We cast our spells by way of words --
Each sound, sacred. Its magic blurred
By mundane ways and untrained ears --
Failure to feel one's way to tears.
So, we're lost upon silent seas
Even when one could hear with ease:
Because boundless is speech's spread,
And boundless, still, within one's head.
Some seek their way to the magic
By means that are truly tragic,
When all they really need to do
Is listen as it passes through.
My song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decoration.
Ornaments would mar our union;
they would come between thee and me;
their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight.
O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet.
Only let me make my life simple and straight,
like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.
NOTE: This poem is sometimes titled, “My song has put off her adornments,” or – simply – Song VII.
the hills are greening,
after days of endless rain;
the landscape, edgeless.
the herd grazes
as Spring rains start to fall;
none looks up.
beyond the city,
a massive mountain looms,
pretending to be clouds.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
from across the bay,
the skyline looks dim; then, it's
glowing on your face.
pink flowers cascade
over a quiet pond:
feels like Spring
At day's end, feeling ill-at-ease,
Riding a cart to the plateau.
The setting sun fires glorious skies,
But a yellow dusk is coming.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 