanna read Bukowski anyway, he
just writes about sex and drinking?”

“What else is there to write about?” I said

He paused…
“The jagged mind and shattered dreams…and all that”

So I thought about this for a minute and told him
“Nobody writes about this anymore, it doesn’t sell”

A world of my own

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

My Picture: Taken of a Paining by local artist in Hi Chi Minh City: Vietnam

It’s a day with just enough time left
to write a poem,
or at least to see the world
between the covers of books.

In moments like these I see
trees that cry in the night.
And it is easy to think about middle age, and
how some people grind away
at unhappiness.
Snarling at themselves
each day in the morning mirror.

And if I look around,
I can still see dialogue imported.
A stillness humped and wounded,
my whole apartment seems to be
thinking and talking.
And outside a couple are arguing.
Their only relief, a hope of meeting
another unhappy couple.

Nights of Espionage

27th Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / 2 Comments

My Picture: Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province, China.

To die the way I live,
amongst the intersection of
ideas and words.
To show contempt for
the enduring loneliness
of a wandering exile.
A living spirit, turned
into a child again.
That is how I want it to be.

Days Like This

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

My Picture: New Membership Card

A new gym opening in Xinxiang,
and an unwanted fear of growing old alone.
I went to look, as the autumn leaves fell
and spoke of drearier days.

I met a beautiful lady, who reminded me of you.
On dull October days like these, a glistening
sweet kernel illuminating the air.
And a slow fermentation of patched-up memories.

So I joined the gym, and turned to the trees
no longer waiting for the skies to crack.
And the beautiful lady….well we said ‘hello’
and exchanged WeChat addresses.

Neon Wonderland

25th Oct 201825th Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / 1 Comment

My Picture: Hue, Vietnam.

At last a time to write poetry,
pleasure in a few lines and
put way outside the neon glow of the city.
Embraced as timeless ancient rites
hovering impatiently, underneath
an ancient whining sky.

Each day, I deal with teachers
digging for reflection.
Medical students scratching
for remedies displayed.
And English majors who think
all poetry is sad.

Now is a good time to be a poet.
To talk about words at the end of life,
and the gentle kindness of the human touch.
To cry out against the streetlights,
that scream their words at night.

Shimmering greens, blues and reds that
blanket the earth like bees around a hive.
And weave a neon mesh that
kills the power and hope of words.
Now is a good time to be a poet.

Days into nights

24th Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Sunset in the Gobi Desert. Dunhuang, China.

I live alone in a nice apartment
and read the news every day.

Most days I write poetry
and listen to music.
Rainbow dreams
and triviality are always present.

But I sleep alone in the dark,
a shady sadness.
And dream of you,
shining through the ages.

What I need to know

23rd Oct 201823rd Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / 1 Comment

My Picture: Xinxiang, China.

Some jobs you like,
and others are so dreary and pitiless,
that you stay in bed.
Motionless in time and
watching the sun climb.

But then,
many who stay in bed
have a history of grief.
An empty doorway,
and a faded family photograph.

Nothing to do with their job,
just tricks of the mind.
Memory by memory,
it is easy to forget that what’s here isn’t life.
And nothing can ever happen unless you say so.

That Summer Feeling

22nd Oct 2018 / Rugby Lion / Leave a comment

My Picture: Bronze Sculpture, 798 Art Zone, Beijing, China

I met two Chinese professors today,
older than me and dressed warm.
Kindly, unmarked and tender.
A drift of rain on a grey sea dawning.

A few small thoughts, barely moving between us.
Waves of age and gentle laughter,
autumn and dark winter on the long journey.

It set me on to wondering how to deal
with age, and how the hell to make it.

How can I still breathe with the trees,
challenge the mountains and dance with the snakes?
And still remember the girl in the blue dress,
waiting for me by her bedside.

Beneath a poets pen,
I hold these thoughts, day-by-day.

Knowing is far from enough, and
new forms from secret harmonies
skim the early morning silence.
In the evening longing has its own quiet place,
the nearest thing to being alive .

There was a time when it ended that I drank all the time. I would drink with Jim, the policeman until one in the morning.

He would tell me how most women did not understand him. And how his latest girlfriend satisfied him, most of the time.

He felt sure this was the right one. But he had said this before.

I would drink with my neighbour, she was older than me and always answered in the negative.

Listening to her was painful, the more she talked, the more I needed a drink.

As each evening tailed off into the night, I would see the embittered face of my father.

And an early morning smile from you. That told me I was waking up and no harm would come to me.

I’ll never forget the smile as long as I live.

So I made up my mind to quit my drinking, and write about unsavory details and delighted moments, in all its forms of existence.

The music started to play early this morning. Not the usual traditional Vietnamese music, but Celine Dion singling about love …..Canadian style.

The swimming pool was full, of Spanish guests I think. Jumping and screaming and wearing shades.

‘Mia’ the beautiful receptionist, wearing an expensive and tight fitting silk dress asked me if I would like coffee this morning.

I looked at her face, her black hair and the dress. She smiled at me. “Yes” I said.

But I would have said ‘yes’ to anything right then. I thought to myself, it’s a good start to the day.

Trying to find Charles Bukowski, in some places is not easy.

It is easy to find Keats and Tagore. They come running at you, like a bright and dusty sun. As subtle as love making on a drunken Saturday night.

Yesterday a friend asked me “Why would you wanna read Bukowski anyway, he just writes about sex and drinking?”

“What else is there to write about?” I said

He paused… “The jagged mind and shattered dreams…and all that”

So I thought about this for a minute and told him “Nobody writes about this anymore, it doesn’t sell”

It’s a day with just enough time left to write a poem, or at least to see the world between the covers of books.

In moments like these I see trees that cry in the night. And it is easy to think about middle age, and how some people grind away at unhappiness. Snarling at themselves each day in the morning mirror.

And if I look around, I can still see dialogue imported. A stillness humped and wounded, my whole apartment seems to be thinking and talking. And outside a couple are arguing. Their only relief, a hope of meeting another unhappy couple.

To die the way I live, amongst the intersection of ideas and words. To show contempt for the enduring loneliness of a wandering exile. A living spirit, turned into a child again. That is how I want it to be.

A new gym opening in Xinxiang, and an unwanted fear of growing old alone. I went to look, as the autumn leaves fell and spoke of drearier days.

I met a beautiful lady, who reminded me of you. On dull October days like these, a glistening sweet kernel illuminating the air. And a slow fermentation of patched-up memories.

So I joined the gym, and turned to the trees no longer waiting for the skies to crack. And the beautiful lady….well we said ‘hello’ and exchanged WeChat addresses.

At last a time to write poetry, pleasure in a few lines and put way outside the neon glow of the city. Embraced as timeless ancient rites hovering impatiently, underneath an ancient whining sky.

Each day, I deal with teachers digging for reflection. Medical students scratching for remedies displayed. And English majors who think all poetry is sad.

Now is a good time to be a poet. To talk about words at the end of life, and the gentle kindness of the human touch. To cry out against the streetlights, that scream their words at night.

Shimmering greens, blues and reds that blanket the earth like bees around a hive. And weave a neon mesh that kills the power and hope of words. Now is a good time to be a poet.

I live alone in a nice apartment and read the news every day.

Most days I write poetry and listen to music. Rainbow dreams and triviality are always present.

But I sleep alone in the dark, a shady sadness. And dream of you, shining through the ages.

Some jobs you like, and others are so dreary and pitiless, that you stay in bed. Motionless in time and watching the sun climb.

But then, many who stay in bed have a history of grief. An empty doorway, and a faded family photograph.

Nothing to do with their job, just tricks of the mind. Memory by memory, it is easy to forget that what’s here isn’t life. And nothing can ever happen unless you say so.

I met two Chinese professors today, older than me and dressed warm. Kindly, unmarked and tender. A drift of rain on a grey sea dawning.

A few small thoughts, barely moving between us. Waves of age and gentle laughter, autumn and dark winter on the long journey.

It set me on to wondering how to deal with age, and how the hell to make it.

How can I still breathe with the trees, challenge the mountains and dance with the snakes? And still remember the girl in the blue dress, waiting for me by her bedside.

Beneath a poets pen, I hold these thoughts, day-by-day.

Knowing is far from enough, and new forms from secret harmonies skim the early morning silence. In the evening longing has its own quiet place, the nearest thing to being alive .