from Spring Songs (3)

from Spring Songs (3)

3.

Spring’s caravan keeps coming, without effort
like a casual daydream of autumn

lightened by pollen colored lenses
settles everywhere until you cannot remove

your spring eyes and realize the daydream
was winter. The mountain takes

on color like it’s coming down with something.

from Spring Songs (1)

from Spring Songs (1)

1.

Spring storms roam across the valley.
On the maple, leaves appear like gypsy tents.

Wind off the mountainside ruffles the green edges:
inside one of the leaves sits a woman at a fortune telling table

laying the lone card of summer face-down.

New Translation of “For Tomas Transtromer” [Chinese]

Mary Tang wrote me today to share a Chinese translation of my poem “For Tomas Transtromer.” For more information about my call for translations of this work, see the Translate This Poem page. On the composition of the translation, Mary writes, “My translation of your poem from English to Chinese was spontaneous and took little time. To me some poems translate themselves into Chinese; other can never be.” Find out more about Mary on her site here. Thanks Mary!

*

路上的冰
影出你我
眼中所見
一般無奈
無法轉向
南部遠冬水盡
跪倒一行古柏
像一隊累了的兵人
失去了重舉的志願
他們背後
鱷寇稱王
我在千里之外的寒春麥田
望見無聲未覺的風暴逼近
深信萬物可失
像腦中的浮現
像夢中的呼叫
–縁盡
風以暴力
能否聽到
你我心聲?
與我同在
面向將來
(c) Mary Tang

The Roots

The Roots

Under your house, in the middle of the night
the roots are spreading across your foundation.

The roots are not a solid base for the visible,
they have never claimed to be that, they have

never even spoken to you. What roots do
is reach out for available space, where roots reach

Is a place you cannot see but which you feel
pulled towards but you are not being pulled,

you are reaching further and further. Up above
your head in the unseen inside you are also reaching.

In the middle of the day the sky’s foundation
is laid again and you are reaching across it

without knowing because you are distracted
by an oak tree’s afterthought ankling out of the earth

And back in where the world is constantly displaced
by the unseen middle, unstraight path.

Untitled Moment in the Middle of the First Night of April

Untitled Moment in the Middle of the First Night of April

Incense rises up the wall
in front of my mother’s painting

A village clings to a cliff a thousand
white rooms open to the sun

No separation of inside or outside
to me this painting is a memory

Of her, about memory about how something
no longer exists but still exists

Like smoke from an incense stick
it is entirely spent lighter than air

More solid than the air we breathe
my mother painted it from a photograph

To learn perspective

DMSpainting