Plumage

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you i may marry there
enjoy boy you do adore, there care
earlier boy carry air
as do adore, a door ado, ajar afar
can also answer alphabet
palms of alms of maybes bitten arm
undo harm my shoulder yes
if of this can go then certain earth
untorn and fixed a path
the rather more for smallheart glue
ado you so unflex oh
refraction action flicker biology a
corner comfort yes
a darling starling bird of eyeturn
hands when need
amble through discomfort you adore
groundfallen
arm yes arm warm over under press
a mess yes
failing a mouths of falling never
scatter
open the book, press it to a you
ablur
a hurried unworried windful tone
ago
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I changed the rules.

 AUTUMN RIVER SONG

The moon shimmers in green water.
White herons fly through the moonlight.

The young man hears a girl gathering water-chestnuts:
into the night, singing, they paddle home together.

Li Bai/ Li T'ai-po/Li Po
(trans. Hamill)


I'm breaking the rule of 'original work only' in this community for the two Li Po poems I have posted.  Maybe they will be inspirational...

Yellow clouds beside the walls; crows near the tower.
Flying back, they caw, caw; calling in the boughs.
In the loom she weaves brocade, the Qin river girl.
Made of emerald yarn like mist, the window hides her words.
She stops the shuttle, sorrowful, and thinks of the distant man.
She stays alone in the lonely room, her tears just like the rain. 

Li Bai (Li Po)

today is a morning that may
last all today

there are birds making hello in the purpleflower trees that drop sap

and i am considering what to do with a day off of work.

there are pancakes to be had somewhere out there
buttercovered and syrupful

and then make certain to take deep breaths
because i have the time and god knows when
i will find someone in my life sick or sad

that will need
my shoulders
that will need
my proximity

save up your self in your idle moments
because idleness is fleeting
and when you least expect
something, then is when
it just may
happen.

 

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                  Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Three disgruntled hens
Scuffle in the virgin snow:
Poultry in motion.

I've just dug out this poem I wrote when I was just thirteen. Thought it might entertain you.


The shot from the hunter's gun
Rings through the air.
The waterfowl fly up in panic;
The hunter's hand slides through his hair.

The Swan King has been shot.
The moon lights up the sight
Where the graceful bird lies struggling--
He will not die without a fight.

He lies still among the reeds now,
Near his mate's nest.
Blood and wet earth mat the feathers
Upon his snow-white breast.

The hunter comes toward him
Holding an old flour-sack,
Hoping to take this wondrous white bird
Home upon his back.

A breeze ruffles the feathers;
The great wings start to stir;
The Swan King raises up his head
And emits a strange soft purr.

The volume's now increasing
Till it becomes a wordless song.
The hunter thinks he's dreaming,
But he of course is wrong.

The harsh wild beauty of this sound
Tells many wondrous tales;
Of flying free o'er lakes of mist,
And oceans full of whales;

Of giant forests where strange creatures live,
And mountains capped with snow;
Of violent storms with raging winds,
And green valleys where men never go.

Then the great white swan lays down his head
And the song returns to a purring sound;
All is silent 'cept the wind in the reeds
And the swan lies dead on the muddy ground.