The coming rain
has put me down
like those who
used to repair to temples
so that they may grow overnight
their soul a new young ear
that lets one hear
even not much of a whisper
from the inside, of the unseen.
***
Chinese poets of old
would leave.
A mark, a trace
that’s trailing,
one that nips
and nabs
and taps and dips
and fills and ripples
like simple hollow
wetland reeds
as they sound
and trail and stalk
a passing water breeze,
rendering you inside
a landscape of a soul
that does permeate this all
and which invariably
like a Zhu Shuzhen
comes to us with turns
or words—no man
could reach alone.
In the golden nick
of a single momement
which sliced through time
and that awakens
because it reveals
where souls and eyes
have once more met,
where they are meant
to meet and where
they are bound.
And that move
and moment
that pours
its discreet tone
into the writ
otherwise impalpable
like the breath
which the air keeps
then finds in us
its waiting well
or pot of ink—
just as a pen
of feather would
have drawn
out a gift of knowing
with a song, a wing,
across the scroll
in waves now flowing.
Both immortal and mortal,
both enliving and living—
as one in whom God
and one’s soul may
glide in glance
and meet and match
sheer, intimate and open
like a soul in love,
in line and in content,
both sung and noted,
immortal and mortal—
Before the moment
doesn’t dissipate
like a fleeting reverie
which a risen wind
would easily unknot.
Except for the trail,
a poet’s footprints,
which your distance
might have thinned,
or as you come to wake up,
the line gets shattered, broken,
by someone’s word of prose.
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