My Picture: Ethnic Headdress: Beijing Culture Museum, Beijing China.
On The Move
Travel
How to Characterize Pain and Suffering
My Picture: War Museum” Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Pain and suffering is all around us and how ‘we’ as human beings address and characterize this aspect of the human condition is important now and for the future.
I teach medical English to medical students in China and one of the classes I teach is medical humanities. I would define this as ‘creating a sense of space for pain, suffering death and dying’. Of course this is a great challenge for me and my students. I use poetry as part of these conversations.
This is a poem I wrote
“Are you in pain?”
The nurse asked me about pain
“Does it rain” I told her.
Most days
I am in pain.
It falls upon my soul,
and devours my dreams.
It is a friend, a close friend
A pristine memory,
somewhere in darkened land.
I don’t ask its name,
it has no name worth knowing.
But I wish the pain to be stranger
and fly like a bird.
Moments in a Medical Education
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.
Strange Currencies
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
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
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
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
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
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.
A Wandering Poet 