August 8, 2007

After Reading a Book of Old Chinese Poems, I Stay Awake Tonight and Write This Poem

A beautiful place is the little town of Claremont.
The quiet streets are lines by ancient trees.
Down the long avenues of old houses,
pepper trees, sycamores, cedars, oaks and elms,
eucalyptus, palms and jacarandas
translate sunlight into restful shadows.
Flowers are everywhere, and citrus trees.
Lemons and oranges ornament the gardens.
Students walk by, with their books, to the colleges.
Townspeople walk together to the village.
From parks and schoolyards, children’s voices call.
Sunday mornings, churches ring their bells.
On a clear day, you can see the mountains,
where children play, in winter, in the snow,
and long trails lead to streams and waterfalls.
Deer and mountain lions roam the mountains.
Rattlesnakes doze for hours in the sun.
Some days the ponds are visited by bears
who stumble home with their bellies full of trout.
Unable to sleep, I leave my house tonight
and sit at the wooden table under the trees.
Now the winds and birds have settled; the night is still.
The owl in the cedar tree begins to bell.
Rose and jasmine burn their sticks of incense.
Moonlight falls on Claremont through the clouds.
I remember Po Chui’s poem about the cranes.
In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss,
the garden-boy is leading the cranes home.
How strange and powerful, the love of home.
Stranger still to be alive at all,
to be anywhere, in all its endless detail,
and the millions of tiny locks that will be broken
before you can be released from where you are
to return again to the place,
so many years ago, you started from,
the nothing that is everywhere but here.

Michael Creagan

Spring Love

The black smoke rises from the pan,
you smile and whisper that I will make a good wife.
Scrambled eggs with thousand island dressing
and oven-baken tortillas from the grocery.
You wince and eat the food all the same.
I don't mind you not liking breakfast
but that's all I have. Please leave soon-
your fiancee may wonder at
the sudden sweetness of your smile.

Your belly's a beer barrel's paradise- warmth in the cold night.
Your skin shines like moonlight and breath- the beat of my heart.
I notice a little mole under your armpit and
you try to peer with all your might. I laugh.
You shimmer among a million scattered dreams
and the haze arrives as you hold me in your arms.

I know there will never be another man like you.
And you, with a serious look, tell me I am your only Spring-
beauty with eyes of a doe and smiles of butterflies.
I worry about her but you just hold me in your arms.
For now, hush,
let the Spring be savored and our woes be gone-
two souls in a field of tulips and the smell of cut grass.

Sophie Leu