From Yellow-Crane Tower, my old friend leaves the west.
Downstream to Yang-chou, late spring a haze of blossoms,
distant glints of lone sail vanish into emerald-green air:
nothing left but a river flowing on the borders of heaven.
translated by David Hinton
CODA: The Phone Calls
you try to tell them what you’re doing
only they’re not listening to what you’re saying
just listening for clues
as to why you’re not seeing them any longer
how to explain
this stalling of time
as you regroup your resources
after all you’ve lost
all you’ve walked away from
so you tell stories of shoplifters
amusing incidents of customer relations
of the holdup and the gun
waved in your face
and though you try to tell about the people
how could they understand anyway
insulated in their age
their positions in life
how could they understand how these kids
these young people
are changing you
not the mind because that was changing anyway
but the heart
that was the surprise
and the walls
where are the walls when you need them
but these ladies can’t hear
one understands the people not the job
one understands the job not the people
and the third understands nothing
the ears were deaf long before you started talking
you think Jane would understand
then think no
she would just listen
then walk away blank as before
women
you say to the shot glass
have never been my forte
and the sadness starts to settle in again
another shot
another wasted phone call
another staring at the printed page
life goes on
and you go with it
writing and reading and watching the light
on the Empire State Building
turn off
and thinking
I must hold out longer
she will come
she will come
so you close your eyes
take a drink
and listen to the clouds
fall asleep on the couch
and wake with the wind in your face
sometime near morning
there will be times
when all the words you said
all the acts you committed
will come crashing down around you
and at those times
in the dead of night
no one will be there
to save you
from your consequences
and in answer to your question
there will be no one
to forgive you
either
on this side of the world
accused
of so much
unintended
when all
I was offering
was friendship
Beneath the Moses of the incense,
asleep.
Eyes of bulls were looking at you.
Your rosary was raining.
In that dress of deep silk,
do not move, Virginia.
Give the black melons of your breasts
to the whispers of the mass.
translated by Robert Bly
The Glasses
are gone
you discover that in the morning
on your way to the subway
when the street looks blurry
and you remember a sign
First Avenue
and think
they’re somewhere on First Avenue
and feel slightly sicker than you felt in the shower
when you realized that not only were you still drunk
you had to be at work in 45 minutes
there is no sympathy from the girls
they giggle and shake their heads
and when you ask for something with dough to eat
Julie brings back MacDonald’s animal crackers
and then proceeds to eat half of them
Zaida looks pained
but eats a few too
and Luz could give a damn
you’re left with 4 cookies
that lousy coffee
and Stacey who comes in at 2 to gloat
you wonder if this is what poetic justice is
especially after that tirade in the bar
about the youth of today
you know your ex-wife would say
see why I married someone boring
and you think yeah
yeah I see
though not so well
without the glasses
and thank whoever’s listening there’re no trade-ins
and beg your favorite ladies
to please not take advantage of an aging fool
you also swear to give up drinking
but know your oaths lately are not to be trusted
and somehow someway
the day ends
you drag ass to the subway
and go home to bed
to sleep like the baby
you never were
“And again he thought the thought we already know: Human life occurs only once, and the reason we cannot determine which of our decisions are good and which bad is that in a given situation we can only make one decision; we are not granted a second, third, or fourth life in which to compare various decisions.
History is similar to individual lives in this respect…..
….History is as light as individual human life, unbearably light, light as a feather, as dust swirling into the air, as whatever will no longer exist tomorrow.”
translated by Michael Henry Heim
sometimes
at night
when he couldn’t sleep
he would wrap her lock of hair
around his finger
and brush it against his lips
sometimes
during the day
he would do that
too
The rainy Pleiads wester,
Orino plunges prone,
The stroke of midnight ceases
And I lie down alone.
The rainy Pleiads wester
And seek beyond the sea
The head that I shall dream of
That will not dream of me.
Watching Shoes
he’s become obsessed watching shoes
every pair in/every pair out
he is trying to remember who wore what
the equation what walks in
minus what walks out
equal sales
fills his head
now if only he could remember what walked in
he’d be in business
only his memory
like his hair
is thinning
an example of the adage
age isn’t necessarily better
just older
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
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