The Old Customs House.
Birds call from rotted rafters.
Dark, damp grey stone shell.
Riverside bulk looms in fog.
Would it move me so, if new?
31 January 2016
23 March 2013
sonnet 11
Some thin and wind-blown drops slash down the pane
And carve Etruscan letters in the frost -
no, mist now; minutes earlier, our plane's
High-altitude Siberian crystals lost
Consistency in Lombardy's low clouds.
The barren fields still grey, the trees still dead
We'd left a world of cherry blossoms, crowds
Of trees lined up along Narita's edge.
Twelve hours' flight, but we've gone back in time
To just before the blossoming of spring.
I'm dazed by sleeplessness, my mind
On seasons of my own; their passing stings.
Spring bloom's long past since last I saw Milan.
And many summer years have come and gone.
And carve Etruscan letters in the frost -
no, mist now; minutes earlier, our plane's
High-altitude Siberian crystals lost
Consistency in Lombardy's low clouds.
The barren fields still grey, the trees still dead
We'd left a world of cherry blossoms, crowds
Of trees lined up along Narita's edge.
Twelve hours' flight, but we've gone back in time
To just before the blossoming of spring.
I'm dazed by sleeplessness, my mind
On seasons of my own; their passing stings.
Spring bloom's long past since last I saw Milan.
And many summer years have come and gone.
17 March 2013
16 March 2013
15 March 2013
sonnet 10
My eyes unfocused after reading. Dazed,
I wander through the park, sit on the pier
A fine spring day, strong wind, the sun's ablaze
The waves are lapping, boats bright white, sky clear.
Uncertain what to think of the past week -
A turning point, one where the seasons changed
Is that all there was to it? Are the peaks
And valleys of my mood just weathervanes?
Mixed metaphors aside, some things did shift
These past few days, like waking from a dream
A subtle thing - felt calmer, less adrift
And maybe even swimming back upstream.
Did weather change my mood to light from dark?
Perhaps I'll sit a while more in this park.
I wander through the park, sit on the pier
A fine spring day, strong wind, the sun's ablaze
The waves are lapping, boats bright white, sky clear.
Uncertain what to think of the past week -
A turning point, one where the seasons changed
Is that all there was to it? Are the peaks
And valleys of my mood just weathervanes?
Mixed metaphors aside, some things did shift
These past few days, like waking from a dream
A subtle thing - felt calmer, less adrift
And maybe even swimming back upstream.
Did weather change my mood to light from dark?
Perhaps I'll sit a while more in this park.
haiku 14
Fountain spray. Sunlight.
So changed since last month's snowstorm.
I feel weightless, blessed.
So changed since last month's snowstorm.
I feel weightless, blessed.
04 March 2013
sonnet 9
The week had come unraveled, toward the end.
Tossed in my sleep, with unease at my heart
A walk would help my soured thoughts to mend
So - Kamakura, semi-early start.
Frustration on the way - a train was late
And people walked so slowly on the road
Yet once we passed Kenchoji temple gate
And climbed to Hansobo, I felt the load
Of every ill thought lifted. Wind and sun,
And clutching roots and weathered stone and moss,
Bamboo and silent idols, every one
Sat calm, enduring, patient through all loss.
Two hours worth years of boredom. On those trails
Free as the hawks, or ships with wind-filled sails.
Tossed in my sleep, with unease at my heart
A walk would help my soured thoughts to mend
So - Kamakura, semi-early start.
Frustration on the way - a train was late
And people walked so slowly on the road
Yet once we passed Kenchoji temple gate
And climbed to Hansobo, I felt the load
Of every ill thought lifted. Wind and sun,
And clutching roots and weathered stone and moss,
Bamboo and silent idols, every one
Sat calm, enduring, patient through all loss.
Two hours worth years of boredom. On those trails
Free as the hawks, or ships with wind-filled sails.
27 February 2013
sonnet 8
The sun's a little higher every day
But temperature's near freezing as we climb
The earth is frozen solid on our way
The steps still leave me heated, winded. Rime
And shadowed depths of morning chill lie deep
No mountain, just a park, the hill's not tall
Just steps from where we, daily, work and sleep.
Cicadas in the summer, leaves in fall.
Three times I've watched this park shift into spring,
From summer's furnace, loud cicadas, sweat
To autumn leaves, now winter's bitter sting
Three years - it hasn't lost its newness yet.
Ten minutes daily in this park, I breathe
Under the deodars, alive, relieved.
But temperature's near freezing as we climb
The earth is frozen solid on our way
The steps still leave me heated, winded. Rime
And shadowed depths of morning chill lie deep
No mountain, just a park, the hill's not tall
Just steps from where we, daily, work and sleep.
Cicadas in the summer, leaves in fall.
Three times I've watched this park shift into spring,
From summer's furnace, loud cicadas, sweat
To autumn leaves, now winter's bitter sting
Three years - it hasn't lost its newness yet.
Ten minutes daily in this park, I breathe
Under the deodars, alive, relieved.
22 February 2013
sonnet 7
I hate to see the damage winter cold
And earthquakes do to pavements where I walk
Construction scars some spots, some are just old
The mortar turned to dust between the rocks.
I know that in the spring, or sooner still
A crew will come and patch some of these cracks
What hurts is the reminder all things will
Erode and buckle under time's attacks.
Like teeth, which serve as clocks of our decay,
The cobblestones cry out advancing age
And as they chip or crumble day by day
I walk on mind-drawn tombstones. Yet this rage
is useless. I should take to heart these signs
that, cracks and all, aged things can still work fine.
And earthquakes do to pavements where I walk
Construction scars some spots, some are just old
The mortar turned to dust between the rocks.
I know that in the spring, or sooner still
A crew will come and patch some of these cracks
What hurts is the reminder all things will
Erode and buckle under time's attacks.
Like teeth, which serve as clocks of our decay,
The cobblestones cry out advancing age
And as they chip or crumble day by day
I walk on mind-drawn tombstones. Yet this rage
is useless. I should take to heart these signs
that, cracks and all, aged things can still work fine.
20 February 2013
19 February 2013
sonnet 6
The snow began in early morning's grey
Mixed with some rain, not cold enough to last
I knew there'd be no chance of a snow day.
Resolved to just enjoy the flakes that passed
And not dwell on their melting on the ground,
Appreciate their beauty as they swirled,
Just breathe the air and watch the crows wheel round.
To seize these glimpses of another world.
This transience was bittersweet and lent
The day a hushed, excited, sacred tone.
Peered at the snow from inside, then we went
On several walks. One time I walked alone
To get something I'd left inside my room -
Alone with crows, exulting in the gloom.
Mixed with some rain, not cold enough to last
I knew there'd be no chance of a snow day.
Resolved to just enjoy the flakes that passed
And not dwell on their melting on the ground,
Appreciate their beauty as they swirled,
Just breathe the air and watch the crows wheel round.
To seize these glimpses of another world.
This transience was bittersweet and lent
The day a hushed, excited, sacred tone.
Peered at the snow from inside, then we went
On several walks. One time I walked alone
To get something I'd left inside my room -
Alone with crows, exulting in the gloom.
18 February 2013
17 February 2013
16 February 2013
sonnet 5
The heat of Bangkok, heavy, wet and thick
The shrieks of traffic jolting down below
I wipe my forehead. Having walked too quickly,
I'm drenched in sweat but still have far to go.
The thrumming concrete walkway lets me look
Down from above on jungle, roofs and men.
Those surreptitious pictures that I took
Of market stalls - I've stolen souls again.
Silk tie in hand, the thing I came to buy
The only fruit of this exhausting walk
I pass a begging woman, rush right by.
I always do. It's justified in talks
conducted with my conscience. But I know
I made a choice for cruelty long ago.
The shrieks of traffic jolting down below
I wipe my forehead. Having walked too quickly,
I'm drenched in sweat but still have far to go.
The thrumming concrete walkway lets me look
Down from above on jungle, roofs and men.
Those surreptitious pictures that I took
Of market stalls - I've stolen souls again.
Silk tie in hand, the thing I came to buy
The only fruit of this exhausting walk
I pass a begging woman, rush right by.
I always do. It's justified in talks
conducted with my conscience. But I know
I made a choice for cruelty long ago.
15 February 2013
sonnet 4
A buffet breakfast's orgy of excess
Invariably leaves me weak and ill
An aimless stroll - to our amazement, less
To purchase than we'd thought. We'd shopped our fill.
Yet sweaty, dull, I kept my interest high
By taking pictures. Odd the shift that brought.
The switch from shopper's glaze to artist's eye
(The "artist" here's sarcastic) spurred my thoughts.
I suddenly felt conscious and aware.
I normally hate picture-taking, and
My photos are still awful, but I care
Less than I did before. Delight unplanned:
Those ugly photos somehow gave me hope.
The eye that views, observant still point, scope.
Invariably leaves me weak and ill
An aimless stroll - to our amazement, less
To purchase than we'd thought. We'd shopped our fill.
Yet sweaty, dull, I kept my interest high
By taking pictures. Odd the shift that brought.
The switch from shopper's glaze to artist's eye
(The "artist" here's sarcastic) spurred my thoughts.
I suddenly felt conscious and aware.
I normally hate picture-taking, and
My photos are still awful, but I care
Less than I did before. Delight unplanned:
Those ugly photos somehow gave me hope.
The eye that views, observant still point, scope.
14 February 2013
sonnet 3
Banal, transmogrifying red-eye flight
Embarked in frozen Tokyo, slept and woke
Bewildered, on the other side of night
In Bangkok, grey and stifling, taxi-choked.
A cluttered tailor's, me as mannequin
I wobbled, sweaty, conscious of my girth
While fingers felt, his sister passed him pins
A risk- not sure I'll get my money's worth
Familiar walk in atmospheric stew
The catwalk slung below the skytrain tracks
One side, a temple; other, cop HQ
One mall ahead, another at our backs.
A floating world, hot faces in a throng
Seems like a dream. We lived here for so long.
Embarked in frozen Tokyo, slept and woke
Bewildered, on the other side of night
In Bangkok, grey and stifling, taxi-choked.
A cluttered tailor's, me as mannequin
I wobbled, sweaty, conscious of my girth
While fingers felt, his sister passed him pins
A risk- not sure I'll get my money's worth
Familiar walk in atmospheric stew
The catwalk slung below the skytrain tracks
One side, a temple; other, cop HQ
One mall ahead, another at our backs.
A floating world, hot faces in a throng
Seems like a dream. We lived here for so long.
12 February 2013
sonnet 2
I stood alone atop the windy hill
And looked across the bay at blinking lights
The sound of crows and cameras snapping filled
The air. Inhaling, waiting for the night.
The atmosphere was bitter cold and tense,
The tingling just before it starts to snow
The grasping branches, cloud-choked sky, the sense
That dusk was dropping soon. I turned to go.
The sullen orange smear behind the trees
Was all that lingered, fading, of the sun.
The rest of what I saw was grey. To me,
It brought no fear, aware that I could run
A few short steps and safely find my bed.
I paused, and watched the trees a while instead.
And looked across the bay at blinking lights
The sound of crows and cameras snapping filled
The air. Inhaling, waiting for the night.
The atmosphere was bitter cold and tense,
The tingling just before it starts to snow
The grasping branches, cloud-choked sky, the sense
That dusk was dropping soon. I turned to go.
The sullen orange smear behind the trees
Was all that lingered, fading, of the sun.
The rest of what I saw was grey. To me,
It brought no fear, aware that I could run
A few short steps and safely find my bed.
I paused, and watched the trees a while instead.
11 February 2013
sonnet 1
A weekend spent away from home, with friends
Two days which felt more like a week somehow
A simple change of pace can sometimes send
The mind to places less routine, allow
That jolt that makes things, on return, seem new.
Topography and buildings, use of space
Seemed strange, that side of town, while driving through.
Still Tokyo, but a subtly different place.
I went out walking during lunch, alone
And came across a building in the sun
A gravestone sculptor's workshop, overgrown.
A train went by with speed that left me stunned.
The night before: a park, a bridge at night -
Contented, strolling through the lanterns' light.
Two days which felt more like a week somehow
A simple change of pace can sometimes send
The mind to places less routine, allow
That jolt that makes things, on return, seem new.
Topography and buildings, use of space
Seemed strange, that side of town, while driving through.
Still Tokyo, but a subtly different place.
I went out walking during lunch, alone
And came across a building in the sun
A gravestone sculptor's workshop, overgrown.
A train went by with speed that left me stunned.
The night before: a park, a bridge at night -
Contented, strolling through the lanterns' light.
10 February 2013
29 October 2011
Epic Fail
My third day poolside and I am relaxing
I guess - but I'm still quite uneasy here
What kind of taxi drivers find it taxing
To read a map, a sign, or use a mirror?
Just more clues to a place where no one's home
Where people aren't spurred to use their brains
More money here than water, sense. Just chrome
And grease and wastes of sand and roaring planes
And vanity and tribal pride and scorn
Where aliens are used as slaves or brought
As tutors, then ignored, or to adorn
This barren land that petrodollars bought
But know this ugliness is mine as well
In many ways each modern city's Hell.
I guess - but I'm still quite uneasy here
What kind of taxi drivers find it taxing
To read a map, a sign, or use a mirror?
Just more clues to a place where no one's home
Where people aren't spurred to use their brains
More money here than water, sense. Just chrome
And grease and wastes of sand and roaring planes
And vanity and tribal pride and scorn
Where aliens are used as slaves or brought
As tutors, then ignored, or to adorn
This barren land that petrodollars bought
But know this ugliness is mine as well
In many ways each modern city's Hell.
28 October 2011
Pool
27 October
Bizarre hotel again, in a sun chair
A Russian fencing coach (team from Kuwait)
Makes forceful but controlled moves in the air
While chatting. Thought him ill to agitate
His wrist like that, as if to music swift
Now realize it's how he earns his keep
These tiny thrusts and turns. Training or gift,
He nonetheless must do that in his sleep.
As for the rest, it's squealing pudgy tots
Of all skin tones- while parents loll porcine
What strange ill-logic or mistakes have brought
Them to pretend this Emirate's a fine
Place for bikini suntans and a dip?
I feel such caste/class tension on this trip.
Bizarre hotel again, in a sun chair
A Russian fencing coach (team from Kuwait)
Makes forceful but controlled moves in the air
While chatting. Thought him ill to agitate
His wrist like that, as if to music swift
Now realize it's how he earns his keep
These tiny thrusts and turns. Training or gift,
He nonetheless must do that in his sleep.
As for the rest, it's squealing pudgy tots
Of all skin tones- while parents loll porcine
What strange ill-logic or mistakes have brought
Them to pretend this Emirate's a fine
Place for bikini suntans and a dip?
I feel such caste/class tension on this trip.
27 October 2011
Arabia
27 October
A balcony, a pool on reclaimed land
An empty golf course, Russians, Speedos. Breeze-
I taste construction dust - or is it sand
From desert's bleached interior blown to sea?
An ugly land, quick-built for profit, fake
And sad, with workers barely scraping by
To live here is to serve crude masters, take
Their scraps while cringing under dust-choked sky.
But while I'd turn down work in this dry place
Of greed and coarseness, profiteers and snakes
I must be honest with myself and face
That as an immigrant I've had to make
A bargain different only in degree-
To give up home, to trust hosts unlike me.
A balcony, a pool on reclaimed land
An empty golf course, Russians, Speedos. Breeze-
I taste construction dust - or is it sand
From desert's bleached interior blown to sea?
An ugly land, quick-built for profit, fake
And sad, with workers barely scraping by
To live here is to serve crude masters, take
Their scraps while cringing under dust-choked sky.
But while I'd turn down work in this dry place
Of greed and coarseness, profiteers and snakes
I must be honest with myself and face
That as an immigrant I've had to make
A bargain different only in degree-
To give up home, to trust hosts unlike me.
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