tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-156951402024-03-07T22:28:46.750-06:00DragonsPoetPoetry: The Rough Stuff. <br><br>
All Poetry here is copyright 2005, 2006, 2007,
Longshiren 龙诗人, Leungshuren 龍詩人. <br>
131067042<br>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-17804729154324783482007-02-02T22:40:00.001-06:002007-02-02T22:40:32.286-06:00Vignettes and old stuff ...<div class="storycontent"> <div class="snap_preview"><p>Found on a 22 year old computer</p> <p>Testing my oldest PC, a 1984 Leading Edge XT, I found this poem on the hard drive (it’s not my oldest computer, that’s a 1980 CP/M Kaypro II, but it’s not a PC). </p> <p>I had tried to write it as a story, or as a long edda, and then perhaps as a poem like Brownings’ “My Last Duchess, or “The Laboratory” and I may still, given a little encouragement from my readers. I am happy I found this fragment, and now have some incentive to work on it.</p> <p>Someone settled the spaceship, made planetfall<br />on a little rock near a water swept plain with green,<br />and the people lived, but the captain wept<br />at the closeness of the call but there they fell, and stayed<br />and space marines saved their lives at the outset<br />desperate works and exploration saved their wants</p> <p>But in the night of the sunless spaces where the rock<br />entombed the ship<br />all the robots with minds but without right<br />went down and stayed and wept on rustless plastic<br />wept that their keepers had forgotton or worse<br />their faithful service and now helpless<br />grown neurotic in their fretting<br />find that it will end<br />even silicon tires, and dissipates if not silently<br />at last mercifully.</p> <p>OK, it does need work. Tell me dear readers, what you’d like, what you want done with this. Expanded? A prose vignettte? A novel where the captain’s wife has taken silicon lovers? Suggestions. anyone?</p> </div> </div>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1145199985561316362006-04-16T10:03:00.000-05:002006-04-16T10:07:14.220-05:00A rewrite of the Hemingway draft...<br /><br />A Poem In The Modern Style (rewrite)<br /><br />Hemingway's passage about men drinking together on the eve of battle<br />during The Spanish Civil War describes two men comparing pistols.<br /><br />The length of the barrels, the size of the bullets.<br />Ah, yes, the important things.<br /><br />This is always taught in college as a discussion of dick sizes. Oh, sorry<br />a macho discussion of phallic symbols, penis envy among real men.<br /><br />This literary interpretation is glaringly wrong, and I have always wanted<br />to write this wrong.<br /><br />The Professors of English Lit who light our precious children mostly don't <br />know of war. I do know of war.<br /><br />Hemingway had experience, an ear for dialogue an eye for the color of stress,<br />for the things men say when they go to kill other men.<br /><br />It is good to drink and get blind before battle but everyone mist know who has which<br />weapon when the dying starts.<br /><br />Larger bullets and longer barrels mean death from greater ranges and better chances<br />of killing quick up close.<br /><br />Those of us who are better killers will take guns and bullets and will know <br />from the muzzle length, from the bullet size, the killing abilities of your choices.<br /><br />I know that you will die, and after dirt paintings of your blood harden with the sun,<br />I will take your bullets and use them, killing others with your gift.<br /><br />When Hemingway meant phallic, there were women in the picture.<br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1145196577188405942006-04-16T09:08:00.000-05:002006-04-16T09:14:59.303-05:00A beef about English Lit teachers, and HemingwayPoem In The Modern Style<br /><br />Hemingway's passage about men drinking together<br />on the eve of battle during The Spanish Civil War<br />describes two men comparing pistols<br />the length of the barrels<br />the size of the bullets.<br /><br />This is always taught in college as a discussion<br />of dick sizes. Oh, sorry, I meant a macho<br />discussion of phallic symbols<br />a display of penis envy<br />among real men.<br /><br />This literary interpretation is glaringly wrong, <br />and I have always wanted<br />to write this wrong.<br /><br />The Professors of English Lit who light<br />our precious children mostly don't <br />know of war. I do<br />know of war.<br /><br />Hemingway had experience, an ear for dialogue<br />an eye for the color of stress, for the things <br />men say when they go to kill other men.<br /><br />It is good to drink and get blind before battle<br />but everyone mist know who has which<br />weapon when the dying starts.<br /><br />Larger bullets and longer barrels mean death<br />from greater ranges and better chances<br />of killing quick close up.<br /><br />Those of us who are better killers will take <br />guns and bullets and will know <br />from the muzzle length<br />from the bullet size <br />the killing abilities<br />of your choices.<br /><br />I know that you will die, and after <br />dirt paintings of your blood <br />harden with the sun,<br /><br />I will take your bullets and use them,<br />killing others with your gift.<br /><br />When Hemingway meant phallic, there were women in the picture.<br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1137845811711399672006-01-21T06:10:00.000-06:002006-01-21T13:06:08.130-06:00Little things, with some structureSome rough, some smooth, and here's 2 tries at Cinquains, one old, one new.<br /><br /><br />Sometimes the image is only a gentle touch<br />Among quiet hours<br />When cold harsh lights <br />Will not intrude the dusky softness.<br />Sometimes the image is a necessary calm<br />A child‘s smile.<br /><br /><br />Cinnamon tea is a warming sound,<br />Softly dressing a silken minute.<br />Delicious is quite a pretty color,<br />Lightly wrapping the quiet hours.<br /><br /><br />Touchings, soft as fur and hard<br />as diamond saturate our senses,<br />overwhelm perception, breathing<br />life into spaces found between us.<br /><br /><br />HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUBADE, CINQUAIN. 1984<br /><br />The sun<br />In sudden grace<br />Arrives, awakes in May<br />With winter done, a warmer place<br />Birth Day!<br /><br /><br />HAPPY NEW YEAR, CINQUAIN 2003<br /><br />New Year’s<br />portends, like Moons <br />in kissing dreams, a chance<br />And drinking vows, arriving soon<br />New Days!<br /><br /><br />BABY RAP FOR RHYTHM ROWS <br />(Ya know, like corn rows, gotta practice style once in a while, baby)<br /><br />listen to a Rap, <br />get yo head round dat beat<br />da rhyming beat, meat, feet <br />But the word come from da street<br />my friend fall out like heat<br />on a Corner in an L-A- night<br />Around the hood <br />where the word, bro, Word<br />is yo, what’s down is good.<br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1137682937511973332006-01-19T08:49:00.000-06:002006-01-21T13:18:59.853-06:00Thoughts on other poetry (Frost, Bai, etc).A Chinese student, studying English, asked me; ”What is an instep arch, and why does it ache, and what is the ice, and what are the other meanings in Robert Frost’s poem ‘Apple Picking Time’ ?“ (The Chinese students always seem to ask these ‘efficient’ questions, where they ask everything quickly and deeply, so as to get an answer that will teach them everything at once).<br /><br />So I spent a lot of time replying, and for once I think I wrote something worthwhile, although the English student needed a couple of books and weeks of studying to understand this reply. <br /><br />The instep arch. Before we speak of meaning in poetry, think of your foot. The middle of the bottom of the foot is the instep. The part of the bottom that curves upward between the big toe and the heel is the arch, the instep arch. The Instep Arch. If you are standing on a round thing on the instep arch, such as the rung on a ladder, it will hurt after a little while. If you must continue standing on it, your muscles will work hard to maintain your posture and balance, and that is a form of pressure, and can make you tired.<br /><br />Now, I can tell you what each line means, individually, but that won’t let you understand the poem. First, please think of the poem as a whole. It has many meanings. It is about a person collecting apples, it is about a person getting old, it is about a long life and facing death in old age, it is about wondering if life was enough, and wondering if the time is too soon. It is about regret and hope and the past and future.<br /><br />Learning about a language and culture through poetry is a wonderful endeavor, but it may mean that some things must be accepted without understanding. There is great ambiguity in great poetry, and even for Americans, we need to read Frost many times before we feel comfortable with more than a few of those many meanings.<br /><br />Poems always have many meanings, and good poems have deep meanings on many levels. I will try to acquaint you with some of the meanings Frost placed into his poems, but you may want to remember that even for native speakers of American English, and even for people who are part of the New England gentry with small apple orchards, it is still hard to understand all the meanings of this poem.<br /><br />Robert Frost was an intellectual, who wrote poetry as if he were a farmer, or rough hewn laborer. He identified with these people, the hard working New England farmers and laborers, and indeed, he loved them and wrote much of his poetry from their perspective. I lived and worked in Frost country when I was young, and have read his poetry many, many, times, and have hoped to write poetry that approached his genius. So I will explain this poems as a poet would, not as a teacher of English.<br /><br />The poem begins its work on two levels. First, there is the sweetness of the rhythm, the flow of the words and the song of the sound the words make. For Frost, especially, we have to think of the native New Englander accent, which may be difficult for a Chinese person. Think of the voice of a farmer from Sichuan Province, old, who smokes too much and pushes his words quickly. First, read the poem with that kind of sound, and make each line roll against the next, pacing for breath and musical timing.<br /><br />The words here set pace with the swing of the arms, and the pluck of the apples, and the sway of the tree as it is lightened of its load of apples in an autumn wind. And here is the second part of the poem’s structure. The sound and rhythm and meaning of the words leads to an understanding, a picture, an image of what the poet describes. Here is all those things that make a day of work and rest; awakening, facing the work, working through the day, filling the storehouse, being done, and ready for a rest. <br /><br />Also, we know many small images and emotions in the words. We see the ice on the water, a sort of unexpected mirror, feeling youth fly away before we are ready, not understanding the images, finished with life’s daily routine, seeing the past with satisfaction and fear together, like the small animals facing winter, and perhaps like all other humans facing eternity, tired but ready and dreaming of what was and will be.<br /><br />So the rhythm of the poem and the meaning of the poem lead to a gestalt of meaning and pictures. In this poem, and in many of Frost’s poems, that gestalt leads to other, deeper meanings, and many lines have more ambiguous meanings than we at first imagined.<br /><br />As we think of more sets of meanings, we are driven to look for more meaning in the poem, and our clarity is lost. We can see where the verses refer back and forwards to preceding and following verses, referents that were not there at the first reading. If we add all the meanings, we begin to see the small story of a life and a way of living and dying in the story of the apple picking.<br /><br />And we can also see a beautiful way of speaking about these lives, in the rhythm of the work, and in the smooth rolling cadence of the words, phrases, lines, and images as the poem envelopes our thought, and presents Frost’s lives to our wonder. <br /><br /><br />Another student discussed the Chinese Poetry of love, and brought up Li Bai, and "A Song of Chang'an". So we discussed the ideas and ideals of love in poetry and song in English culture, and then we looked over the 2 poems, the Chinese Version by Li Bai, and the English Version By Ezra Pound. Pound's version is a translation of a Japanese Translation, but it is amazingly faithful to the original, not only in meaning, but in beauty, and in its cultural expression of time and circumstance, and love.<br /><br />Li Bai (李白), wrote of a relationship in the poem called 長干行, and Ezra Pound translated it into a sweet song of discovery. In Chinese, it reads like a story of duty discovering love, and in English it reads like a story of romance discovering shared purpose (a subtle difference).<br /><br />For everyone’s enjoyment, here are the two versions:<br /><br />李白<br />長干行<br /><br />妾髮初覆額, 折花門前劇; <br />郎騎竹馬來, 遶床弄青梅。 <br />同居長干里, 兩小無嫌猜。 <br />十四為君婦, 羞顏未嘗開; <br />低頭向暗壁, 千喚不一回, <br />十五始展眉, 願同塵與灰; <br />常存抱柱信, 豈上望夫臺? <br />十六君遠行, 瞿塘灩澦堆; <br />五月不可觸, 猿鳴天上哀。 <br />門前遲行跡, 一一生綠苔; <br />苔深不能掃, 落葉秋風早。 <br />八月蝴蝶來, 雙飛西園草。 <br />感此傷妾心, 坐愁紅顏老。 <br />早晚下三巴, 預將書報家; <br />相迎不道遠, 直至長風沙。 <br /><br />Li Bai<br />The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter<br /><br />While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead<br />I played at the front gate, pulling flowers.<br />You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,<br />You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. <br />And we went on living in the village of Chokan:<br />Two small people, without dislike or suspicion. <br /><br />At fourteen I married My Lord you.<br />I never laughed, being bashful.<br />Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.<br />Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.<br /><br />At fifteen I stopped scowling, <br />I desired my dust to be mingled with yours<br />Forever and forever and forever.<br />Why should I climb the lookout?<br /><br />At sixteen you departed,<br />You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,<br />And you have been gone five months.<br />The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.<br /><br />You dragged your feet when you went out,<br />By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,<br />Too deep to clear them away!<br />The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.<br />The paired butterflies are already yellow with August<br />Over the grass in the West garden;<br />They hurt me. I grow older.<br />If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,<br />Please let me know beforehand,<br />And I will come out to meet you<br />As far as Cho-fu-sa.<br /><br />Translated by Ezra Pound<br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1136006047534315662005-12-30T23:14:00.000-06:002006-01-21T13:18:05.756-06:00Some stuff for the New Year<span style="font-size:85%;">Here it is coming up on New Year, and this week we’ve watched rabbits in the snow and cardinals in the trees and found this image there.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">CARDINALS FEEDING AT NEW YEARS</span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">New years slide along the white frozen snow</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">arriving with the edge of winter like rabbits near the forest</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">One minute the red birds are pecking at snowdrops</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And then it is new, sunlight banishes blizzards</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We blink our wrinkled eyes, make morning tea anew </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">here is a another gift, another chance, resolve</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">to take it, you, embrace it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Last August I posted an earlier rewrite of this poem (dedicated to Ms. Cindy Sheehan). You may compare this version (the latest), with that one. I sincerely desire any comments on the poetics, but I am lately disgusted to death of politics, and will remove any comments which discuss any political views.</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">THEY ARE ONLY BOYS, THEY ARE ALWAYS ONLY BOYS</span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Lament of the Combat Medic)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The men who die in the patriots noise</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Are known by the timbre of stirring words</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We ... Who caressed their terror</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Who packed their hearts into sterile plastic</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We know the dead are not words</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Hidden behind glittering golden stars</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Huddling, a sad-faced family</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A woman, a grim father, other children</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Who know the terror of seeing a face</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Suddenly among platitudes</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Love them all, dead wounded and living</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And weep for their sorrow.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Love them more for their honest tries</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">At hiding grief ... we all hide grief</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Bring them home in public, let the children see </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Stop hiding the cost and heroic loss</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Remember their sweet young faces</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Who stood for what they must, who did.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">As I said, the rough stuff, but it occasionally gets smoother. Here is another which was listed below, and has now fallen under the rewrite trap. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">WELL, WE’RE AT WAR AGAIN</span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Sand and bombs and ugly little </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">desert spiders and a rancid smell</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">death on the street or fear in the locals?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Sitting in the waiting room at the VA hospital</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">spinning the new wheelchair smells like a new car</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">no spiders here no locals and maybe no bombs </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">but we still watch with the good eye</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Talking to the new wounded and comparing </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">wheels like high school kids. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">To be honest, I like the run of the words, but am not sure what structure to impose. I think both this and the one below could use different tools to make it work. Now, here is a new long one, about the old and young wars and who gets to practice what ... Needs a title. For now the working title is</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">FORGET THE PAST AGAIN </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Bits of color flash in the palm, fingers tighten, loosen twist and twitch in nervous candor</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Something in brown and tremulous hands held airily or softly or in fear of breakage</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Hands sit, not quiet in the lap, the nails white, now moving over a silver chair arm </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">One to reach past the stumps and test the black wheels, gripping chrome and squeezing</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Power in the tendons, but one to stay and squeeze the bits of color paper</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Now, the wheels move in arcs the arms in piston pumps and here the paper falls</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We run to catch it – pick it up, give it back - the chair is circling and we see it as he speaks</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Drab and wretched persons near a wall, children in the dirt and soldiers tall, smiling, armed</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A wartime thought that looks like every grey miserable abject sorry picture of a war</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Two soldiers, proud, brown and khaki clothes that say America, smiles proclaiming youth</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Our acquaintance in the chair is tall, ignoring the people and the children, but happy.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The chair has found its power sliding graceful to our feet, and not reaching but speaking</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It is a test, how can we learn to move but never walk, to ride the arms and scorn pity</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It is a test to learn acceptance and every day I print a new copy of the old picture........</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The chair it spun agile and adroit – we gasped and then was gone in bright daylight</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We continue walking shamefully, sunlit skies are not the color of awkward guilt</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">At home we find we lost the picture, oh well, no sepia war here. White wine, blue fish. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><strong><span style=";font-family:Century Gothic;font-size:85%;" ></span></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1125208218829736522005-08-28T00:50:00.000-05:002006-01-21T13:17:01.656-06:00some new images and a dirge<span style="font-family:Arial;">Enticing, a response to a poem</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">words try to run away<br />you seem to have<br />if not their number<br />their names.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Oh, there we are…..</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Sometimes in the morning we are walking</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">together with a poem</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">and only later</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">it wakes up so we say</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">thank you!</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">They are Only Boys, They are Always Only Boys</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The men who died in the patriots noise</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">are known by the timbre of stirring words</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">But we, who caressed their terror</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">packed their hearts into sterile plastic</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Know the dead are not words or threats.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Know that hidden behind </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Glittering gold symbolic stars</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Huddles a bare-faced woman </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">a grim father, who know the terror</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">seeing that boyish face suddenly</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">in dreams, and among the platitudes.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I love them all, dead wounded and living</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">and weep for their sorrow.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I love them the more for their honest tries</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">At hiding the grief</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">In social silence, we hide grief.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Bring them home </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Remember their sweet young faces</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Who stood for what they must, who did.</span><br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ></span><br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" >For Cindy Sheehan, and all the mothers who disagree or agree or simply share her pain. We medics, graves registration techs, and other bearers of the souls of war also feel..</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Beginnings</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><br />When I was first in China, and then Japan<br />and other Asian galleys<br />I, so well beloved of western words<br />and literary intellectual smug-uggery<br />couldn't read .... couldn't write<br />and a preliterate<br />slave at least had a home. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1124912132232194432005-08-24T14:35:00.000-05:002006-01-21T13:16:32.066-06:00Well were at war again<span style="font-family:Arial;">Well, we’re at war again....................</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">Sand and bombs and ugly little</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">desert spiders and a rancid smell</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">death on the street or fear in the locals?</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">Sitting in the waiting room at the VA hospital</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">spinning the new wheelchair smells like a new car</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">no spiders here no locals and maybe</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">no bombs but we'll still watch </span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">with the good eye</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">Talking to the new wounded and comparing </span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;">wheels like high school kids. </span><br/><a href="http://www.litkicks.com/BeatPages/modifyPoem.jsp?tag=APAug05&message=695553&thread=106659"></a><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1124895075890563312005-08-24T09:51:00.000-05:002006-01-21T13:15:52.900-06:00Do we only write what we know? And is this effort poorer because of that?<span style="font-family:Luzern;">I find it terribly absurd to think that all my memories are real, especially those dealing with the times of war. I can remember when I would put on a 50 pound ruck and move through the most dense jungle on earth, cautiously and with much labor, traveling with young men like myself, moving less than a kilometer a day in search of ways to kill other young men. Daily, we would move against this oppression of infinite hardship, killing and destroying, being killed and destroyed in turn. Endless weeks of vicious boredom marked by a minutes horrible agony. How we joked of the ways we could suffer, and loved one another with a mean affection and a deadly touch. </span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Soldiers and fighting men we were, all from the ancient ages of 18 to 23, except the platoon sergeant, he was old, almost 30, and the Captain only a year younger. We had seen more violent death on our walks in this country club than most cops could claim; and in the third world squalor of the villages, more disease than most doctors even imagined. We had illiterate privates who could diagnose malaria, plague, and 3 or 4 malnutrition diseases. </span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">It comes down to whatever we could handle</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">All the late hours of hanging out in our own skulls</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Strolling carelessly to the sounds of hidden memory</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Denying whatever might cost.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Most of the books deal with coping</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">With being able to handle life</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">With belief and ability and desire.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">I think in terms of energy.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Is it worth it any longer</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">To expend energy to achieve a lie?</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Once, we celebrated Ho Chi Minh‘s birthday.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Here I am going home to my father</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Over vast clouds and mountains</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">His voice is calling to me</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Soft with the light of summer.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">He used to rest outside for a little hour</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">On a Sunday after Mass.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">He has been my granite wall</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">And hard fought friend</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">He has worked</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">And raised a dozen or more children.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">In his rest the machines </span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">keep breath in his tired lungs</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">I owe him. More then the earth.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">I want him to breathe softly </span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">To know we love him deeply and then</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Like the autumn we never suspect</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Fly away with the winds of summer</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">(The ground which forgives all our sins</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">And loves us dearly in the end)</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">Among the story of my father are the unwritten letters to Lowell, David, Joe, Patience, and all the others, they stand accusing. Sometimes there is a striving for beauty and for the pictures of the things and the emotions. Sometimes all this longing is paralyzing and the soul writes the letters but never sends the words.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;"></span><br/><span style="font-family:Luzern;">I do not want the politics and the purpose. What I need is the expression and beauty, and deeply, the showing of humanity as human. Not as dogma, not as that thing which is politically right or judicious; but as that thing which is humanly felt, born of care and love and longing. Expressed not efficiently or out of correct purpose, but expressed cleanly out of beauty and spoken with a lovers touch.</span><br/><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1124780460804518932005-08-23T02:01:00.000-05:002006-01-21T13:13:15.830-06:00DragonsPoet<a href="http://dragonspoet.blogspot.com/">DragonsPoet</a><br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1124779729399418302005-08-23T01:44:00.000-05:002006-01-21T13:15:11.876-06:00images<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Luzern;">1<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Luzern;">Cinnamon tea is a warming sound,<o:p></o:p><br />Softly dressing a silken minute<o:p></o:p><br />Delicious is such a pretty color<o:p></o:p><br />Lightly wrapping the quiet hours<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14pt;"><br /><span style="font-family: Luzern;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="font-family: Luzern;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Luzern;"></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Luzern;">2<br />It was 120 degrees under a hellish sun<o:p></o:p><br />And the dull blue cigarette smoke <o:p></o:p><br />Hung in a haze around our heads<o:p></o:p><br />On a hillside smelling of death<o:p></o:p><br />Which is the only smell in war<o:p></o:p><br />And you get used to it<o:p></o:p><br />On the day I packed <o:p></o:p><br />Most of my friend Michael<o:p></o:p><br />Into the bright green body bag.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Luzern;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Luzern;"><o:p></o:p>3<o:p></o:p><br />I still see you in the chair<o:p></o:p><br />Your face a quizzical mystery <o:p></o:p><br />A shy smile asking do you do this often.<o:p></o:p><br />Felt worse than a penny dreadful<o:p></o:p><br />Wanting to hide among cheap novels<o:p></o:p><br />OH! Could I have run, I would<o:p></o:p><br />Damn the marriage, <o:p></o:p><br />To find affection on barstools <o:p></o:p><br />With desperate peoples.<o:p></o:p><br />Instead to face your friendship<o:p></o:p><br />That was a light to blind my whimsy<o:p></o:p><br />The memory cuddles like affection<br />Thinking of </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Luzern;">Kansas</span></st1:place></st1:State><span style="font-family: Luzern;">, sweetness, and you.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1124772203416714542005-08-22T23:48:00.000-05:002006-01-21T13:14:23.656-06:00small thoughts on languageOne of the reasons for creating this blog is to show some of the things we go through to take an idea from basic words to a finished poem.<br /><br />Usually, the rough drafts, as shown below, are filled with the language as it originally expressed the idea. Sometimes this language really overflows and fills everything up, and covers or drowns the original thought.<br /><br />Sometimes, we just cannot get past the beautiful words, phrases, images, little songlike patterns, and lovely laughing clauses. When we get so caught up in this the poem gets lost but the language is lovely, and that often makes for poor poetry, but really nice sounding daydreams.<br /><br />We have found that the best way to pare the lines down to the core is to have the family dragon burn all the fluff away. We can then rebuild from that to make a clearer, if somewhat more astringent creation, dedicating the rebuilt phrases to the spare but now well defined poem.<br /><br />If you don't have a family dragon, well, you need to use a different metaphor, then, don't you?<br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15695140.post-1124769956891916122005-08-22T23:00:00.000-05:002006-01-21T13:13:47.676-06:00Poetry On LineBEIJING:<br /><br />Beijing is only a little hustle<br />But every morning government house<br />And all the other big brother buildings<br />Remind you<br />There‘’s more muscle here<br />Than Shanghai.<br /><br /><br />CHARLOTTE AMALIE<br /><br />The place to shop here is the Bishop Tutu Mall and occasional revolutionary parking lot<br />But in the heat, the slow pace of afternoons outside cemeteries<br />(New Orleans copied these, they are the Caribbean standard<br />almost Japanese with crowding)<br />hectic tourists chase all the birds away, swarming the best headstones.<br />I flew in from St. Croix, before that Tortola, San Juan,<br />Some sweet line of sea and perfect blue<br />And never rode a cruise ship so stood out among the tourists,<br />Who never entered any other way, they only ever cruise<br />Also, had more than four......hours to stay so I saw the place<br />Driving to Megan‘s Bay where the ships have (damn it) sailed<br />filled the sand with the smell of booze, retirement, and coppertone,<br />It is somewhat sobering to contemplate what was<br />Frenchman’s reef could conjure a storm of pirate tales<br />lost now under a concrete walk behind the glass hotels<br />where mountainous canoes spew forth money, jobs,<br />the lesser hope of sharing has cast lots for stripping riches <br />from the shills.<br /><br /><br />CHRISTIANSTED<br /><br />Here, I didn’‘t see any Iguanas, but on the road<br />Horses bloomed like magic<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Poetry" rel="tag">Poetry</a><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Writing" rel="tag">Writing</a>Leung Shurenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12417275601104509911noreply@blogger.com0