Beijing Airport, China (China Daily)
Beijing Airport
Poetry
Coffee Time
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
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
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.
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.
Xiahe
My Pictures: Xiahe: Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu Province, China .
Today I went to the top of the world
and met three monks.
Empty of everything except themselves.
The sky a seamless part of it.
With pleasant walks, food and talk at will.
Our only dreams of words forgotten.
And there in the margins,
an interval between wars I saw a black bird.
As black as those that bled in a Shanxi mine.
Darkness evolved into perfection.
Mountains within mountains,
something like a maze.
And now, in my returning dream,
I see tides of people falling through the siege.
6am in Xinxiang
My Picture: View from my apartment window. Xinxiang City: Henan Province, China.
It is 6am in Xinxiang.
No one home, nothing filling up.
A dog howls, in a thick hoarse voice.
That breaks the silent part.
The moon still up this morning,
greets the eye as reflections blaze.
Unable to bear the past, a small
semblance of a lamp light future.
Only a street cleaner,
hardworking, lovesick and confused.
Occupies the space between common lines,
and the black gutters by the road.
I look through my window,
broken with slashes of hard metal.
A whirling cosmos of love, far away.
The only living thing in Xinxiang
The few stars left, able to
punctuate this blissful solitude.
Give time alone to heal,
to shape the earth to something else.
Sitting in a Taiyuan Street
My Picture: Taiyuan Street Market. Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province, China.
The best place to
see life in Taiyuan
is to sit on the street.
Just by Xue Fu Park
on Tiyu road.
The arteries of the
city grasping for
space and meaning.
Husbands too tired to talk.
Wives waiting for the next
episode.
Fireflies searching
for a neon light.
Lost, no hope.
Street cleaners who
read Hemingway,
a mind trick for the few.
Dancing ladies who
sing the songs
of the old brigade.
Streets sellers
sharing crops, and
the pain of emptiness.
Old men playing Xiangqi,
for those who dare
not lift their eyes.
Nurtured seeds
emerging to an
unforgiving noise.
Shadows throughout the day
taken up by mesmerizing myths.
The best place to
see life in Taiyuan
is to sit on the street.
Life in China
My Picture: Night Jogging. Taiyuan, Shanxi Province, China.
For the last three years I have lived and worked in China and without doubt it has been one of the most exhilarating and memorable experiences of my life…so far.
Trying to characterize any country in not easy. Trying to characterize a country like China…with its vast history, cultural, literary and linguistic traditions poses challenges for me.
As I have traveled around this wonderful country and met so many kind and curious people, I have written many poems. Some of which I will share with you.
Dawn in Ho Chi Minh City
My Picture: Dawn – Mekong River: Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.
The dawn will come soon enough.
The cockerel has been
telling me this for some time.
Singing a half-waking,
shining path to the light.
The early morning,
empty of the sun stands alone.
So thin and full of lucid air.
Glow and sigh, and slowly die.
A single moth with filmy wings
flies past my window.
Bold and decadent.
Dancing, darting to distant drums.
An Asian moon floods
its fading beauty to the sky.
The light unveils all.
The Old
My Picture: Mrs Noc. Hoi An, Vietnam
A Wandering Poet 