talking to you
is like walking backwards
no place I haven’t been
no place I long to go
Author: zdunno03
I Am A Peach Tree by Li Po (Li Bai)
I am a peach tree blossoming in a deep pit.
Who is there I may turn to and smile?
You are the moon up in the far sky;
Passing, you looked down on me an hour; then went on forever.
A sword with the keenest edge,
Could not cut the stream of water in twain
So that it would cease to flow.
My thought is like the stream; and flows and follows you on forever.
translated by Shigeyoshi Obata
lately
I suppose my thinking
lately
is less muddled
than before
a good sign
no doubt
of future plans
or at least
of planning
for the future
and though there are things
familiar now
in an unfamiliar world
which will be lost
or actually replaced
by other things
which will in turn
become familiar, too
a sort of nostalgia
set in
as I walked my neighborhood
today
and it being slightly overcast
added to this semi-gloom
but here is where
I have set up camp
and all my ships
were burned long ago
home isn’t always
where your heart is
but sometimes your heart
is where you settle down
to rest
perhaps both
dogs howling
during morning prayer
seeking rescue
from the streets
or offering praise
to their divinity
or perhaps
both
that ghost
always there
that ghost
in front of me
in the garden
they descend
their voices loud shrill
the whole world needs
to hear
their trival chatter
the peace shattered
in this garden
gone the way of
the lowest common denominator
and self-absorption
on gardens: for Kristina
a garden
she says
for flowers plants
tomatoes perhaps
like the Italians had
when growing up
though she is not Italian
not that that matters
gardens know no nationality
flowers plants
tomatoes even
understand caring hands
like hers
there in the center
of war
a dream
of a garden
flowers plants
tomatoes possibly
and love
when it comes
will grow there
too
If Only I Could Set Sail by Orhan Veli Kanik
How pleasant, oh dear God, how pleasant
To journey on the blue sea
To cast off from shore
Aimless as thought.
I would set sail to the wind
And wander from sea to sea
To find myself one morning
In some deserted bay.
In a harbor large and clean
A harbor in coral isles
Where in the wake of clouds
A golden summer trails.
The languid scent of oleasters
Would fill me there
And the taste of sorrow
Never find that place.
Sparrows would nest in the flowered
Eaves of my dream castle
The evenings would unravel with colors
The days pass in pomengrate gardens.
translated by Ozcan Yalim, William Fielder, and Dionis Coffin Riggs
on gardens
there are words
inadequate
actions
incomprehensible
feelings
misunderstood
some things are best
left alone
to wither
on their own accord
where blossoms
are impossible
to cultivate
from The Dancer Upstairs by Nicholas Shakespeare
There is no point trying to understand why people fall in love. My contact with Yolanda had been so snatched, yet the impact had been intense. I was forty-three years old, but I had lived only for a few days. Once you wake up like that, you don’t drop back into sleep. Not easily. Since Monday, when I had bumped into Yolanda in the Bullrich Arcade, I had hardly slept. My heart had become a vast and uncomfortable thing. It reared out of my chest, throwing back my head so I could breathe only with difficulty. As I pressed my forehead to the dark Perspex strip, I could no longer hide from myself the reason for these feelings, this behavior.
In the next few hours that remained until I saw her again, this is what I argued: I was in the saddle of a passion which could lead nowhere. I sifted Yolanda’s character for faults, fumbled with them to that narrow bar of light. She was immature, unpredictable. She had chubby cheeks, an unquenchable appetite for cakes, ugly feet. I pictured her in revolting positions. I summoned her feet and stamped their deformed features on her face, over her eyes. There! Could I find her attractive now? I did. I did! I was in pain. I was miserable. I was ashamed. I was thrilled. The smallest detail rang with her name, from the outline of the jacaranda to the pattern of specks on the Perspex.
Leonard Durso 