Book Two

“A Poem For Denise.”

Written: September 13, 1998

 
Beats /Syllables:  Irregular.  Rhyme Scheme:  None. 
Note:  “Denise” was a student at Karamay Television University. 

Denise:
Never forget that
This country, and all that
Is in it is
Yours.
There your dreams take you, and there
Can your feet bring you, perchance by
Walking today,
Skipping tomorrow, and
Running next year –
And the next.

Never forget the
Zeal
Of those who
Built this land and gave it to
You.
Indeed, were you a drop of
Water on sand, a blade of grass on
Concrete,
Consider them as a princely inheritance, Given Especially for You.
No more the bleak
Buildings, no longer the
Road wandering nowhere,
No more the small boxes of life!
Open your eyes and
See
What has been given
You:
Every building a palace,
Every road with a purpose, and
Every box a
Pedestal to stand on, to
See what is there and what
Can be done.

Never forget that,
Though you be surrounded by
Mediocrities on occasion,
This land and you are
Gifts for each other.
Yet even here the road
Ends not.
 
 

“I Know Who You Are.” 

  Written: 23/9/2002. 

Beats / Syllables: Irregular.  Rhyme Scheme: None. 

I know who you are, standing on street corners selling newspapers, behind peephole windows with arrays of bottles, candy and yogurt pots around you.  Worn, simple, yet neat clothing, and hair tinged a little brown from the hardships of life.  Yet I know not how to meet you. 
 
Ideal personality, wide reader (in your own way), knitting winter pullovers in a concierge’s cubicle, yet perhaps unable to weave the fabric of life in the way you had dreamed, when your earlier mind had scented as fresh spring prairie flowers.  Yet I know not how to walk with you. 
 
Mind wide as a great nation, traveling in spirit over centuries, dynasties, and crowded trains back to the countryside, to roots, family, earth, meetings with far-flung classmates punctuated by the occasion’s wistful equality.  The ability to suffer, love, create, embody greatness.  Yet I know not how to live life with you. 
Cold air, drizzle falling on now crowded, soon deserted boulevards.  The stall closed, the last paper sold, another job in a distant city beckons – or perhaps tomorrow will be the same.  The city sleeps.  I walk home, and on, for I know not how to love you. 

“A Complaint – To Class 0305.” 

Written:  2005/12/9

Beats/Syllables: Irregular. Rhyme Scheme: AA-BB-CC-DD-EE

 
I taught you long and boring classes. 
You gave me weary, furtive glances. 
 
I gave you nuts and pears, 
You returned me glassy stares. 
 
From the deserts of Iran, I brought you fruit on plates, 
But you came not to me, and you broke your dates. 
 
I preached in vain, as it were, earth-bound texts, 
You returned me, in favor, immortal naughtiness. 
 
How shall I thank you, for what shall I praise you, 
Class most naughty, and dearest to me?
 

“Mi He Gu Li – Child of the desert.” 

Written:  2005/12/9

Beats / Syllables:  10 per line.  Rhyme Scheme:  None.

    
Daughter of Xin Jiang, child of the desert, 
Alone in a vast land that stretches in 
Every direction—waterless landscape! 
People mock red dates, unless they hunger, 
When they are thirsty, they beg for water. 
A donkey they consider as common, 
Unless they are too tired to walk themselves. 
A cottage they scorn, unless it is night, 
And darkness crowds around them fearfully. 
Dust-storms, evil children of the desert, 
Loneliness, that robs travelers of hope, 
And lack of direction, that sends all in 
Circles, until they fall down, despairing. 
Is it not to you that they come for food— 
Mutton, “nang” and raisins, fruit of the land? 
Is it not you, who takes them by the hand, 
To show them Middle-Asia, world’s glory? 
Silk, empires, quests, and the ruin of kings? 
Vast mountain ranges, and measureless sand, 
Peaks crowned in snowfields, heaven’s reflection, 
Eternal desert, consuming man’s pride. 
Unlocked, foreboding, dangerous, consuming, 
Unless, safely, someone passes them through. 
Guide through uncertainty, thread through the maze, 
Comfort in strife, when others have quarrels 
That threaten to tear everything apart. 
Sense of security, on the long road, 
And journey’s companion, that makes Xin Jiang 
A nutshell, and the hearts of two, a world. 
Daughter!  Never shall I call you common, 
For you are immortal.  You are strong, like 
The desert thorn-bush, that enduring, lasts. 
Your memory is like the fragrance of 
Its flowers, pressed, sleeping in the pages 
Of this traveler’s book, and of his heart
 
 

“The Refilled Quiver.”

Written: 2005/12/24 

Beats / Syllables: None.    Rhyme Scheme: None.    

Fair Cordelia!  Are you come here by a quirk of fate,
To pace the brittle, crunchy snow with me a while? 
Under the high, blue arc of sky we,
Like two neglected ants,
Stand surrounded by the silent forest of leafless trees. 
(Only a few have leaves on them today, token of a past age,
And vague promise of another.) 
For long, too long, my empty quiver has bumped against my thigh,
Although like Odysseus I have strung my bow,
And it remains strong and ready. 
With a soft, hollow knock and rattle
The arrow—you—drops into its wonted home. 
Your companions are not here—they chase earth and sky. 
I kept my promises, so why do the woods remain silent, stark and deep? 
Last night’s snowfall has silenced man’s vain strivings
And stilled the entire landscape,
Leaving us alone to contemplate each other. 
So let us do that, over a bowl of soup. 
Spoonful by spoonful, our eyes meet;
The knock of silver on china are steps we take,
One with the other, through a new landscape. 
Rising steam from soup of summer vegetable,
Comforting heat from the hearth-fire of last year’s birch logs,
The eternal music of Mozart within
And blue jays without. 
Let us add nothing, but what this appointed moment brings us. 
How brittle the frame,
How thin the glossamer thread,
How fragile the soapy bubble of fellowship we create at this moment! 
The house around us, the winter landscape outside,
Lie silent, untenanted, and unchanging. 
Beyond, swirling stars tumble
Through an immense, cold galaxy.
Today, however, no one contends with me,
And my gate is safe. 
Another such day, I should be glad for. 
Yes, another such day I should be glad for.

“The Apricot Waltz.”

Written: 2006/7/1

Beat and Rhyme Scheme: Irregular 
Plan: 1) Introduction of apricot, Zinatiguli.  2) On campus, street.  3) At meeting, as translator. 
4) Dismissed, gone.               

Verse 1: 
In fair land of Xin Jiang, in green oasis, 
Grows the marvelous apricot tree. 
Making happy the people, and blessed the land 
Every June, and in each marketplace. 
And so it is too, with the one I call “you”– 
I knew you for such a brief time. 
Your face is the flower of Kuqe’s fair tree, 
Full noble, within and without. 
Chorus: 
Oh, come dance with me now the apricot waltz! 
I loved you, and love you I do. 
Oh dear Zinatiguli, I love you so truly, 
But you’re gone, and will never come back. 
 
 
Verse 2: 
She once was a teacher in forgotten school, 
In a city that no one yet knows. 
Her face was elusive, although she lived there, 
But her students knew her, “big sister”. 
Strolling through Uighur market, under parasol, 
Walking past all the apricot carts, 
Talking with all the tradesmen, a smile on her face, 
Popping apricots into her mouth. 
 
Chorus: 
Oh, come dance with me now the apricot waltz! 
I loved you, and love you I do. 
Oh dear Zinatiguli, I love you so truly, 
But you’re gone, and will never come back. 
 
 
Verse 3: 
At deadly dull meetings, where nothing was said, 
We passed by our time in such fun. 
Sending short little notes right across twenty desks, 
Saying nothing, but saying it all. 
Yes, “saying it all”, for in all Uighur-land, 
And all rest of China as well, 
There was no one as fair, who could ever compare, 
Translating my talks to my class. 
 
Chorus: 
Oh, come dance with me now the apricot waltz! 
I loved you, and love you I do. 
Oh dear Zinatiguli, I love you so truly, 
But you’re gone, and will never come back. 
 
 
Verse 4: 
One day when “downsizing”, the school let her go, 
She didn’t have influence or power. 
Torn up and uprooted, she packed up her bags, 
Saying nothing amidst her friends’ shock. 
Some say she was hired by one more obscure school, 
That she married, or moved on with life, 
But I think that I see her with apricot cart, 
Under broad hat, some days in hot June! 
 
Chorus: 
Oh, come dance with me now the apricot waltz! 
I loved you, and love you I do. 
Oh dear Zinatiguli, I love you so truly, 
But you’re gone, and will never come back. 
 
Oh, come dance with me now the apricot waltz! 
I loved you, and love you I do. 
Oh dear Zinatiguli, I love you so truly, 
But you’re gone, and will never come back. 

 
“Star and Earth (No. 1).”

Written:  2006/7/8 to 2006/7/14 

Plan:  1) Star, high.  2) Earth, low.  3) How to meet?  4) In hearts, if not sky. 
Beats / Syllables:  10 per line (5 + 5).  Rhyme Scheme:  None.  

Verse 1: 
In high sky softly, yon star floats in peace, 
Untroubled by mire, yet watching all life. 
Revealing cold fire, so far from the earth, 
Not speaking a word, summoning language. 
To one far below, who gazes above— 
How so far removed, can never be reached! 
One’s dreams may fly high, but they must fall short. 
Spark of the heavens, you pull forth a sigh. 
 
Verse 2: 
Both the hot passions, such wasteful excess, 
With languid neglect, true lover’s demise— 
Both are from the earth, pitiful actor! 
Constancy today; departure next morn! 
It is no wonder, in clouds earth is dressed, 
So as to cover—decency social— 
What no one utters.  Go look at the moon 
And see it all stripped, having no cover. 
 
Verse 3: 
How then shall we meet, who are thus parted? 
Though we share one bench, watching passing world, 
If we hold shy hands, while walking in parks, 
What does it avail, since there is a wall? 
Cold fire and still light, pure heart and warm eyes; 
Muddy shoes and legs, roving dreams and thoughts: 
Where and how to meet, in what fashion joined? 
We would be cobbled, but cannot be linked. 
 
Verse 4: 
As surely as this, base earth and yon star, 
So shall we survey, observe the distance. 
Were it possible, or desirable 
To come together, would we be happy? 
Better rather this:  we accept out lot. 
Though we be parted, in separation, 
I still think your face, alone in dark sky, 
Opens my closed heart, stirs admiration
 

“The Bluebird and the Cat.”

Written:  2006/7/16 to 2006/7/21 

Plan:  1) Introduce bluebird.  2) My travels.  3) More travels.  4) Introduce cat.  5 End of bluebird.  6) Conclusion. 
Beats / Syllables:  12 per line (6 + 6).  Rhyme Scheme:  ABAB-CDCD-EFEF. 

Verse 1: 
I once knew a bluebird, her voice was very shrill, 
She sang from the rooftops, she warbled to the land. 
Once a day at noontime, and always from the hill, 
She made us stop our course, and listen ear-to-hand. 
At night-time as we slept, she played the nightingale, 
The rural troubadour, the chronicler of earth! 
There never was a fox, who would visit our vale, 
Without being announced, to every rabbit’s mirth.  
Thus it is in this wood, I Nutkin do declare; 
Life is very mundane, but this is nothing wrong. 
The bluebird’s voice is shrill, but regular and fair, 
What can we do but cease, and listen to her song? 
 
Verse 2: 
In time I left the vale, my fortune for to seek, 
Being squirrel famous, I went to far Cathay. 
They said that over there, you didn’t have to peek 
Into every knot-hole, for acorns every day! 
The acorns lay in heaps, beneath leafy branches; 
I ate my fill by noon, storing half by dinner. 
Yet fearing loss of hoard, here you take such chances, 
Suspicious turned I soon, keeping place of winner. 
Only every midnight, upon a passing breeze, 
Commerce being silent, and strife transformed to rest, 
I heard the bluebird’s voice; each time it made me freeze: 
Soft and melodious, fresh news straight from the west! 
 
Verse 3: 
Searching golden acorns, I wandered through the land, 
Rivers and bare plateaus, high mountains I traversed. 
Squirrels saw I rarely; I slept on silk and sand. 
Aloof on camel’s back, with too few I conversed. 
Dark evening came once more, the stars they whirled on high, 
Telling not one story; the wind grew soft then still. 
Out of milky darkness, over hills with soft sigh 
Came “Fox chases rabbit!”, or “Weasel left the hill!” 
Sitting still and calmly, the whole world at my feet, 
I dwelt upon the vale, the place I’d left behind, 
But realized I was there, my friends in mind to meet, 
Brought there by the bluebird, who showed me who to find. 
 
Verse 4:  
Meanwhile in the valley, which no one thought would change, 
The farmer bought a cat, far bigger than its peers. 
Fierce and angry spitting, it through the fields would range, 
Eating entire families, and filling all with fears. 
I heard this from a goose, who passed my way each spring, 
And that night as I lay, looking up at a star, 
Me thinks I heard her voice, as through voids she did sing. 
Something was different, as she sang from afar, 
Something melancholic; she sang to me alone, 
Earth becoming silent, and then completely still. 
A few days more she sang, while chilling every bone, 
Then she ceased all singing, all crying from her hill. 
 
Verse 5: 
Well it happened like this, said the goose one morning, 
As we sat on a rock, surveying a vast sweep 
Of Cathay’s fabled hills, my saddle-bags forming 
Ottoman-like cushions, bagged acorns in a heap. 
The cat was so hungry, craving his nightly feast, 
That he killed everything, all he could find or catch. 
A weasel helped him too, betraying every beast, 
Ripping rabbits from holes, and mice from roofer’s thatch. 
Of course the bluebird knew, and sang of what she saw, 
Mournful dirge in day-time, distressing sobs at night. 
In time it was her turn, the weasel knew no law, 
He led the cat to her; she was eaten on sight. 
 
Verse 6: 
The valley is now still, as far as I’m concerned, 
For bluebird’s voice is gone, once heard in far Cathay! 
The cat lives on his life; most beasts have not returned. 
Many birds now sing there, but all they do is play. 
They sing all kinds of songs, but no one understands, 
No one except the cat, and folk from other vales. 
I returned for one week, bright acorns in my hands, 
Saw desolate the vale, then quit my acorn sales. 
I wander all alone, through Cathay’s plateau high, 
Sleep under whirling stars, drink water from far founts. 
Yet under heaven’s noon, in twilight’s fading sky, 
In my mind bluebird sings, her shrill voice high it mounts!

“Farewell to the now, Columbia’s shore.”    

Written:  2006/8/5

Plan:  1) General feelings.  2) Birds, grasses, stones.  3) Cricket.  4) Leaves.  5) Summary.
Beats / Syllables:  10 per line (5 + 5).  Rhyme Scheme:  None. 

Farewell to thee now, Columbia’s shore! 
Mountains and woodlands, calm and majestic, 
Pastures and meadows, stirred by faint breezes, 
Wood birds in thickets, singing most softly: 
These their orisons, often neglected, 
Raise up one last time, fair fruit of farewell! 
Dear fond memories, bounded by forest, 
Calm face of nature, ephemeral mood, 
Wisps of tall grasses, swaying and nodding, 
Silent fieldstone walls, like forgotten roads: 
To each one of you, fair ambassadors, 
Representatives, iconic emblems, 
Farewell and goodbye, at least for a year. 
On all your shoulders, imaginary, 
Rest identity, sense of belonging, 
Tokens of country, origins and home. 
There are no others, speaking conviction: 
Only your witness, wilderness speaking. 
In pool of silence, drop of melody, 
Among tall grasses, one song of summer, 
On weathered stone wall, devotee of life, 
The cricket now sings, proclaiming her soil, 
Championing life, warning of winter, 
Singing of her land, land of waving grass, 
Soil that she knows of, where her life happens: 
Farewell to you now, small herald of home! 
Your voice covers field, fades into the trees, 
Yet it speaks for all, from here to far shore. 
Each leaf falling down, others unfurling, 
Flags of spring’s morning, of cold summer’s eve,
Silent and watching, dying unnoticed, 
Teaching peacefulness, marking land’s limits, 
Yet also showing, tracing life’s pathway: 
Flutter quietly, showing your beauty, 
Float down in silence, changing the forest, 
Rest on hard earth-grave, weighted under snow,
Cherish the new ferns, with warmth rising up, 
How still stands the land, life’s microcosm! 
Farewell to thee land, Columbia’s child!

“Elegy for the fallen Ethiopian Jews, who died in Lebanon, August, 2006.” 

Written: 2006/8/18 to 2006/8/19 

Plan:  1) Introduction.  2) Their long history.  3) Homesickness.  4) Dedication.  5) Death.  6) Lament.  7) Memorial. 
Beats / Syllables: 10 per line.  Rhyme Scheme: None. 

 
Adopted sons in a land twice distant, 
Fallen in Lebanon, land of cedars. 
Who would know, or tell, that you passed this way? 
Who would know about your people’s story? 
Soon the awkward gazes, the stares, comments 
Will fade away, and the dust will settle, 
Settle down over your new, hallowed graves. 
Men of this moment, now noble heroes, 
Sleep softly in stone-strewn valley bottom. 
You, having entered eternity’s gates, 
Will slowly be forgotten; thus, for all. 
If your footsteps, and your people’s story 
Should reach back in time three thousand years, 
Unknown by many, but seen by a few, 
How long will it course into the future? 
 
Noble Ethiopia, ancient land! 
Fount of Nilus, high mountainous fortress, 
Land of beauty, such stark lovely beauty, 
Yet also the vale of desolation, 
Scourged by famine, drought, men’s depredations, 
It was you who made these men what they are. 
For, long centuries ago, in past time, 
Rumors of Solomon’s magnificence 
Came over the mountains to Sheba’s queen. 
She came to him, enquiring for knowledge, 
Accompanied by a large retinue, 
Laden with gold, and all sorts of treasure. 
She stayed some time in Solomon’s city, 
In his palace, with its great cedar beams, 
Gifts from Hiram, ruler of Lebanon. 
She enquired of him about everything, 
Questions of the heart, and problems of mind, 
Until at last she left and returned home. 
With what did you return home, noble queen? 
With balm, spices, frankincense, and such things? 
Or was it pearls, or purple dye from Tyre? 
These things are suitable for one who rules, 
Marks of authority for lord of men. 
No one knows what the queen took in her heart, 
Back to mountainous Ethiopia. 
Some say she bore in her Solomon’s child, 
Who became a king, and father of more. 
What if she bore instead, within her heart, 
The knowledge of the fount of his wisdom, 
The open secret of all his greatness, 
And that of David, his shepherd father? 
“The fear of the LORD is start of wisdom.” 
Nonetheless, it was Abraham’s family, 
In faith, as it were, although not in flesh, 
Which now began a second pilgrimage 
To their own promised land, mountainous south. 
There, amidst the currents of history, 
Both benign and treacherous, they lived life: 
Growing, pounding teff; baking injera; 
Raising their children; burying their dead; 
Maintaining the flame of Abraham’s faith. 
As sojourners in their own distant land, 
They forgot not their spiritual home. 
Who knows what sorts of contact persisted 
As years unspooled, passing time’s spider thread? 
Flowing trade, traveling pilgrims each year, 
Parchment scrolls, all traveling back and forth, 
From culture’s fount, to caravanserai, 
To the towns and rooms your people called home, 
And back again, for both ends were your home. 
Both land of teff, injera, and mountains, 
Fixed, dusty, glorious and majestic, 
The harsh highlands of Ethiopia, 
This, your ancestral homeland forever; 
Yet also land between sea and river, 
Land where your new father Abraham walked, 
Although in a time more simple, peaceful 
Than the one to which you came now in haste. 
Thus time ran on, and your generations. 
Ten centuries on, what saw you, felt you 
When Solomon and Sheba met once more, 
Although at this time, figuratively; 
In reality the persons of both 
Philip the apostle, the Lord’s servant, 
And of the Ethiopian eunuch? 
Once more was the open secret passed on, 
And took root again in your hill country: 
In Abyssinia’s monasteries, 
Hermitages of Ethiopia, 
Rugged, stalwart domain of Prester John,  
A dangerous frontier of flashing swords, 
Yet able to remain fierce, proud and free, 
While the rest of Africa was taken. 
In time came the wolf of Rome, then others, 
Who ravaged and scorched the land completely. 
Nature participated in this too. 
Children of Sheba’s faith, you bore this all, 
The horror of drought, world’s indifference, 
Famine, revolution, murders, and loss. 
How some survived is still a miracle; 
A new generation rises as green, 
As green as new grass after the mowing. 
Throughout all this time, your people remained, 
Carefully formed into community, 
Rooted in traditions, identity 
Older than the forests, but not quite the hills. 
Thus, at a certain time, who knows why then, 
A new call went out, to leave one homeland, 
Go north, and settle in land of promise. 
The people rose up, like plovers on beach, 
Like ibis on Nile’s exposed mudflats, 
Like migrant geese on high mountain glacier. 
Those with the faith of Moses, Ruth’s courage, 
Took their destiny to faraway land. 
They crossed over desert as the quail, 
Five miles high, in forty minutes, two hours, 
And came to a very different world. 
Alas, Ethiopia, ancient land! 
Every time your people find a pebble, 
A wisp of cotton, a slip of paper, 
Hidden in a bag, or fold of garment, 
Memories of their homeland run strongly, 
Memories strong as banging frying-pans, 
When the locusts are eating the croplands, 
Memories of pounding teff at morning, 
Acrid chaff-dust rising into the nose, 
So bitter then, but so fragrant today. 
Land of falafels, thoughts of injera; 
Spice-stalls in the market as usual, 
But their smells lead to places far away. 
Abyssinia!  Fair mountain landscape, 
Of stark mountainous tracts, unknown elsewhere. 
 
Yet, at stern Massada’s peak on cold dawn, 
Surrounded by vast, iconic spaces, 
Silent mountains and glossamer stone wall, 
Starry, hushed heavens, stock still overhead, 
No sound of anything, even a bird; 
In the complete, pure silence, the soft voice, 
Age-old resolution, “Never again!” 
Rises out of every heart, every stone, 
And seems to vanish into the thin air, 
And into hearts, as full sunlight appears. 
 
The road from Prester John to Hoare-Laval, 
Mountainous pathway, is long, oh so long; 
The way from Massada to Lebanon, 
Covered in stones, craters and shell-casings, 
Is very direct, crossed in mere miles, weeks. 
Far off, the hiss-pop of “Little Katies” 
Tickles the air from horizon to ears: 
Not so, within one teff field of their fall! 
 
Dear Ethiopia, ancestral land! 
Mighty river’s birthplace, mountain stronghold! 
Beautiful land, such stark lovely beauty, 
Yet also the mount of soil’s erosion, 
Vast, uncountable grains of sand washed down, 
Down into Egypt, another land’s silt, 
Scourged by erosion, catastrophe, war, 
It was you who made these men what they are. 
For today, now, in this generation, 
They heard rumors of Solomon’s greatness. 
The soldiers rose up, like plovers on beach, 
Like ibis on the Nile’s exposed mudflats, 
Like migrant geese on high mountain glacier. 
With Joshua’s courage, and Samson’s strength, 
They entered the forest of cedar trees, 
Fought like lions, and as lions they fell. 
Soon the awkward gazes, the stares, comments 
Will fade away, and the dust will settle, 
Settle down over their new, hallowed graves. 
Men of this moment, now noble heroes, 
Sleep softly in stone-strewn valley bottom. 
You, having entered eternity’s gates, 
Will slowly be forgotten; thus, for all. 
 
Yet, until then, may every shepherd boy, 
Every maid of fair Abyssinia, 
Remember you as they pipe timeless songs 
High, far off in the mountains of Gondar. 
Your memory shall rest with such as these, 
Warbling notes on flute, with soft singing, 
Floating over the new, green-clad hillsides. 

“Drops of perfume in the sea of noises.”

Written: 2006/9/7 to 2006/9/8 

Beats / Syllables: 10 per line.  Rhyme Scheme: None.

Everywhere you turn, you are surrounded, 
Surrounded in the throb of life’s noises. 
There is hardly a place where you are free, 
Away, not only, from struggles of life, 
But also from the useless sounds of day, 
Or from the useless frettings of night’s cell. 
Your being, like a raft, rises and falls, 
Struck from all sides in the sea of noises. 
It seems there is no horizon, no end, 
No respite from the pollution of sounds, 
Mountainous waves of every description! 
The summits of far-off sanctuaries 
Are no longer sanctuaries for you. 
Still caves are hard to find, or dangerous. 
The reed-fringed pool, in desert oasis, 
Sheltered from both sandstorms and visitors, 
Is now a thing of the past, and no more. 
Oh quiet!  Oh peace!  Oh tranquility! 
Where have you fled to, or were you all killed? 
Even in a secret underground room, 
The restless hissing of blood in your ears, 
A mere footstep, or rustle of paper, 
The constant babble of your train of thought, 
Restless as termites tearing down forests, 
All guarantee that you will have no peace. 
Everything is irreversibly drowned, 
Consumed, silenced, overpowered, altered 
By the sea of noises, unceasing scourge! 
So today, since there is nowhere to flee, 
You live daily under occupation, 
Trying to survive without a refuge, 
Learning to live with constant disturbance. 
In such a world, even children’s voices, 
Shrill and earnest, scald and corrode the soul. 
Since there are rarely birds to listen to, 
The air is controlled by electrical noise, 
Mechanical birdsong all the day long, 
Whether or not you want to follow it. 
Soon, this noise-world no longer affects you; 
In time, you will become a part of it. 
Thus it goes on, for a very long time. 
Sometimes, in the middle of the ocean, 
You can find floating a lone speck of oil. 
Far from the land, absolutely alone, 
Carrying no proof of its origin, 
And no sign of where it will go to next. 
Briefly, it shimmers on the ocean’s skin, 
And then it is passed by, not seen again. 
However, the impression it leaves you 
Is beautiful, far beyond its small size. 
So it is too in this chaotic world, 
You can find such ambassadors of calm, 
Drops of perfume in the sea of noises. 
How beautiful on a busy main street 
Is the fleeting fragrance of fine perfume! 
The smell evokes people and memories, 
Happy moments from the past, kind faces. 
So too, (when noise’s tyranny ceases, 
If only for a moment, brief seconds, 
And all is still, like the open ocean, 
Two days after the last gale departed), 
Drops of sound-perfume will have their effect. 
In the context of surprising stillness, 
Those few drops, alone, command attention. 
They purify all entering the ears, 
And, restoring sound to its rightful place, 
Bring peace, order and balance to your soul. 

“Everything is dust, all is built on sand.”

Written: 2006/9/9

Beats / Syllables: 10 per line.  Rhyme Scheme: None.   
Plan: 1) Introduction.  2) Play.  3) Work.  4) Relationships, small.  5) Relationships, close. 
6) Conclusion. 

Verse 1. 
Everything is dust, all is built on sand. 
Whatever you build falls down, corroded. 
Foundations are vain, for they are but air, 
A loud voice snatched away by passing wind. 
 
Verse 2. 
The empire of travel, of places seen, 
Dense network of black lines traced on a map, 
Cities, hotels, restaurants visited— 
All forgotten, now murky, vague shadows! 
 
Verse 3. 
Brick by brick, plan by plan, and task by task, 
All work falls down, tomorrow or later. 
Torn down by time, apathy, enmity. 
Washed away in other people’s torrents. 
 
Verse 4. 
The myriad of small relationships, 
Carefully nurtured and diversified, 
Picked up and carried away by termites. 
All friendships spurned, disowned and disavowed. 
Verse 5. 
The nest of deeply-invested friendships, 
All full of eggs, now visited by snakes. 
Unrequited effort, life’s labor lost; 
Step aside, and they wilt and blow away. 
 
Verse 6. 
When land was cleared, the locusts were summoned. 
Foundation laid, the flood’s waters prepared. 
A hand holds each brick, to take it away. 
All this, because you are the outsider. 

“Over-Work.” 

Written: 2006/10/12 to 2006/10/13; revised 2006/10/14.

Beats / Syllables: 21 per line.  Rhyme Scheme: AB-AB-CD-CD. 

  Plan: 1) Problem.  2) Other’s ease, your torment.  3) Haunted visions, by day and by night.  4) Left behind; world goes on. 

Verse 1. 
When you’re driving your brain through a long sleepless night, and you think there is nowhere to go, 
When the world all around you is happy and dancing, and all you can do is mark time, 
When your papers, like armies, stand thick on your desk, and they stifle you steady and slow, 
For your brain is full-burdened, your vision is blurred, and your hopes they subside in quick-lime, 
It’s the curse of attrition, that comes from ambition, from urge to be better than all, 
For it keeps you awake when the others repose, when they’re inside and stretched on their bed, 
It chains you to desk when your colleagues are playing—when they’re laughing or chasing a ball. 
Oh, there’s never an ending, from rigor unbending, when you by your work are thus led! 
 
Verse 2. 
Go look out the window and see how they’re playing, pursuing the dreams of their own hearts, 
Come listen a moment, to songs through the windows, the melodious music of youth. 
In time they move on, but your clock keeps on ticking, dividing your life into small parts, 
Its language your torment, relentlessly urging you, driving you further from all truth, 
They are time’s true masters, for living like swallows, they fly through creation’s high blue skies, 
All carefree, a blessing, they plunge through the forest; their laughter runs free past the branches, 
While you, in your small room, look into the blank wall, the concrete all speckled with dead flies, 
Your cosmos your papers, and life’s obligations, now free from all risk and life’s chances! 
 
Verse 3. 
In quest for perfection and all that is valued, you make a big fortress of your life, 
You’re endlessly checking, addressing, redressing contingencies, plans for day’s labors, 
But far from releasing you, being so controlled, your dreams become vessels for more strife, 
They’re ruthlessly haunting you, forcing more workloads, and constantly granting no favors. 
So even at night time, when all should be sleeping, when your “thought-life” on pillows is laid, 
The old worries continue, the duties surround you; their business has only begun, 
“Go straighten it, polish it, do it again; step up production, you’re starting to fade”, 
The burdens continue, by dreams or by pen, gnawing your guts to the rising of sun! 

Verse 4. 
Oh please for a minute, oh please for a day; give me some time, and I’ll have the power, 
Anything’s possible, I’ll deal with it all—piles of raw paper, and mountains of work, 
The future you saw, the past you did love, but that’s now all passed, you live in a tower. 
Your mind roves the world, but a void’s in your heart; neglected at last, your fear does there lurk,
Love of your job, vocation or calling has fled far away, with dire madness replaced, 
In time go the papers, and also your world, out through the windows, and into thin air. 
In the garden outside, the air is now still; sweet visions of youth are now all erased, 
For life has moved on, they need you no more; you’re left all alone, at the cobwebs to stare! 
 

ODE TO FENG YA XIN AND FENG YA QI

Written: 2006/10/13

Beats / Syllables: 10 per line (5 + 5).  Rhyme Scheme: None.
Plan: 1) Introduction.  2) Tang background.  3) Castor and Pollux.  4) Present mandate. 
5) Future legacy. 

Background to this poem: FYX and FYQ, who are twin sisters, each used Chinese calligraphy brushes to copy Tang Dynasty poems by Li Bai onto calligraphy scrolls; I intend to hang these scrolls on the walls of my place in Maine.  This poem was written back to them out of appreciation for their fine work.  Li Bai also wrote in the (5 + 5) pattern. 

All hail to thee both, immortal sisters! 
In charm united, in beauty unmatched! 
Cathay’s fabled tales, her poems divine, 
Songs of her Tang bard, of pure milky sky, 
Of riverside trees, hanging willow fronds, 
Lone moon in still sky, loneliness poignant, 
Joy of fine old wine, remembering friends: 
All these past stories, you bring to clear life, 
With a mere brush-stroke, art of the fingers. 
In past olden times, Castor and Pollux, 
In Arcadia, noble Greece’s land, 
Framed mighty stories, achieved untold deeds; 
Posterity saw, and linked them as one 
In the bright heavens, as stars eternal: 
Sign to mariners, help to travelers, 
Guidepost of seasons, unity’s symbol. 
You are likewise now, fair sisters in art, 
Both touched by the Muse, fair brushwork’s patron. 
Her mandate of art: order and balance, 
Controlled proportion, powerful beauty, 
Grace with discipline, form’s emulation, 
Copying yet free, drawn to tradition, 
Words fixed on paper, in spirit full free. 
Though small your domain, in terms of its size, 
Bounded by margins, hung up on a wall, 
Seen by few people, rolled up in a box, 
Resting in far land, understood by none, 
Never in Cathay, great culture’s fair fount, 
Yet understand this:  the spark eternal, 
Granted by the Muse, she of sisters nine, 
Touched briefly your heart, through hands this paper, 
And left a soft glow, that radiates warmth, 
Friendly tenderness, through many long years, 
Through cold winter days, in faraway land. 
                                         

“Roxanne and the Ant.”

Written: 2006/12/12 

Beats / Syllables: 10 per line (5 + 5).  Rhyme Scheme: None.

 
Will you compare me to a wall-bound ant? 
No leader has he, yet purpose drives him, 
Brave as a lion, fearless before all, 
Example of strength, mighty in labors, 
Diligent always, laying store aside, 
Ephemeral life, yet planning ahead – 
This small black creature, scaling mighty heights, 
Drives me the sluggard, rest-loving creature, 
To open my eyes, and stand up again. 
Do not ask of me, but learn you of him; 
Do not follow me, except you contrast! 
The model you seek, it is on yon wall, 
Bearing his grain home, like new Spanish wine, 
Through hostility, over flowered fields.