A picture sent to me by a friend yesterday.
How to spend a Sunday
Travel
Marriage is a life of sharing/婚姻是共享的人生
My Picture: My friends sister was married today…I was invited to the wedding ( I also know the bride and groom )…they asked me to write a poem for their wedding day…it was a challenge. So…I wrote this poem, it was translated into Chinese…and then they asked me to read the poem on stage…..which I did… with a translator repeating my words in Chinese for the audience…and then I presented them a typed framed version of the poem as a gift A wonderful day….and a wonderful experience for me.
Love is a great thing
it makes what is heavy light,
and shines the darkest street.
Never satisfied, it burns and burns
and shakes the sky.
All the rivers sound on this day,
that lonely isolation a distant road.
A journey…that is proposed now
fills the house, and makes the moon dance.
And the crowds weep and laugh,
to see such love strike away the chains
of memories from our souls…….
now joined in permanent commitment.
Leo named Jessie his queen,
her youth and beauty at the highest temple.
And Jessie named Leo her knight,
accustomed to courage and flush of love’s light.
And this love will endure; they want to live like trees.
Yulan magnolia blazing through the cobalt sky,
dappled with colour .
Exuberantly budding, year after year
gentle and passionate.
爱情是伟大的
它赋予沉重以轻松，
给昏暗的街道以光亮。
永无止境，不断燃烧
甚至震撼整个苍穹。
今天的河流俱为之咆哮，
昨日的单身岁月已然远去。
一段旅程……从今日起便要踏上
将这里填满幸福，月亮也为之欢欣起舞。
人们感动落泪，开怀大笑，
因为看到爱情打破了往昔的锁链
冲破了灵魂的枷锁……
现在汇成了永久的承诺。
Leo让Jessie做了他的女王，
Jessie青春年华，美丽灿烂。
Jessie将Leo变成了她的骑士，
Leo勇敢无畏，热情洋溢。
他们的爱会永恒; 就像树一样去生活吧。
好似玉兰树在钴蓝色天空中绽放，
充斥着它色彩的斑驳。
旺盛萌芽，年复一年
温柔而又充满激情。
Failing winter
My Picture: Xinxiang City, Henan Province, China.
A few clods of snow
and life will be forgotten.
A small farce with a song,
downcast and weary.
The only hope…..
spring sun and daffodils in windows.
A lucky fortune wrapped in fish paper,
and then a rock… turned underfoot.
Oven- burnt trees, will move and roll
with joys of life…
and make us love someone
this way and that….
While each poem emerges
from despair, a new first line.
Interrogative Blues
rptnb
My Pictures
Steve Reich in class today,
blowing in 18 musicians.
Discordant……
harsh and jarring…..
a lost harmony.
But I could see,
a blues haiku
entwined in my mind……
switch them awake.
Structure without structure…..
a Bukowski moment,
how to teach writing
to lit up heads…….
Slow bloom inside you
memories of failure,
turning….. glowing….. humming.
A lost phase……
and slow motion sound.
Too long this sense of obligation
and solitary existence.
But then again……a timid word
emerges from this despair.
A first line together…maybe.
A woman’s day
My Picture: Local Artist Painting, Vietnam.
Each girl walks with a boy,
but no one feels the fire at 3 pm.
Bathed in sunlight, for now
Yet soon the winter winds of Harbin
will caress their hair.
And lead them in a contracted dance
bounding the battered, shell-like dreams.
Button-bright eyes quietly growing,
an awkward bend of recognition.
How strange, how different
this parody of life and death…..
compared to running before this dull life, slowly realized.
A brief moment skimming the clouds,
then disappeared.
Poetry of indifference
My Picture: Xiahe Town, Gansu Province, China.
Scolded by ignorance…..tirelessly at labour,
trying to bubble out a scarlet life.
Welled up unable to grasp your unsaid fears,
countless lives……. so costly bought.
I saw you struggle today, coffee and baby.
A cold deserted siheyuan…..
dark and desolate,
the west wind blowing old papers away.
And the black dogs of Fenyang
howled their dismay.
Each night resistance appears,
a haunting gape in mirrored lifeless eyes.
So, I go to the mountains
on the silent outskirts.
In this awkward configuration
it is difficult to tell……
who belongs to which nation…..this is enough.
Sunday Morning II
My Picture: River Fen, Taiyuan City, Shanxi Province, China.
Big wheel spinning round and round
a sketchy truth about the finer things.
Spring grasses echo a brave soldiers dream,
life forms in places our fingers and lips touch.
Memories firmly held….. grown up without symbols
fire burns the cracks….. passing time.
Fela Kuti flies the eagles, lonely as the poet
a few lines scratched….. by night.
Writing is weighing, a greater void left behind
‘Don’t be stingy with the whisky’…said Bukowski
Call it gray and call it tired, but also call it life.
It’s late, and few want to learn to dance.
In the morning, new mercies I see
as humble yellow hands reach out to me.
Falling through branches
My Picture
Across the frozen field,
a horse breath.
I hear a chime of bells…
a table for one.
Paper flowers,
the old songs
and words we can’t recall.
The poet is out of rhythm.
Hospital waiting rooms,
and jazz in the park.
A mother’s cowlick
squawks the moment.
Walking sticks are left
dropped into a hole.
Foreigners are talking
to a young dog, barking.
A tired flagpole slumbers,
reflecting the new world order.
Bars with under-age concubines
proclaim business as usual.
Growing quiet and suddenly still,
I can see the rice fields glow.
Shyly spreading wispy memories,
with broken and dark stained teeth.
Birds and Flight
My Picture: Some friends I met in Xiahe in Gannan Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu, China.
A deep black satin of the night…
happy hour……
nourishes these broken crowns
…..and words outside their usual habitations.
The only know language
a whipped-up, fading cobalt sky
….and traces of thought
as thin as pins.
And as the girl settles her garments,
a spider with a hidden sting…..
spark fast the blackness of the night.
Like the days before rock and roll
…..and syncopates of love.
Journey to Work
My Picture: ‘Roasting Nuts: Taiyuan, Shanxi Province, China.
A Wandering Poet 