Poems of Idleness

I would like to write poems of idleness, like Po Chü-i. But who would read them?

You. A visitor curious, accidental. In a rush?

 

Po all white hair, ancient with his wine, lamplight, bamboo and pine trees:

writing on hut walls. Sweeping an empty courtyard. Travelling mountain roads.

 

I walk Mira along the Trans Canada Trail, sun low, evergreens laden with snow.

In the evening, sitting with a glass of beer, the urge to achieve at rest.

 

For a moment.

 

Carrying an armload of firewood up from the basement. At fifty-four

I’ve discovered Bob Dylan. In another room he’s singing Simple Twist of Fate.

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4 thoughts on “Poems of Idleness

    • That’s so much Roxanna. I keep thinking I’ve nothing to write these days… and then the last two poems just kind of showed up. Walking into Snow after I got home from that walk into snow. And this one… this morning drinking coffee, Agnes left for work and there it was.

  1. From your friend, Still Running with Sharp Stick:

    Hmmm. At age 58 I discovered Bob Dylan. Again. Sharon bought me Scorcese’s No Direction Home for Christmas that year, and that was it.

    That same year I discovered poetry. Here is yesterday’s:

    Baby face page

    So I saw you in the movies
    and used you as an extra in my story.
    You were being interviewed by Suzuki
    and you said that the world’s oceans
    were more acidic now than any time in the last
    twenty million years, and somehow I believed you
    though I don’t quite know why
    until I looked you up online
    and found out that you were from Halifax.
    So you’re an ocean girl, no surprise then.
    But what did surprise me was your photo.
    You looked like a plastic doll
    or more like a kid’s version of a plastic doll
    with a tiny nose and a big dome-y forehead
    and smooth smooth skin like a child’s.
    You were pretty, of course you are!
    You’re in the movies!
    But what makes you so pretty?
    And why do I think you’re pretty? I thought,
    looking at your picture, I mean,
    you look just like one of my kids.
    And there it was. No shit, Sherlock, it really was.
    All the prettiest people look like our children.
    That lovely face is hardwired into our DNA.
    Which pretty much says it all.
    And nothing at all…about you.

    • Ahhh… Still Running with Sharp Stick, your wit also remains pointed and well honed… I hope that you are at least wearing safety glasses. So where’s the poetry blog???

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