Monday, September 20, 2010


I asked a man to consider poetry.
He said, 'There is no joy in it.'
I was unsure in these sounds
and unable to knock against chaos.
Across clear sound the boatman sings
like a star in our firmament.
He bends to an outward journey.

I said: there is joy in this image:
10,000 blossoms to one tree in the orchard
counted and named.    The measure of childhood
was how many trees stood shining and white,
stood bare to the rain, naked and wet.
And joy in the small face reflecting
the white surface of the trees.

It was joy to tear at the earth like a scorpion.
The insect blood turned man or child god.
The small face shown    a jewel
or a leaf turning windward.      This child's head
twists.     A broken branch
on the dark wet grass.

I said:
                  My emblem became a tree.


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