DAILY PHOTO: Scenes from atop Hayashi Department Store, Tainan
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Author Archives: B Gourley
The Brave One [Haiku]
one hundred birds
startle at my presence;
one eyeballs me.
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“Placid” [Poetry Style #2] by Sikong Tu [w/ Audio]
It thrives in silence and with calm --
ephemeral and gossamer.
It's ever-flowing harmony,
gliding with a solitary crane,
wisping like the gentle breezes
that rustle and billow one's robe,
trilling softly like a bamboo flute.
How does one become one with it?
A chance meeting, lucked into, but
don't lunge forward, or it'll vanish.
When you think it's attainable,
it twists in your hand and is gone.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a translation of the second of the twenty-four poems.
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PROMPT: Negative Feelings
A practice of feeling gratitude is extremely beneficial in that regard. Simple meditative practices help one become aware of thoughts and feelings more quickly, before they are fed through rumination, making the down-spiral cycle easier to disrupt.
And, sometimes, I rant. This usually veers quickly into comedic territory and I’m reminded of the ridiculousness of taking human life too seriously, given the absurdity of being primates in pants who love shiny things. (It would be unimaginable if human life weren’t absurd.)
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Embarrassment of Riches [Haiku]
early summer:
birds trudge through green paddies
that they usually prowl.
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DAILY PHOTO: Viru Gate in Light & Shadow, Tallinn
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One River [Free Verse]
From the water's edge,
I see the spastic, choppy
topography of a river
that looked glassy
from the bridge that
spans it.
Is this one river?
Am I one traveler?
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“Meeting at Night” by Robert Browning [w/ Audio]
I
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
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PROMPT: Lose Yourself
Any that I can. If I can’t, it’s probably a tedious work-a-day task that I’m trying to get through so that I can get back to activities in which I can lose myself.
