
Denis Mair - USA
Khaju
Kerman Park
---Written while attending the Second Iranian and World Poets
Congress.
Khaju of Kerman was mentor and friend to the poet Hafez.
This park is a
nook of many nooks
Set in rock so
humans can draw near
And grow
friendly with the mountain
Nooks for all
flavors of contemplation
Nooks as
theaters for conversation
A secret system
of water ducts
Lets greenery
adorn each rocky scene
As if by
handiwork of jinns
I stroll the
rocky promenade at twilight
In velvety air
heed that realm beneath silence
Where a poet’s
heart-sounds echo forever
On Hafez Day the
big heart of Iran
Opens to let me
walk in Khaju Kerman Park
I gaze across
the highway at a sister mountain
Its massiveness
mirrors the size of this one
Above that
massif, the moon lights up a cloudscape
Wreaths of
silvery cloud are just as intricate
As whorls and
furrows of any monolith
Each realm has
been given a scale of time
To develop its
own panoply of forms
Between
cloudscape and landscape I walk in reverie
May our human
works last longer than clouds
May we
gracefully make way for people to come
Like travelers
going out the gate towards Esfahan
Where a Holy
Quran was once kept upstairs
We are all
passing through a gate
Beneath the
arcane book of Heaven
Wherein the
scales of all realms are written
On this day
dedicated to a poet
May my thoughts
find a fitting place
Here where my
kind cavort amid greenery
Along this edge
of massive rock
On stone paths
hewn by selfless hands
Shiraz 2011
...........
Riddles in Green
1
The central pillar is
so solid and definite
The tier above
consists of firm supports, each shaped like half of an arch
Above that, tiers are
hypothetical, each limber tip bowed by its own weight
The furthest ends are
held up and out toward the light
So delicate that light
can shine into their interior
Though flat, there is
depth in their will to gather light
They are a slow
fountain expressing the quest for light
Where have I seen this
shape? It looks familiar to me
As if it comes from
somewhere inside me.
2
I sit on the stump of
a chopped-down forest giant
It is hard to imagine
the sturdy pillar that once stood here
Or to see a ghost
canopy spreading above my head
The pillar’s firmness
was a virtue in the plan of a living thing
Now wrenched into a
different scheme, it becomes a trial
To my posterior, an
armless armchair of discomfort
Why does it seem
familiar, and why did I gravitate to such a seat
As if I too had gone
through a history of being chopped down?
3.
The gash in a steep
mountainside in Chiapas
Is the big brown
scream of patient lives that once anchored this slope
Is the big brown
scream of farmers who can’t take products to market
Is the big brown
scream of fields in the valley, now buried under mud
Further down the
valley, a whole mountain buckled and slid into basin land
Because green canopies
were wrenched from dreams of gradual growth
Why do they seem so
familiar, those howling machines with steel teeth?
Now on the valley
floor, smashed by boulders from a landslide they set loose?
4
The samiras whirl down
in bucketfuls I gathered as a child
Winged seeds, or
packets of possibility are otherwise spread
Into caches, to be
forgotten by scrambling scavengers
Or to fall from lips
that were licking sweet pulp
Most of the pips and
nuts have to be squandered;
Only a few can lodge
in special folds of earth
Why does it seem
familiar, seeing all the living nuggets
Hurled with hopeful
intent into the maw of void?
Trivandrum, India
………………
After a Talk with Lo Ch’ing
Chinese literati
landscape painting is fading away.
The rabbit from
which they plucked fur for those wispy brushes has long ago
gone up
to the moon.
Tang Yin got
light-headed from painting fans and was brained by a butterfly wing.
Fan Zeng’s noble
hero got a sore neck from the autumn wind.
C. C. Wang
accidentally crumpled his latest masterwork and soaked
it in
ink.
Wu Guan-zhong
cannot find a pupil to inherit his mastery of white walls.
Chinese literati
painting is fading away.
Painters have
been known to stare at asphalt roads, forgetting
scenic
destinations.
One was even
seen dallying at a betel-nut stand, talking to a girl
dressed
in red.
They tie rice
paper in knots, or beat it against the Great Wall.
They paint
crowds of stick-men with eyes, while drunk and listening to
Schostakovich.
Chinese
landscape literati painting is fading away.
The security
guard has activated the alarm and you have to
be out
the door in twenty seconds.
Chinese literati
are no longer seen on the landscape, because
Chinese literati
no longer paint landscapes.
There are no
landscape literati
And there are no
landscapes to be seen by literati.
There are
missiles in Wang Wei’s mountains.
Chuang-tzu hid
the universe in the universe, and literati painting
was in
that universe, so it is safe.
But in our
universe, literati painting had to swallow
a load of
scrap iron.
It was wounded
in soft places; it was broken and couldn’t pass down.
Literati
painting is fading away, but so much the better.
A ghost is
softer than soft, and will not be harmed by sharp edges.
A ghost occupies
any shape, and assumes more forms than steel.
Literati
painting is dead, heya heya
Long may it
occupy men’s dreams!
………………….
Me And George
My life lies
splayed out across the years
In serpentine
course through town and city
I need an old
friend to prod the memory-snake
And let me feel
it stretch into the past.
The tail goes
back to industrial suburbs
And a sad-eyed
boy
Who studied the
scenery on the stage
To avoid being
drafted into the sound and fury;
Then the story
bends toward a college town
Where he missed
some friends that fate appointed
Being rapt in
imagining the hearts of others
Inside the many
marks he learned on paper;
Then it makes
its way to a Far-East sojourn
Tilting at
windmills of someone else’s culture
Hitting the wall
of Third World awakening;
Then making a
loop to the Midwest
To weather the
storm he brought back with him;
Then lost
windings homeward, coast to coast
One coil always
wrapped tenderly around a child
Many
convolutions abysmally submerged.
Finally it
climbs out, shakes off the flute-song of ancient books
Winding
schoolward again to study its own land’s culture
Allowed to crawl
into a classroom, to teach
‘Freshman
Composition’
Which is how it
ran into George.
George:
quick-witted student and instant pal
You kept our
class alive,
Late-met friend
to remedy my lonesome youth
You stood out
like a ‘Bud’ sign in a dim bar;
Nothing was
serious or simple to you
And the rest of
that Warren rat-pack
From the favored
heights of rusty Youngstown,
But you were
good-hearted and tough-minded.
Your remarks
were cloud-enclosed captions
In a comic
co-written by God and Satan;
You played your
thoughts on heavenly piano
(no talk of your tormented fingers).
When my marriage
exploded, you and Dave Kelly
Let me and my
daughter move into Animal House;
You taught her
duets and Beatles tunes
She guarded
Dave’s keys so he wouldn’t drive drunk.
Three wild
undergrads and a grad-student father
Kept house with
a sweet-tempered first grader.
Of course our
household scattered soon
I went to work
in Philadelphia, then on to China;
You went to law
school, then on to New York
Piles of letters
have passed between us
As I continued
my wandering ways
And you served,
and made a life for yourself
As Public
Defender at a courthouse in the Bronx.
Now you’re
getting prickly and hard-bitten
Still you’re
best for sharing thoughts and poetry.
That’s why I
don’t need this moment’s tyranny
And I think of
George, to touch the memory-snake
To help me keep
what’s mine from ten years back,
To give this
memory-snake a nudge
So I can know
the road I came on
And own it every
inch of the way.
I am more than
these sensations through beady eyes
Sidling up
distractedly to flowers and grasses
To flicker my
tongue at the wind is not enough
A friend helps
me live in the snake-body of my whole life.
………………………….
"Cows in Mysore"
In that district
of cow stalls, their haven is a palm-grown promenade.
They return at
twilight from their routes, alone or in twos and threes
They thread their way
past intersections, all motorists giving way
By day they comb the
city, browsing on provender left in baskets
Each cow has a route;
checking for kitchen scraps at certain spots
South of Mysore's city
center, there is this special palm-lined street
Every few addresses is
a stall for cows, right among people's houses
The contentment of
cows is not a commercial slogan here
This interspecies
street brings back my fondness for cows
I learned it from my
father's long deep sniffs of appreciation
In Sirsi's
Marikamba Temple, also at twilight, I see altar-stalls
Where a pair of cows
are rubbed down with ghee each week
I feel
fondness, expressed by someone else's buttery hands
In Banavasi's ancient
temple, the cow-statue breathes delight
It sits before the
sacred lingam, on the same level with visitors
Humble at Vishnu's
feet, it is the true storehouse of a special spark
From its expression, I
know it was browsing on fragrant flowers
This thousand-year-old
cow sculpture was touched by many hands
Each day worshippers
touch its face, then touch their head or heart
After centuries
of touching lightly, just a patina on the still-rough stone
Just a blush beginning
on skin of fruit, not like in Hangzhou
Near Tiger-Run
Monastery, where Happy Buddha's belly and face
Are rubbed each day,
with covetous touch, for good luck
After a thousand
years, the marble shows a glassy sheen
Trivandrum, 2015
…………………..
Bait of Pity
Earthworm,
poor earthworm
Poor earthworm
crawling on the cement
You are burned
by sunrays and can’t go back
You came up when
dew was in the grass
You and your
kind try to crawl everywhere
Earthworm
I feel sorry for you
I bend over to
pick you up
You still have a
little moisture
Like lover’s
lips in a daydream
I lay you in a
patch of damp grass
Let you die with
your nose in the dirt
Earthworm
you remind me of something
Like all the
things that venture
Onto hard,
unwelcoming places
Like a song that
makes no difference
Earthworm do you
know what you are losing?
If you don’t,
I’m here to know it for you
I lift you into
shady grass
I’m not angling
for anything
You and your
kind ask for little
Yet you serve as
muscle for the soil
Earthworm
you are not just a symbol
I’m not dangling
sympathy in front of anyone
I am on the
pavement too
Los Angeles, 2003
…………………
My Waif
The hard poem
I’ve wanted to write for a long time
Resembles a
beggar-child in my mind’s eye
Wandering the
streets of Rome after WWII.
He has big,
gleaming eyes.
An American
soldier gives him chocolate
Sneaks away with
him to roam the city.
A school-leaver
makes the best tour guide
Especially in a
place with many ruins.
The soldier
brings the boy nylons from the P.X.
You can
speculate on these stockings in Rome.
Maybe the kid
has an older sister at home,
Or maybe he has
no home at all.
That child’s
eyes can pull your heartstrings
His
money-angling tricks will make you laugh.
In normal times
such a clever child
Could surely
make something of himself.
For a time the
American soldier is tempted
To adopt the boy
and take him across the sea.
But red tape in
the service is three times thicker
Than civilian
bureaucracy.
Later, the
soldier is discharged and sent home;
One day he sees
this headline in the paper:
“Youth Gangs Run
Rampant in Rome”
And the next
wave of Mafia activity
Is now expanding
to American shores.
……………………
Get a look at this ornament. How does it make you feel?
See how my eyespots can look at you from all angles.
See how kaleidoscopically I enjoy the beauty of your crest from all compass points of my tail.
With all these eyes I know where the best seeds are. Come and I can show you the
All my eyespots sway gently in the breeze. Imagine how we will gaze together on the perfect garden!
The refracted light from my feathers gives an appearance of liquid depth.
My neck-color reminds you of a pond seen through the trees at twilight, or your nighttime hideaway in a thicket.
My tail feathers snap closed, then suddenly fan out again.
I’ve been told the sensory effect can be overwhelming.
It takes a lot of testosterone to keep these feathers growing long and bright. It’s said that
testosterone in my blood increases my risk of infection.
But I have a strong enough constitution to parade these feathers before you.
If you select a well-ornamented specimen like me,
you can feel rest assured: many peahens in the future will be hypnotized by the tails of our sons.
As their father, I’ll give them this gorgeous advantage.
Even the humans who keep this garden have taken a cue from us.
(That poet in L.A. who calls himself Bowerbird has the right idea.)
Ludicrous apes, they suppose that with gibbering sounds they can mimic the effect of our resplendent tails!
……………….
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