Chuck says
when we were younger
it was sort of a whimsy
to think of time passing
before we shrugged it off
and moved on with our day
now it’s a reality
fleeting has a new meaning
and each day
each moment
a new significance
there is nothing quite like
these Saturday morning conversations
to remind one
of things one cannot overlook
anymore
so it’s Judy Collins
on the stereo
which prompted that comment
and wine this early
in the morning
and the hell with time
let it pass
there’s laundry to do
some food shopping
buy a steak to eat
with eggs for breakfast
tomorrow morning
and dare that specter
to try anything funny
with me today
aging
Evening: for Chang Chi and Chou K’uang by Han Yü
The sunlight thins, the view empties:
Back from a walk, I lie under the front eaves.
Fairweather clouds like torn fluff
And the new moon like a whetted sickle.
A zest for the fields and moors stirs in me,
The ambition for robes of office has long since turned to loathing.
While I live, shall I take your hand again
Sighing that our years will soon be done?
translated A.C. Graham
poem by Yamanoue Okura from The Man’yoshü
Like the unchanging cliffs,
I would remain just as I am.
But I am living in this world
and cannot hold time back.
translated by Ian Hideo Levy
The Autumn Wind by Wu-ti
Autumn wind rises: white clouds fly.
Grass and trees wither: geese go south.
Orchids all in bloom: chrysanthemums smell sweet.
I think of my lovely lady: I can never forget.
Floating-pagoda boat crosses Fen River.
Across the mid-stream white waves rise;
Flute and drum keep time to sound of the rowers’ song;
Amidst revel and feasting, sad thoughts come;
Youth’s years are few! Age how sure!
translated by Arthur Waley
New Corn by T’ao Ch’ien
Swiftly the years, beyond recall.
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring-clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain-stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.
translated by Arthur Waley
Fallen Flowers by Li Shang-yin
The guests have all left
their high pavilion
and in the little garden
a whirling storm of petals
they lie in random heaps
across the twisting path
and stretch into the distance
to catch the setting sun
it breaks my heart
to sweep them up
instead I stand and stare
till they mostly blow away
these fragrant-hearted beings
going the way of the spring
they die and earn their tribute–
the tears that spot my clothes.
translated by David Young
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
Later (6) by Robert Creeley
If you saw
dog pass, in car–
looking out, possibly
indifferently, at you–
would you–could you–
shout, “Hey, Spot!
It’s me!” After all
these years,
no dog’s coming home
again. Its skin’s
moldered
through rain, dirt,
to dust, hair alone
survives, matted tangle.
Your own, changed,
your hair, greyed,
your voice not the one
used to call him home.
“Hey Spot!” The world’s
greatest dog’s got
lost in the world,
got lost long ago.
After by Robert Creeley
I’ll not write again
things a young man
thinks, not the words
of that feeling.
There is no world
except felt, no
one there but
must be here also.
If that time was
echoing, a vindication
apparent, if flesh
and bone coincided–
let the body be.
See faces float
over the horizon let
the day end.
untitled poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Leonard Durso 