Category Archives: poem

Wen Fu 9 [文赋九] “The Whip” by Lu Ji [陆机] [w/ Audio]

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Language can be complex, reason may sprawl,
  And words don't always seem to point the way.
  Extremes aren't always clear and distinct.
  Overhauls are not always an upgrade.
  The gist may dwell in a key phrase or two --
  Those words the whip that make it race or stay.
  Though multitudinous words are in place
  They must do more than roar, hiss, or bray.
  Overuse of the whip exhausts the horse --
  Keep the impulse to whip too much at bay.

The original lines in Simplified Chinese are: 

或文繁理富，    而意不指适。
极无两致，        尽不可益。
立片言而居要，乃一篇之警策。
虽众辞之有条，必待兹而效绩。
亮功多而累寡，故取足而不易。

Spring’s Story [Haiku]

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unfurled buds,
 not drooped to gravity,
  tell Spring’s story.

Green Door [Free Verse]

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What mysteries lie behind
  That old green wooden door:
    Carved elaborately 
     In bygone days?
 
On a street that features only sights
   Both newer and more decrepit,
   It stands out as a grand entrance 
     That begs something special 
      Beyond.

I’d hate to think it’s just 
   Old paint cans —
     Half empty and congealed 
      Beyond usefulness.

I doubt it’s a brothel or speakeasy —
         Too silent…
   But a vault of lost masterpieces,
     Inhabited by a hairy-legged spider,
     Might not be too much to ask.

Little Dragon [Lyric Poem]

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Ancient temple carved with features:
 Beasts, men, gods and mythic creatures.
 Imagine my surprise when I 
 Came face-to-face with this lil’ guy.

The lizard did his level best
 To stay stock still with puffed-out chest.
 To pass for a chiseled dragon,
 But couldn’t keep its tail from waggin’.

“The Death of a Soldier” by Wallace Stevens [w/ Audio]

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Life contracts and death is expected,
As in a season of autumn.
The soldier falls.
 
He does not become a three-days personage,
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.
 
Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,
 
When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.

World Lung [Haiku]

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trunk splits to branches
 that stretch to the edge
  of oxygen’s crossing.

“The Soul has Bandaged moments” (360) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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The Soul has Bandaged moments -
   When too appalled to stir -
 She feels some ghastly Fright come up
   And stop to look at her -

Salute her, with long fingers -
   Caress her freezing hair -
 Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
   The Lover - hovered - o'er -
 Unworthy, that a thought so mean
   Accost a Theme - so - fair -

The soul has moments of escape -
   When bursting all the doors -
 She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
   And swings opon the Hours,

As do the Bee - delirious borne -
   Long Dungeoned from his Rose -
 Touch Liberty - then know no more -
   But Noon, and Paradise

The Soul's retaken moments -
   When, Felon led along,
 With shackles on the plumed feet,
   And staples, in the song,

The Horror welcomes her, again,
 These, are not brayed of Tongue -

Understory [Haiku]

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understory thrives:
 light plants & shadow plants
  each finds its place.

Watcher [Haiku]

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lone watcher leans
 on pagoda railing
  to view sunrise.

“Do Not Weep, Maiden, For War Is Kind” by Stephen Crane [w/ Audio]

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Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
 Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
 And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
 Do not weep.
 War is kind.

      Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
      Little souls who thirst for fight,
      These men were born to drill and die.
      The unexplained glory flies above them,
      Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
      A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
 Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
 Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
 Do not weep.
 War is kind.

      Swift, blazing flag of the regiment,
      Eagle with crest of red and gold,
      These men were born to drill and die.
      Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
      Make plain to them the excellence of killing
      And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
 On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
 Do not weep.
 War is kind.

This poem opens War Is Kind and Other Lines (1899.)