Wind
April leaves have given the wind a face and a voice
but not a body and not a will. Facing the headwind
Of great deeds and tragedies, I think we feel the same:
fear and awe at power without will, animating a hero.
April leaves have given the wind a face and a voice
but not a body and not a will. Facing the headwind
Of great deeds and tragedies, I think we feel the same:
fear and awe at power without will, animating a hero.
Behind the cloud mass the sun is uncoiling and coiling
dragon wrapped around itself spitting fire behind a waterfall
And for a moment as I think of home it is eclipsed entirely
by an imperfection in the windshield where six months ago
a pebble fell from nowhere as I drove up this very mountain’s
westward spine bounced with a crack, oblivion leaving its mark
A man wise in these things called this a “star break”
and of no danger to the integrity of my vision
Soon sun the mountain will shrug you off you will drop below
the ragged day’s line into tomorrow while I take the only road
I can to find what I left is now ahead of me and waiting behind
a light in windows, laughter drifting through the gap
I will be checking out this rather cool topic in my rather cool and little city this weekend. Angela Carter and Stan Galloway are area poets whose work I have enjoyed hearing in person.
Printer extraordinaire Emily Hancock of St Brigid Press will also be bringing copies of the mini-broadside of my translation of Li Ho’s “Sky Dream” for the event. I will not be selling this myself and I’m not sure if Emily has it for sale yet on her site, but you can always write her if you’re interested in seeing more. The poem is printed on very thin Unryu paper backed by grey Magnani Pescia paper, in Bembo typeface. The matting creates the shape of the moon which of course our poet Li would not bother to name in his brilliant and strange piece of verse, and will I think be available in a variety of night-sky-ish colors.
I believe St Brigid Press will also be issuing this poem’s companion translation of Li Po’s work, as well as a few other translations of classical Chinese verse. And of course as I attend this event I’ll be taking with me my time-travelling version of Mei Yao-ch’en, the great 11th century poet with whom I have spent so much time these last few months…
The leaves were not laughing at me
(I could read their minds by floodlight)
In that perfect increment of night
when I loved the moment enough
For it to be my last they did not laugh
when I decreed it irreversible
In the barrel of empty air afloat
on the last black wave taking root
the leaves
did not laugh at me that
laughter was my own (by
floodlight they can read my mind)
This book does not care if you buy it.
This poem does not care if you buy the book.
Even I do not care if you buy the book.
The three of us have been waiting here
To tell you this, but even more—perhaps
you have just been thinking of that person
Whose love has kept you alive without you
knowing it these many years, perhaps you
Are remembering that person now.
Are they right beside you, unaware your
Love flows stronger than ever? Have you
not exchanged words in years? We are here
To tell you—put down this book, do not look
back, you were never looking back but always
Straight through the eye of his soul.
Put down this book now and go to him.
Or, if you are still here, at a loss for words,
I will help you. Go buy this book
And leave it face down where he
will find it, and notice this poem,
That is why we are here, after all,
And we will see what can be done.