Friday, March 6, 2020
Franz Kafka (briefly) Interviews Tao Qian
Anywhere there is water
There I dip my line
Life can reside in depths
Truth is a bad deal, my friend,
It ruptures the Bohemian night
Fuzzy Wuzzy was he
But logically he was not he
My line drifts
Neither Franz Kafka nor Tao Qian knew of each other nor cared about fame. And they lived literally worlds apart in time and space. What follows is a brief fictional interview:
F: Are you afraid of roaches?
T: Of the kind that moved about, only the kind that moves in high places. I smoke them out.
They pass legislations and suddenly illegal becomes legal, etc. They eat a meal, walk then as
far as half a block, and then eat another meal.
F: I understand that you are a famous poet on China. Is that correct?
T: Look at it this way, my friend, if you are a successful traveling salesman of restaurant
cookware, then I am a poet who has drowned himself many times in wine.
F: I understand you gave up a government post to become a rustic farmer of chrysanthemums.
T: Yes, my friend, just as you prefer Prague coffeehouses, I prefer anonymity amongst village
dung. Confucius said there is beauty in all, except some fail to see it.
F: Thank you, my friend, I must go see my friend Max now.
T: Good-bye, my friend, when you come this way again, look for the house surrounded by five
Epilogue: Friends can be as eloquent as the long Great Wall of China or as terse as a legal brief.
You can hear each murmur in a crowded courtroom or the silence of a bamboo leaf.
- Koon Woon, March 6, 2020
By koon woon - March 06, 2020
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Friday, December 13, 2019
The WA State Arts Commission has just granted the Chrysanthemum Literary Society $1,200 for its Chrysanthemum 2020 Poetry Anthology and a public reading at the C & P Coffee in West Seattle. We deeply thank the WA State Arts Commission for its clear vision in meaningful and necessary poetry for the times we are coping with.
By koon woon - December 13, 2019
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Single bird perched upon snow covered tree
he huddles, head nestled out of the wind
swaying his thin frame ‘mong branches blown free,
desolate landscape, lone bird wonders when
this storm will subside, the sun to emerge.
Snow covers feathers, his beak under wing.
Lifts up his head, storm seems on the verge;
sun breaks through snow sky, he’s ready to sing.
Flies over meadow now coated with snow,
straight to a farmhouse with silos of corn,
scattered, the seeds, they call from below,
landing to feast on this cold sun-filled morn.
Recalls the chill night he spent in the tree,
rejoice the morning, when storm set him free.
Julie A. Dickson
When words escape me like so many dreams
everything changes, different it seems.
Travel upon memory buried in snow,
while drifts blow over wherever I go.
I trip over roots, hidden -- I fall
on my knees but I realize that overall
the whole point of a journey varies;
some may stumble while others tarry,
confused, might wander among the rubble,
pick through detritus that caused this trouble,
reminisce smiling past times when I knew
a trembling voice, from one of a fool.
Isolated, alone in a din,
Ignored or passed over -- turn myself in-
to the fray, if I write about life,
will they recognize, imagine my strife?
Yes, overcome, I’ve lived onto this age,
earned the right to own all of my rage.
A pass is issued, somewhat of a badge,
a ticket, an entry to lift up this latch.
Open a new door, within my own time –
appreciate brilliance, begin to unwind,
unravel the voices beneath the snow,
whisper survival through words I now know.
Julie A. Dickson
Lying on the floor in the hallway
I saw grownups in black slacks,
a party in my parent’s house
I wanted sweet cantaloupe melon,
mother cut fruit all afternoon
for guests she said and only smiled
at my request
for a bite of melon, ripe and delicious
wait, she said,
the leftovers, you can have breakfast
I crept into the dining room, under the table
quickly grabbed a piece of melon,
I popped it quickly into my mouth,
I crawled back to my bed, still tasting,
I went back to sleep now, waiting
Julie A. Dickson
I know just where my father’s ashes are interred,
but I wonder if I really knew him.
My mother’s ashes were buried next to his,
but while his were in a faux-granite urn,
hers had been dumped, unceremoniously
from a cardboard box directly into the ground,
by my father ten years earlier.
I thought of this atrocity, this role-reversal,
how much my mother hated dirt,
would have preferred the clean sealed urn.
It was he, who would have wanted to be dumped
into the ground or over the lake he loved,
but instead he was locked inside an urn.
Sometimes I wish I could have torn open his urn,
thrusting him to the wind, scooping up the memory
of my mother, to capture her essence
but then I realize that she is more free
than my father will ever be.
Julie A. Dickson
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Sipping warm mug
Newborn day shining pure white light
Shocked and shaken
Cruel attack rends my heart
Healing faith revives, I will rise
Went your own way
Voice smiling through my phone
Like a visit at home today
My reaching out falls short
In deep abyss of chasm wide
By koon woon - November 24, 2019
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