mid-Summer:
I pause under misty falls,
'til I feel the Spring.
Misty Falls [Haiku]
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Category Archives: poem
Cloud Retreat [Haiku]
Wen Fu 5: “Writing Styles” [文赋五] by Lu Ji [陆机] [w/ Audio]
Among ten thousand writing styles,
There's no one standard or measure.
The styles: many, muddled, and free --
Form, the unattainable treasure.
Talent in word-wrangling shows skill.
Idea conveyance shows craft.
Writers strive 'twixt have and have not --
Unyielding in shallow or deep draught.
An escape artist of fine lines --
Yet time and space consume in kind.
Intricacy excites the eye,
But frugality soothes the mind.
One of few words is not confined.
Verbose writers drift the Undefined.
The original in Simplified Chinese:
体有万殊，物无一量。
纷纭挥霍，形难为状。
辞程才以效伎，意司契而为匠。
在有无而黾勉，当浅深而不让。
虽离方而遯员，期穷形而尽相。
故夫夸目者尚奢，惬心者贵当。
言穷者无隘，论达者唯旷。
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Summer Fishing [Haiku]
long-tailed boat
chugs down the buoy-line:
Summer fishing.
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The Oldest & the Last [Free Verse]
Kipling called prostitution
The world's oldest profession.
Now, I'm pretty sure that it
Will be the last, as well:
The last professional endeavor --
The last profitable activity --
That humans do better than
Machines.
Whores will be the last holdouts
To shift from being workers
To being Artists of Humanity. . .
Or - maybe - they will be
The first in that, as well.
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“Chaucer” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [w/ Audio]
An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk,
and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the
lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine
through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the
sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I heard the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery
mead.
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“Laughing Song” by William Blake [w/ Audio]
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing 'Ha, Ha, He!'
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live & be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha, Ha, He!'
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Daruma [Free Verse]
He is carved as an
amorphous stone,
Suggesting he stared
into the rock until
any distinction between
himself and the rock
vanished. . .
But the sculptor couldn't
help but add a face.
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“Poetry Is a Destructive Force” by Wallace Stevens [w/ Audio]
That's what misery is,
Nothing to have at heart.
It is to have or nothing.
It is a thing to have,
A lion, an ox in his breast,
To feel it breathing there.
Corazón, stout dog,
Young ox, bow-legged bear,
He tastes its blood, not spit.
He is like a man
In the body of a violent beast.
Its muscles are his own. . .
The lion sleeps in the sun.
Its nose is on its paws.
It can kill a man.
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Liquid Hours [Free Verse]
liquid hours poured forth,
rolling over rock
& into the sea.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 