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.
I heard thee laugh,
And in this merriment
I defined the measure of my pain;
I knew that I was alone,
Alone with love,
Poor shivering love,
And he, little sprite,
Came to watch with me,
And at midnight
We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.
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.
"Have you ever made a just man?"
"Oh, I have made three," answered God,
"But two of them are dead,
And the third --
Listen! Listen!
And you will hear the thud of his defeat."
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 