“Truth,” said a traveller,
“Is a rock, a mighty fortress;
“Often have I been to it,
“Even to its highest tower,
“From whence the world looks black.”
“Truth,” said a traveller,
“Is a breath, a wind,
“A shadow, a phantom;
“Long have I pursued it,
“But never have I touched
“The hem of its garment.”
And I believed the second traveller;
For truth was to me
A breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom,
And never had I touched
The hem of its garment.
Public beach:
10am on a Tuesday.
It's peaceful --
Peaceful in a depressing
Sort of way.
It's desolate.
There are gulls and crabs,
But not a human in sight.
It's like the scene in which
A solitary survivor --
Having endured
Disease,
Starvation,
Outlaws,
&
Zombies
While crossing the
Continent on foot --
Realizes he has reached
The end of the line, &
The rumored sanctuary
Does not exist...
But at least the view is nice,
And -- for the moment --
It's Zombie free.
Let the place of the solitaires
Be a place of perpetual undulation.
Whether it be in mid-sea
On the dark, green water-wheel,
Or on the beaches,
There must be no cessation
Of motion, or of the noise of motion,
The renewal of noise
And manifold continuation;
And, most, of the motion of thought
And its restless iteration,
In the place of the solitaires,
Which is to be a place of perpetual undulation.
In my youth, "Honk Kong"
Came after "Made in __"
As often as did any
Set of letters.
I can't remember the last time
I saw that declaration.
I do hear references to the
Hong Kong Markets opening.
They tore down the
Kowloon Walled City ---
A chock a block, chunky
Architectural cancer growth
Where people lived squeezed
More than a million to the
Square kilometer.
But still there are places where people
Are packed and packed --
While densely stacked --
In high-rise Building-Cities.
(If a City-State is a place in which
City and Nation are identical,
A Building-City is where a
Building contains all the
Functions of a city.)
One could live without leaving
If one didn't love sunshine.
But people do love sunshine.
And mountains and beaches,
Which Hong Kong also --
Against all reason --
Has in abundance.
Rainy day
Graveyard:
Green grass
Glistens
Between row on row
Of low gravestones.
Droplets dash
Against the marble
And against
The brass plaques --
Silently.
Though a steady patter
Of drips on leaves
Sings through.
A poncho-clad figure
Walks through the
Sprawling war memorial ---
Alone.
After dark —-
A city park —-
There runs the thing
That comes to life
By night.
Caged in stillness
Through sunlit hours.
Its night persona
Is blurred movement
Seen only from the
Corner of an eye.
It stays near deep shadow,
Beyond the lamp lit arcs.
Where is it?
No one knows,
But if one were to
Check the cathedral
Spire, you’d find
Only an impenetrable
Void…
until sunup.
In the cloud-grey mornings
I heard the herons flying;
And when I came into my garden,
My silken outer-garment
Trailed over withered leaves.
A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,
But I have seen many Autumns
With herons blowing like smoke
Across the sky.
I read the space
Around the poem.
It has no meaning,
But says so much.
It betrays a little secret
That no reader ever learned
Who was too concerned
With what was written,
While wholly inattentive
To
What
Was
Not.
You came to my door in the dawn and sang;
it angered me to be awakened from sleep,
and you went away unheeded.
You came in the noon and asked for water;
it vexed me in my work,
and you were sent away with reproaches.
You came in the evening with your flaming torches.
You seemed to me like a terror and I shut my door.
Now in the midnight I sit alone in my lampless room
and call you back whom I turned away in insult.
Startlement: New and Selected Poems by Ada Limon
Tiger Riding for Beginners 