All Poems
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By the Lake
© Tu Fu
The old fellow from Shao-ling weeps with stifled sobs as he walks furtively by the bends of the Sepentine on a day in spring. In
the waterside palaces the thousands of doors are locked. For whom have the willows and rushed put on their fresh greenery? I remember how formerly, when the Emperor's rainbow banner made its way into the South Park, everything in the park
seemed to bloom with a brighter color. The First Lady of the Chao-yang Palace rode in the same carriage as her lord in
attendance at his side, while before the carriage rode maids of honor equipped with bows and arrows, their white horses
Ballad of the Old Cypress
© Tu Fu
In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branches
are like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of forty
spans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored top
rises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long since
Ballad of the Army Carts
© Tu Fu
The carts squeak and trundle, the horses whinny, the conscripts go by, each
with a bow and arrows at his waist. Their fathers, mothers, wives, and children
run along beside them to see them off. The Hsien-yang Bridge cannot be seen for
dust. They pluck at the men's clothes, stamp their feet, or stand in the way
Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River
© Tu Fu
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.
Eternity
© James Lee Jobe
for C. G. Macdonald, 1956-2006
Charlie, sunrise is a three-legged mongrel dog,going deaf, already blind in one eye,answering to the unlikely name, 'Lucky.'
The sky, at gray-blue dawn, is a football field painted by smiling artists. Each artist has 3 arms, 3 hands, 3 legs.One leg drags behind, leaving a trail, leaving a mark.
The future resembles a cloudy dream where the ghosts of all your lifetry to tell you something, but what?
Richard
© James Lee Jobe
It's mid-winter and the sunrise knows it, and wakes me with a shudder; I'm just a man.
For 5 cold mornings in a row, the beautiful pheasant has come to our patio to steal some of the dry catfood, sometimes right in front of my cat.
The house is still, and I enjoy the Sunday newspaper with strong, dark coffee; the smell of it dances around in the early darkness.
Driving to church there is bright, eager sunshine, and the shadows of bare winter oaks stripe the lane like a zebra; shadow, light, shadow.
Redbud Trail - Winter
© James Lee Jobe
Once up on the ridge, the view takes me,
Brushy Sky High Mountain looms above
like an overanxious parent, the creek sings
old songs for the valley oaks, for the deer grass.
Less muddy, I kick my boots a little cleaner
on a rock that is maybe as old as the earth.
Moon In Virgo
© James Lee Jobe
You are not beaten. The simple music rises up,
children's voices in the air, sound floating out
What I Did In The Moonlight
© James Lee Jobe
I planted my grief
in freshly turned earth
A tree grows there now
You should see the size of it
My Mother On An Evening In Late Summer
© Mark Strand
1
When the moon appears
and a few wind-stricken barns stand out
in the low-domed hills
From The Long Sad Party
© Mark Strand
Someone was saying
something about shadows covering the field, about
how things pass, how one sleeps towards morning
and the morning goes.
The Room
© Mark Strand
It is an old story, the way it happens
sometimes in winter, sometimes not.
The listener falls to sleep,
the doors to the closets of his unhappiness open
Coming To This
© Mark Strand
We have done what we wanted.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief
and called ruin the impossible habit to break.
So You Say
© Mark Strand
It is all in the mind, you say, and has
nothing to do with happiness. The coming of cold,
the coming of heat, the mind has all the time in the world.
You take my arm and say something will happen,
The Dreadful Has Already Happened
© Mark Strand
The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly.
They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel
them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.
Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.
The Remains
© Mark Strand
I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.
Answers
© Mark Strand
Why did you travel?
Because the house was cold.
Why did you travel?
Because it is what I have always done between sunset and sunrise.
