On a hike,
I come upon a tree
Raised up on its roots,
As if in mid-stride --
A long, cartoonish stride
That stretches across the trail.
But the tree doesn't stir --
No matter how quietly I wait;
No matter how long I wait.
Oh, how I wish to catch the tree
As it flees.
in a flat, wide river:
something juts up
from the water --
far in the distance
for an instant,
i startle:
seeing it as an
extended arm...
like that Stevie Smith
poem, but i discover
it's neither waving,
nor drowning, but
merely protruding...
a dead limb
stuck in the river,
drag & pull balanced,
waiting to be
carried away.
I cut myself upon the thought of you
And yet I come back to it again and again,
A kind of fury makes me want to draw you out
From the dimness of the present
And set you sharply above me in a wheel of roses.
Then, going obviously to inhale their fragrance,
I touch the blade of you and cling upon it,
And only when the blood runs out across my fingers
Am I at all satisfied.
What a view --
Lying on one's back
In a strange land,
Seeing familiar skies,
&
Unfamiliar faces,
And wondering what kind
Of strange beast
They take one for --
On one's back,
In the churchyard
Of a strange land.
An unfamiliar horse --
Saddled but riderless --
Cautiously ambles
Into the village.
Its saddle, bags, and coat
Spattered in black --
Really, rust-red on brown.
The villagers want nothing
To do with it,
But each sneaks it food
And lets it water at their
Tank.
Crisis arises
From the depths
Of intended perfection --
"Intended" because all
We can ever do is
Aim & release.
It is more an act of luck
To hit the bullseye
Than to miss.
Bullseyes don't occur because
Of a lack of adverse forces
At work.
They occur because of some
Fortuitous balancing
Of adverse forces.
Trudging into lapping waves
On a dim and dusky eve.
Chest deep
One pops up, pressing one's chest
Onto the water,
And swims toward a distant
Silhouetted rock outcrop.
But it doesn't stay silhouetted.
Soon, one is heading into
A grand, black abyss,
There is no shape in this world,
Only the feel of limbs -- pulling & kicking.
Sounds grow ever more feeble --
And ever more rare --
Until the smell of seawater becomes
A bright and vivid sensory experience --
Layered & textured.
Rolling onto one's back, one can see
Patches of sparkling stars
In the cloud gaps.
One lays upon the waves --
Feeling as though one conforms to them
As one floats like a piece of driftwood --
And sees the twinkle of distant stars,
In a world too vast to understand.
Sun dips below the hill;
Light rises off the roof,
And the lowest clouds
Glow in salmon hues.
I thought:
The moon,
Shining upon the many steps of the palace before me,
Shines also upon the chequered rice-fields
Of my native land.
And my tears fell
Like white rice grains
At my feet.
Limestone lumps
Karst columns
Dot the waters,
Like ancient wreckage --
Wrack & ruin
Slung near & far
From coastal homelands;
A landscape torn asunder
And littered about,
But beloved for the beauty
Of its scraggy, weedy
Weathered rock.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 