sad spring
green grass on the bank of the river
a sea of the stuff – not a scythe in sight
a decade of war, all walls reek of blood
whichever army it is
it’s the same
the clutching at flowers
red, white
orioles cry
swallows make homes
of the desolate city
spring flowers have never minded
odd tombstones
how quietly they wither here
stood still on this path
on this hill
all heads down
war makes ghosts
and ghosts make war
the haunting never ends
for all the great generals
a general need not praise his sword
mountains shake for him
rivers roar
who can compete with his words unsaid
the poem he’d write
that brush which ink has never yet touched
his glint lies scabbarded
hand on hilt
thus heaven and the earth are turned
thus steadied are the hearts of men
a general need not praise his sword
nor need he praise war
lines playfully given
1
dry voices of autumn
sad words of the leaf with the bark
a thin monk resting on thick ice
sword in every poem he vents
how far from war is the spirit of poetry?
poems are craggy heights
from which the weary world
is shrugged
waves crystal vast towering
waves to get out of the way of
they turn the certain shore to mud
see the poet staggering
along the road
toward some master or away,
not sure
2
a monk's robe
is a fine source for poetry
tired of the killing world
one retires into words
the sky may be high
but not too high to touch
the wild sea reluctantly
shows dreamers its source
who has the talent and patience
to reach out?
beside the whale's mouth here
it's hard to keep from being swallowed
there are no objects or creatures escaping words' turn
the poet worn as thin as his clothes
laughs proudly in the face of officials
since the rebellion
birds in nests keep their heads down
the deers’ ears are all burning
tactics are the talk of the land
but a battle takes up so little room
it’s easy to
walk away from the dust
and the clatter, the rot
take a leisurely bend in the river
footsore you’ll rest where the breeze catches up
look high and join with the mountain in laughter
here comes an old poet alone
the empty town in open arms
hardly a pot to cover the fire
only children to meet him
each on a hobby horse
mounted well
and hungry for the wars to come
the children hunger for their time