A Solitary Goose

Usually I don't post translations of another poet's work on my blog. But every once in a while I make an exception. I guess it's when another poet's voice moves me so much that I feel need to make something of it my own

This is a poem by Du Fu written as he sailed down the Yangtze in the year 768 or 769 shortly before he died


A solitary goose
Neither drinks nor pecks
But flies in search
Of its long lost flock

Who will remember
This lonely wanderer
Set against the backdrop
Of a lowering sky

Gazing into the distance
And pondering its distress
You almost heave
An involuntary sigh

Amidst the cries
Of the loons and terns
Everywhere so confused

P.F.C. Martin Henry Levey

The things I meant
To tell my father but didn’t
Like the tastiest bits
Left on the plate
For one bad reason or another
Such matters left unsaid
Until it’s almost too late
Are among the reasons
I come to see you today
My dear cousin Marty
A private first class
Like none other
Part cousin part uncle
Part brother

To look into the unfaded truth
That pervades your blue eyes
I can’t imagine any other color
And finally in your presence
There’s no room for doubt
About the portent of
The nurse’s unhurried and
Skillful ministrations
For your impending blind date
As the cancer and strokes
Have almost run the table

In the white bag I brought
A few things of course
A red Gerber daisy
On the nightstand reposes
A plain slice of Junior’s cheesecake
In the fridge now waits

If your eyes were to open
As the moment draws near
I have not the slightest idea
What I’d manage to say
But just to sit near your
Lingering frame
With bruised skin
Pulled loosely over it
Yet still refusing to yield
Its most succulent part
That being your
Untrammeled heart
Every day in acknowledgment
Of its entanglement and
Consanguinity with
Those in close proximity
So liberal of spirit
You will never be undone

Thus tongue-tied
At your bedside I reach
For your hand and feel
It’s quickening pulse
So tongue tied or not
I behold your fading warmth
As it runs a final course
Through the veins
Of my very own body

The Leaves of Man

That words be
The leaves of man
Is a thought we struggle
To understand beyond
What words themselves
Permit us to know

That they display
More than a single side
And flutter in a breeze
Ever so gentle and slow
And always strive
To absorb more light

And whether on vellum
Or parchment inscribed
Or leather bound
Or bagged in plastic
Stacked at the curbside

How they ultimately
Find best use when
As good mulch they
Help other words
In good turn to grow

Easter Sunday

Good Christ to be there
At the beginning
As pistol shot rings out
Announcing the
Race back to life

Supplicant in the soil
My spade unwieldy
For the filigree
Of first growth

Instead my fingers
Follow the Pilgrim trail
Tracing the green line of
Renewal as it radiates
Up and out

Oh hologram of
Light and life

Into the very heart
Of purple madder
The asparagus shimmers
A perfectly formed
Whisper of its
Future self

The strawberry leaf
Blinks and unfurls
Stutter stepping
Across the threshold

I am dumbstruck
By the intrepidity
Of perennial life
Unleashed and still
Quivering with the
First taste of vernal light

Poem for David

Around about
This time of year
That marks the first
Sustained
Disappearance
Of frost

I went down on my hands
And knees in the garden
Digging out on
What I could only hope
Would be the first
Of many such similar
Occasions in the
Rapidly oncoming
Year of the Tiger

I noticed myself
In the midst of this
Taupiary display
Of decaying things

A hardy handful
Of surviving
Dried blossoms
That had endured
The long hard winter
And made it through
To see this first burst
Of glorious Spring

Beauty appearing
Out of nowhere
That had been
Standing there
In plain sight
But unseen for
The longest while

How these slowly
Drying things
In our midst
The azaleas
And hydrangeas
From last year’s garden
Still retain an
Austere glory

You need not
Take my word for it
But first just
Open your eyes
And your mind
To this wonderful thing

What I Owe Du Fu

Only by reading
You in Chinese
Did I discover the
Path to poetry
Through direct struggle
Gleaning feeling first
Before puzzling out
Each character’s meaning

Whereas with
Auden or Eliot
It seemed to work in reverse
For outcome less certain
Or so much the worse
Slogging through
Evident meaning
In order to grasp
As at straws
For what may
Once have been felt

So poetry came
That much easier
Once I abandoned
My native tongue
Where glib understanding
No longer barred the way

And only by following
Your path did I discern
The grammar of my
Own Mother Tongue
Where meaning and feeling
Come together as one

Poem For My Valentine

Handmade by Tumbalina
I gave my love
This pin/button card

Love cubed pinned
To the outside
These words I wrote on
On the blank
Folio page inside:

To say but once
How much I love you
Then I’ve just barely begun

To say it twice is
Better but it still
Won’t suffice

It always takes
Three times or more
To say how much
Je t’adore

‘Cause that’s how much
I love love love you