scanning is looking
for clues as to what’s hidden
but more than a scan
is needed to probe the depths
of what lies inside a heart
Month: December 2013
Raymond Carver on writing
“That’s all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.”
from The Hard Road by Li Po (Li Bai)
Journeying is hard,
Journeying is hard.
There are many turnings–
Which am I to follow?. . .
I will mount a long wind some day and break the heavy waves
And set my cloudy sail straight and bridge the deep, deep sea.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
hard choices: a tanka
there are decisions
hard as they may seem to be
one finally makes
and we live with what follows
try as best to carry on
one for the road
it’s like a Frank Sinatra song
a bartender named Joe
why they’re always called Joe
is beyond me
but why the bottle’s always the same
is another burning question
on what’s left of my mind
so set them up
one more for the road
and like old Deacon Blues
I’ll play a saxophone
or maybe a trumpet
killing the blues
all the way home
In A Retreat Among Bamboos by Wang Wei
Leaning alone in the close bamboos,
I am playing my lute and humming a song
Too softly for anyone to hear–
Except my comrade, the bright moon.
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
A Farewell To Li Tuan by Lu Lun
By my old gate, among yellow grasses,
Still we linger, sick at heart.
The way you must follow through cold clouds
Will lead you this evening into snow.
Your father died; you left home young;
Nobody knew of your misfortunes.
We cry, we say nothing. What can I wish you,
In this blowing wintry world?
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
drilling for oil
he has euphemisms for everything
sex, work, aging
feeding the chicken
beating the bushes
turning the page
and love
well there’s one for love, too
drilling for oil
and he says you go bust
most times you drill
though sometimes you hit a vein
and love gushes out
pure, rich, hot
you bathe in it
roll in it
slide your way into heaven
and maybe, he says
if you’re lucky
the well won’t run dry
Sunday breakfast
every Sunday I make breakfast
eggs with bacon or sausage
or with tomatoes
an Italian style Turkish breakfast dish
olives usually
sometimes honey for the bread
though I like to dip it in yolk
orange juice
and coffee laced with Baileys
I sit later
a second cup of coffee in hand
and can’t stop the memories
one cropping up mostly lately
of a girl who called me poppa
lived in my house for a while
would get up early each morning
to make me breakfast
Korean style
her smile so sweet, gentle
her eyes filled
I know now just as I knew then
with love
but I chose to not notice
being older then than I am now
and convinced it could not work
no future, I thought
as if I could decide those things
and years later
bits and pieces of her
and those breakfasts
the way she would play music I lent her
in her room all night
and though we rarely talked
she would send these incredibly long emails
telling me about her day
the things the music said to her
her future plans
and encouraged by me
she returned to Korea
to design clothes for other women
and to make breakfast for another man
years ago that was
but time has not faded the memory
and she eventually crept her way
into my books
she in part became a character
and a life almost lived
found its way to live between pages
a poor substitute perhaps
but the way things go in fiction
and now a trace of sadness
as I think of those breakfasts
that smile
life in another dimension
so very far from my own
Leonard Durso 