Snow is falling, falling outside.
The moonlight steals through the window.
Dusk-borne, she enters my dream
to be held in my arms.
Tears soak my pillow
now she has left me.
At quiet dawn a shadowy star
peeps through the window.
translated by Jaihiun Kim & Ronald B. Hatch
Month: July 2023
from a love poem by Hafez
And like a hawk I’ve seeled* my eyes to all
The world, to glimpse the face that I adore.
Whover strays within your street, it is
Your eyebrow’s curve that he will pray before;
O friend, to know the fire in Hafez’ heart
Ask candles what they’re burning, melting, for.
translated by Dick Davis
*seeled is an archaic verb that means to close the eyes, to prevent from seeing
from The Message by Rabindranath Tagore
Evidently the only way to find the path is to set fire to my own life.
translated by Robert Bly
6am in Moda
the cat
looks up
as I pass
before returning
to batting a dead mouse
with its paws
the hunter home
from the street
with a nod to The Waterboys: a bang on the ear
there was sweet Annie
dark eyed Karen
smouldering Maryanne
the loves of my teenage years
I was too awkward
to keep
others followed later
to grace or taint my life
but those three
linger in dreams
while most others
melt away
and so I send my love
and a bang
on the ear*
5000 miles and more
to the loves
I was foolish
not to use
the words needed
to have them stay
*a bang on the ear is an old Celtic expression meaning to give a kiss or a pat on the head
these ancient poets
these ancient poets
and their longing
for homes
beyond reach
family friends
only recalled
in memory
carrying a melancholy
at times too deep
to bear
yet able still
to be stunned
by the beauty
of the natural world
around them
these ancient poets
speak to for me
from a line by Yü Hsüan-chi: blow strong wind
blow strong wind
through the streets
of this ancient city
blow the dust
from these old eyes
so that they may see
five thousand miles
across seas an ocean
there where my home
used to be
from a line by Wang An-shih: pity the poor moon
pity the poor moon
looking down
on sad sad me
a glass of Irish
in my hand
and this loss
forever stamped
on my face
for JK wherever she is
listening to Miles
for Alvin Miller & Henry Munoz lost to time but still in my heart
the wind blows
outside
Miles’ trumpet blows
inside
and I am back
in Frank’s
with Alvin and Henry
drinking after hours
the bar’s doors locked
and we regular patrons
on weekend nights
sit sipping our drinks
inside
and it’s there
Miles on the tape deck
Alvin does some scat singing
Henry’s babyface smile
and there at 18
I think I own the world
or at least
this small part of it
in The Village
at 3am
with my friends
scotch on the rocks
poetry in our hearts
and the night
will never end
at least not until
morning
which always comes
much too soon
much too often
then
and now
in a world that’s changed
and hasn’t changed
and Miles’ trumpet
haunts now
more than before
or maybe my ears
listen better
to wind
to trumpet
to the world
changing me
Leonard Durso 