Li-Young Lee

Little Father

***

I buried my father

in the sky.

Since then, the birds

clean and comb him every morning

and pull the blanket up to his chin

every night.

I buried my father underground.

Since then, my ladders

only climb down,

and all the earth has become a house

whose rooms are the hours, whose doors

stand open at evening, receiving

guest after guest.

Sometimes I see past them

to the tables spread for a wedding feast.

I buried my father in my heart.

Now he grows in me, my strange son,

my little root who won’t drink milk,

little pale foot sunk in unheard-of night,

little clock spring newly wet

in the fire, little grape, parent to the future

wine, a son the fruit of his own son,

little father I ransom with my life.

Georg Trakl

At Night

***

The blueness dies out in my eyes tonight,

the red gold of my heart. O how still the light burns!

Your cloak of sadness encircles the long descent.

Your red lips seal your friend’s unhinging.

***

Postdata - Eclipse

Jack Kerouac

***

Close your eyes -

Landlord knocking

On the back door.

***

Postdata - Drift

Jack Kerouac

***

Early morning yellow flowers,

thinking about

the drunkards of Mexico.

***

Booker T. Jones - Knockin' On Heaven's Door

Ezra Pound

In a Station of the Metro

***

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

petals on a wet, black bough.

***

The Middle East - Western

Charles Simic

Watermelons

***

Green Buddhas

On the fruit stand.

We eat the smile

And spit out the teeth.

Tamas Wells - Thirty People Away

Kijo Murakami

***


The moment two bubbles

are united, they both vanish.

A lotus blooms.

***

Zachary Lucky - Town To Town