Poem Composed in a Bed of Clover

This spring things are growing

Around me lushly like a thick bed

Of clover so much so that it feels

Like I’m a baby swaddled in a blanket

Held tightly but without the luxury 

Of being able to roll over and yet

The clover keeps growing 

All around my face

On the Ferry

Once again a fair weather crossing

Sitting masked in the bow

Forward looking in spirit

On a first post-pandemic journey

Along the outer banks of good reason

Sunning on the upper deck

With a fair mermaid in the prow

But what lies ahead soon falls behind

Coming or going rarely different in kind

Howsoever different in mind

Spring Candelabra (a love poem to my favorite tree)

On our morning walk

Marissa and I came across

This magnolia tree fully possessed by

The first light from the East

A spring candelabra

Of outlandish beauty

With its shadow dancing 

On the lawn in front of us

Bobbing in a light breeze

And I stood befuddled

Transfixed really having

Stumbled upon it at the

Very moment of its blossoming 

Like a fireworks display

In staggered bursts 

Of green-yellow flame

Opening before my eyes

A shot for the Year Book 

It was truly an epiphany

At least in the droll personal history

Of me and my favorite tree  

   

 

A Light Rain in Early Spring (by Han Yu)

 

From Heaven's byways

A light rain falls

Fine as silk

The grass looks

Bedraggled

On the verge

But not yet here

Peerless is springtime

Surrounded by blessings

The willow triumphs

Shrouded in mist

An Emperor enthroned

In the Forbidden City

A Single Spring (by Han Shan)

Today I translated this poem by Han Shan, the hermit-poet of Cold Mountain.  It's the last line of this poem that takes my breath away.  How many years lie within a single spring?  This for me captures the essence of early spring - a time filled by infinite possibility -- when all of life is crammed into a handful of days as the worms first begin turning the soil.

My home is spare

And well hidden

Dwelling far from

The earth's clamor

I tread on the grass

To make three paths

And gaze upon the clouds

Who are my nearest neighbors

The birds join me in song

There's no else to discuss

Any matters of Dharma

Each day bears the fruit

Of Karma's great tree

How many years I wonder 

Lie within a single spring 

    

The Dream Machine

It comes without instructions

Nor are any needed really

The design is intuitive

You just plug it in 

And close your eyes

Tightly or ever so slightly

It matters not a bit

The pillow rises and falls

As if breathing on its own

Part of a larger apparatus 

Which delivers dreams

Directly to your head

All of which are recorded

On a flash memory card

Retrievable periodically

Subject to overwriting and error

In accordance with an algorithm

First inscribed in the Book of the Dead

 

 

Spring Scene (by Du Fu)

This Du Fu poem (written in the mid 8th century) captures the mood of the moment for me -- the return of spring in a world that has not yet emerged from a period of disruption and ruin.  Why write poetry at a time of seeming social collapse?  Is it a sympathetic fallacy to suppose that a millennium or so hence someone may understand that much better how they are feeling?  

Spring Scene

The country lies broken though

Mountains and rivers remain

As spring returns to the city

Grasses and trees regain

The depth of green

But in the mood 

Of these days

Dew sprinkles the flowers

Like tears on the cheek

And the heart knows only regret

Watching the sparrow take flight

For three months 

The beacon fires have flared

Making a letter from home

More precious than gold

And my white hair grown

Thin from constant scratching

Won't even hold a pin