This creek is called the Little Union Canal. It was dug with horse drawn equipment 100 years ago, to carry water to the Boise River. Monday night, we were blessed with a fall of that soft snow that sticks to things and makes them impossibly beautiful until it melts. It's a nice backyard, but this is one of the finer moments. When the irises bloom in springtime, that's another.
I haven't read much today, because I was cleaning the house for visitors; actually, for myself, so I wouldn't have to be embarassed when they came. I've almost decided now that it would be better to have more company and rejoice in the order and beauty I can create. Maybe not.
Tonight, here is a poem from Bei Dao, whom I heard read with other "Misty Poets"
from China, many years ago at San Jose State. They were introduced by Carolyn Kizer,
I think. I fell in love with Gu Cheng that night, but recognized the power and strength of
Bei Dao, who continues to write impressive poetry, and now is recognized worldwide as
a very important poet. I should write about Gu Cheng and will do so.
from The Rose of Time; new and selected poems, page 157.
Untitled
people hurry on, arrive
return in another life, fade into bird dreams
the sun flees wheat fields
then comes back trailing after beggars
who's rivaled sky for height
that singer who died young
soars in the weather map
flies into snowstorms holding a lamp
I bought a newspaper
got change back from the day
and at the entrance to night
eased into a new identity
celebrated fish
move through everyone's tears
hey, you folks upstream achievers so hale and hearty
how far is it to tomorrow
No capital letters at the beginning of lines, only two commas as punctuation--
ends with a question, but no question mark. And super, super, super!
I am very tired, and so to bed.
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