Poets Are A Weird Mob:

I get up before the sun,

And before the household,

So I can write poems for you,

It comes out of my fingers.

In reams.

One day when I finally meet you,

I will give them to you and,

Unless you are a poet,

You may not understand,

The significance.

You’ll hand them back,

And with a half smile,

Politely say, “That’s nice,”

And I’ll know: they were,

Too long, too childish,

Too unnecessarily tender,

Not profound & brilliant enough.

And I’ll think “nice,”

They were nice!

Is that even a word?

Do we even have it in our language?

Can you break that down for me?

Can you think of other words instead of that?

Can you elaborate at all?

And I’ll be tempted to say,

“Maybe you should take an English class,

To increase your vocabulary,”

But of course I can’t say¬†those things because,

Then I’m being picky, arrogant,

Vitriolic & spoiling for a fight,

And I don’t want to be,

Accused of those things again,

And then you’ll try,

To have sex with me,

But the thing is,

It’s not about nice and

Certainly not about sex.

So then I’ll be alone,

Once more dreaming about,

My next one-true-love,

…Where for art thou?


The Blue Mountain Torrent:

By Wang Wei  (AD 699 Р759)

From The Strathvea Music Festival – Musica Poetica;


It is said that those who make for the Yellow Flower River,


Must pursue this mountain stream,


And follow a myriad twists and turns among the hill ravines,


Although as the crow flies the distance is less than one hundred miles,


The stream bickers among the pebbles and,


(Under) the deep tranquil green of the pines,


Here broadening out to all the water chestnut,


And water gentian to float on its surface,


And there glistening deep and bright among reeds and rushes,


I am by temperament indolent and slothful,


And how much more by this restful clear stream,


Leave me to ponder on the hermit’s rock,


For there dangling a fishing rod I am entirely content.


river silent thoughts mona