Long Transcribing Poems
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In words, straight from this writer's heart ~
my soul, or some other sensitive anatomical part,
I consider a poem a failure, without success
when poetry readers consider it a bloody mess.
Sometimes I write in the midst of discombobulation.
It's catharsis in a bottle of ink to a confuzzled mind.
Relief to me when I'm puzzled, not when I am blind
for to see what others don't, soothes my frustration.
In my thoughts, black and white scenes are flitting.
There's an urgent need of color, but none seem fitting
that my pen and ink consider worth transcribing.
It's discombobulating for me, as if I'd been imbibing.
Trying to sound cohesive when using clever metaphor
can weigh me down until I am prone, crying on the floor.
There are themes in some contests that seem ill-defined,
when I've no clue about a subject and I feel confined.
I'm drowning in quicksand, and no one can pull me out.
It's grimly perplexing to be filled with such brooding doubt.
My words begin to ramble, and I get lost in a blunder fest.
Seriously, it's a conundrum. About this woe, I wouldn't jest.
I wind up scribbling sonnets without meter or hint of rhyme.
A saturnine absurdity and a complete waste of my time.
An infinity of feckless, ineffectual lines without vitality,
so much so that my poem winds up N/Ad. Another fatality.
I need to find a way to make other poets savor the taste
of what I breathe in and then exhale so that it's interlaced
with profound meaning that others might comprehend,
instead of mere words on a page, that no editor could mend.
I don't mind constructive criticism. I'd be a foolish ingrate
to not accept well-meaning advice. Wisely, I'd contemplate
changing the course of a poem that simply doesn't mesh.
I'm not so discombobulated to realize when I need to refresh.
“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.” - Jon Kabat-Zinn
Time has an interesting
way of revealing
riveting narratives,
embossed within ivory
clams in raven letters,
perhaps, it is the
crippling kismet,
that dahlia dreamers are
shackled by society’s
sanctimoniousness,
but I still follow my
roseate heart to swiftly
lead this pristine paragon
of moving minutes.
I can hear the wanton
wolves devour the
magnanimous moon,
transcribing unheard
nocturnal tales, emanating
through deep russet
eyes of a silent stallion~
as I leave poetic footprints
through heels of a black
caviar horse by
the nacreous shoreline.
Someday, the sun will rise
and allow me to embrace
colors of you again,
although torturous tentacles
of marine monsters malevolently
try to steal the soothing hope
within my soul,
from a thousand seas away.
If only they knew, skies
can reach beyond
prancing peacock dreams
emblazoning distant horizons,
with a plethora of
milky quartz, perfumed
in whispers of lemongrass,
reflecting silvery echoes
of a cosmic whale’s conch shell,
floating in an ancient bottle
of antique emotions,
anchored to the depths
of bottomless oceans,
where corals have
our fate rewritten
within chambered nautilus.
So, wait for me when
twilight dims, and meteor
showers come crashing,
to pour blazing stars
upon lime green planktons,
for my soul is surfing
through aquatic realms,
to find my homely
sanctuary in your arms
glossed in lavender balm,
I breathe beneath seraphic spheres,
devouring the ticking seconds,
dancing to the wind that whispers
in trembling tunes,
unafraid and unshaken
by the unknown.
I live in the moment,
celebrating the air that wraps
me in wisteria warmth.
The sun-soaked stairway
to porcelain
peacefulness,
is to steer your heart,
through the art
of mindfulness.
I once made a stranger bleed out from his eyes
After transcribing his skeleton, and then reading
His scratched-up bones back to him.
I was thirteen when it happened, English class
When I first realized how a tension can be pulled
From the hoard of another's burden, no need
For subtlety, even by accident people are dying
To tell their secrets.
It's scribbled all over them. I just hadn't realized
To decipher it is a gift, a homemade yoke of one-sided,
Double-bound heroism, wherein the villain is
Eviscerated and simple, usually
It's trying to convince the crowd that gets you.
My father hated me for it—creating context
Drawing attention with an unabashed ask
Based on noticing, saying out loud what was written
On the face of a person; the collective
Noun for questions should be called an Innocence
Since the price of why is too much—too often
It's an unasked-for Experience
Why don't you get your teeth fixed? I was so excited
For my father when I said it, not knowing
Low-income housing, or anything of adolescence
when these kinds of corrections usually happen
I was six, and since Ki-hwan next door
Had just gotten braces, kindergarten logic led—
to my father hitting me hard on the back of my neck,
He called me an ******* for exposing him.
This is not hyperbolic, it's literally what happened; I just
Kept living life, with the embarrassment of a broken toddler
Being my dad, hiding so many sins, not all mentioned,
So many others—
I like to think I've won in the ways he was always too small
To see, that ******* showed me how to keep it moving
No matter the damage—just because
For the sake of his stepfather’s name, that was the template.
But I am a woman of a right-now-enduring existential shame
For the crime of not knowing the age of orthodontia, let alone
A moment of tenderness that might have saved us both,
Or had a shot at expunging this right-here moment
Of being an *******, saturated with a father's impression,
Boggy as the blood-soaked prostate of a long-dead man,
Surely, I will get over him.
Quatre-vingts jours
On Duolingo and I’m still
in the present tense which
is fine as I still make mistakes
masculine et feminine are a bit
of a toss but I’m getting better
lesson by lesson and I have
cent et dix-huit crowns et
trois cent quarante-six lingos
whatever they are.
I’m best at translating français écrit
to written English and am getting
better at transcribing français parlé
but to be honest, I must admit that
mon français oralé is halting at
best and it’s not helped by the
covid-19 self-distancing/lockdown
as my Continuing Education course
FRENCH II is in limbo with every
thing else and we haven’t had a class
for weeks and when I look at the
class notes it seems we’re stuck
au milieu de passé impartait
et futur proche.
I admit…I haven’t read many of the religious writings out there
but I’ve read a few…and I imagine all their authors were hoping to make a case
by transcribing words and teachings to help make this world a better place.
However…When I look out on our world and see all the damage done
in the name of what is written in religious texts…
When I see pain, suffering, hatred, wars and killing
in the name of a religion…I am bewildered and perplexed.
It seems to me…many of their original teachings…doctrines
and canons by ‘believers’ have been amended…
allowing them to do cruel and heinous things
in ways the authors never intended.
When one looks at the many pages of religious writings out there…
I imagine their creators…should have been a little more precise….
knowing if they had to do it over again…a few sentences would suffice:
Empathy and love is the basis of all religions
It is what can truly make us great….
When we love our neighbor as we love ourselves
there is no room for hate.
I suppose they could have added:
Live a life of love, compassion and kindness…treat everyone the same
so when you’re gone…people will smile whenever they say your name
As I say…I haven’t read many religious writings….
but I imagine what would bring a smile to any of their creator’s face
is knowing everyone who truly heeds their words…
no matter what language they are written in…
will leave this world a better place.
Kicking the Ball Against the Wall
By Phan Tan Hai
Playing soccer since childhood days
with friends down by the railway tracks;
whenever the train’s whistle wailed,
the match would end, and we’d head home.
Practicing ball skills on the street corner with friends—
shouts, cheers, and laughter
echoing through unforgettable years,
memories traveling to every horizon.
Then came a time of quiet solitude,
clutching the ball back to that old street corner;
only the walls remained as companions,
bouncing the ball back and forth at midday.
The wall seeks no points to score;
winning or losing matters as little as sun or rain.
The wall has no goal, no net—
it simply returns whatever ball comes its way.
The weathered, compassionate wall
bounces the ball back to one's feet;
no echoes remain to be held in memory,
letting them drift away on the wind.
I see myself and the ball as one,
the wall and the rebounding ball as not-two;
no whistle blows to start the game,
while the five aggregates run upon the field.
At night, I light the lamp to read,
watching the seasons drift across the page;
the ball follows characters slender as cranes,
transcribing words beneath the fading moonlight.
I sit, I listen, I perceive—
the ball still appears across the vast sky;
the wall is the unmoving mind,
a mind formless and wordless.
Eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind
manifest like illusions, like morning dew;
ball meets wall—simply "as it is":
no person, no ball, no wall.
“to veil light we cloaked it in bliss
then intellect and lower mind
fused together as magnetism
in form where truth we seek to find”
~ Unseeking Seeker
You speak of rain’s voice as star-fire,
an invigorating zeal kissing our soul,
while I stroll the shore of love,
inhaling the incense of lucent sage ~
my heart stirs and pulse awakens,
transcribing the touch of timeless tides,
seeking the softness of the sun,
undressing stubborn haze, disrobing ego,
unbuttoning forgotten chakras,
to rise in hot-stone silence…
O divine beacon of infinite bliss,
I breathe the burn of intuitive ink,
engulfing my inner consciousness,
like magnetic metaphors,
flowing in sync with blue rose radiance,
rushing through the river of veins ~
from heart to toe, palm to crown,
revealing handwritten humility…
I yearn to thrive where petals purify,
forsaking the soil of pride,
planting faith in a realm of selfless bloom,
no longer a mindless marionette,
enticed by materialistic mantras ~
for in the form of fortitude
and in the cadence of clarity,
where we seek the strength of truth,
I have learned to trust and obey the breeze
above the fields of felicity,
illuminating the untouched psyche…
For years it had flown through dim canyons,
hollows where the mute sheltered in echoing caves.
Poems shifted loose and gearless.
Words darted for cover as if caught
in an empty bell tower.
On tongue-chilled days it would croon inarticulately
as it sang beneath jawbone rafters.
Then one drunken night I felt it clearing its windpipes,
coaching a squeaky organ into yawps of utterance.
I can see it now, a raw unlovely thing,
a creature hammered through gurgling fissures,
grown stark with a transpiring clarity.
I would mislay it like a lost penny,
go crazy to find its untrod trail again,
then it would return like a tramp begging at my door.
I hear it knocking now – a homeless angel
eager to shed the next paltry revelation
in a foundling language.
No longer is it a chance sighting,
no longer a luminous flutter on dark walls;
it is red of lip,
a painted vowel in my unbolted mouth.
A mouth that now divulges,
and sometimes in a dull turning year
may say something worth transcribing
for the ears of other madmen.
Poetry IS.
A personal thing you can relate to.
A common thread weaved into-
Life's fabric by the Master Craftsman.
An endproduct and tool for enjoyment
and understanding-building.
If you see a McCaw steal a Pirates
last lemon that's justice poetry!
If you ever see someone (else) unable to shake
their head of a tune (well that's just funny)!
Just as long as you don't also pass to them
a virus of yawn or hiccup too!
Needing yet another poetic pawn
of reset to spawn,
too-well, that wouldn't be cool!
That would be hilarious and wrong?
{Even more about this below}
((A temporary chastisement stealing
your atmosphere, like a frozen moodring.
A spell that creates a black cloud, intimately near,
that you just have to sail through.
Basking in it's rain and wind sheer.
Till you are cleansed of the melody malady's
sticky honey dew of snare.))
{Even more below} Sigh
(((Till some other air takes it's place under sail-
like electric eel current, (all clear)
leech of seasnail- transfusement-lunacy-loom.
But enough about points, needlings stuck
in a Godsmack groove.
Fangs siring innoculation, black tides undermoon
giving instant Karma lessons, taking you
to imagination fascination
School.)))
Poetry is a paradigm in parody
In transfiguration transcribing-semblence,
fro and TO beauty, irony and clarity
OF knowledge and recapturing-meaning
and it's relevance to BOOT.
Poetry IS Innocence imbibing Evanescence-
meaning in deed there IS also poetry in you.
She loved her child through rivers and mountains,
copied sutras with trembling hands,
offered them at dawn, noon, dusk, and night—
each tear a stream flowing in silence.
She loved her child across endless miles,
chanting through tears like mountain rain.
The wind carried her voice to distant woods,
cold rain soaking into her soul.
Then Mother became mist, fading in midday sun.
Then Mother became fragrance, drifting through dreams.
Then Mother became cloud, white hair at heaven’s edge.
Then Mother became sunlight, a shadow behind the hill.
At midnight, I turn in a distant town,
reading the last line of her sutra.
Her words overflow with longing—
transcribing the Buddha’s teaching across the river.
O love! A forest of white hair
flies back to cover birth and death.
A bird cries from the farthest sky—
I lift my head, and hear the sound of the Unborn.
--- By Nguyen Giac Phan Tan Hai