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
Author: zdunno03
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
On Returning to Sung Mountain by Wang Wei
The clear stream girdles the long copse,
Carriage horses amble with ease, with ease.
Flowing water seems to be purposeful.
Evening birds in pairs return.
Barren city walls overlook the cold ford,
Fading sunlight fills the autumn mountains.
Far and distant–below Sung’s height;
I’ve come home, and close the gate.
translated by Paul Kroll
at home, more or less
my cat looks up
as he hears a cat crying in the night
he looks at me with wide eyes
and no, I say
this is not New York
and you do not hear another you
we are aliens here, I say
this is Istanbul
and Turkish cats are crying
for food, for shelter
but you are safe
there is food in your bowl
water, treats
no hunger here for a stray New Yorker
and life goes on
in relative peace
climb back on the bed
and sleep, little friend
sleep
you are more or less
at home
Slow Chrysanthemums by So Ko-jong
The chrysanthemums are slow to bloom this year,
I have found no autumn joy by the eastern hedge.
Heartless, indeed, is the west wind: it blows
into my greying hair, not yellow chrysanthemums.
translated by Kim Jong-gil
Edward Albee on writing
Interviewer: You have said that it is through the actual process of writing that you eventually come to know the theme of your play. Sometimes you’ve admitted that even when you have finished a play you don’t have any specific idea about its theme. What about that?
Albee: Naturally, no writer who’s any good at all would sit down and put a sheet of paper in a typewriter and start typing a play unless he knew what he was writing about. But at the same time, writing has got to be an act of discovery. Finding out things about what one is writing about. To a certain extent I imagine a play is completely finished in my mind–in my case at any rate–without my knowing it, before I sit down to write. So in that sense, I suppose, writing a play is finding out what the play is. I always find that the better answer to give. It’s a question I despise, and it always seems to me better to slough off the answer to a question which I consider to be a terrible invasion of privacy–the kind of privacy that a writer must keep for himself. If you intellectualize and examine the creative process too carefully, it can evaporate and vanish. It’s not only terribly difficult to talk about, it’s dangerous. You know the old story about the–I think it’s one of Aesop’s Fables, or perhaps not, or a Chinese story–about the very clever animal that saw a centipede that he didn’t like. He said, “My God, it’s amazing and marvelous how you walk with all those hundreds and thousands of legs. How do you do it? How do you get them all moving that way?” The centipede stopped and thought and said, “Well,I take the left front leg and then I–” and he thought about it for a while, and he couldn’t walk.
thanksgiving on the other side of the world
there are voices calling my name
on the other side of the world
an empty chair
a glass not filled with wine
dark meat with gravy
stuffing with mushrooms
manicotti
and Robert’s famous meatballs and gravy
hot and sweet sausage
broccoli with garlic, lemon and oil
Johnny bought blueberry pie
only I’m not getting a piece
’cause I’m over here
on the other side of the world
quietly finishing a bottle of wine
trying not to think of your voice
the sorrow in the air
fresh flowers don’t quite kill the smell
of disappointment
regret
another year gone by
that empty chair
that bottle of wine unopened
ice cream melting on a plate
Al Martino singing love songs
George serving salad
and you sliding food onto my plate
the cat under the table
my hand reaching across
space
grabbing nothing
grabbing air
on the other side
of the world