from Spring Songs (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 (2)
Each time I clear the fence of another day
I am trespassing onto the future’s yard
Like the deer behind the house
alarmed to find open space by the trees leaping
fence after fence and just as quickly gone
from Spring Songs (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.
This entry was posted in
Poetry and tagged afton mountain, fortune telling, gypsy, haiku, not haiku, poetry, rain, spring, summer, unregulated verse, wind on . April 13, 2015
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!
(c) Mary Tang
To the Cloud
No wonder at dusk I find you sleeping in the hollows
in the crook of the mountain’s arm: you had so much
to carry, so much to let go: yet you are unchanged
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
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
This entry was posted in
New Writing, Poetry and tagged Alzheimers, depth, haiku, memory, not haiku, painting, perspective, places i have not visited, poetry, unregulated verse on . April 2, 2015