poetry

The latest one-hundred poems by Warren Tang.

the cicadas’ song

soaking into rocks
after the rain —
the cicadas’ song
pick a landmark

life is
so much easier
when you have
a landmark
to orientate you

it may not be
anybody else’s landmark
(and it shouldn’t be)
but at least
you will know
where everybody else
is in relation to you

that is
the whole point
of choosing
a landmark
twentieth reply

with you
love was simple
effortless
without doubt

straight
and immediate
that was all
love needed to be

to answer your love
was easy, it was pure
from some place
called the heart

it asked for nothing
but gave everything
and still it is the
same doubtless love

uncomplicated
and has remained
as easy to replied to
as twenty years ago
cubism

not necessarily blocks
different facets
in view, visible
unnaturally folded
like paper then unfolded

creases can never be uncreased
frozen colours shades shadows
the painter’s shift shown
delineated merged into
something called cubist art
picasso

blue cubic
lovers
unfold easily

creased flesh
of beauty
he knows
how to show

a secret
we now
understand
all too well

Originally published in 2013.
inseparable

you three
are inseparable
as it were

from the very
beginning and until
the very end

as dramatic as it sounds
take away one and the world
will come to an end

a triangle
like no other
their names –

matter
space &
time
Love is not a thing

Love isn’t a thing.
It’s not a
you-either-have-it-
or-you-don’t thing.
It is what you do.
And it is what
someone does to you.

Go do love. Go love.
Go get loved. Be loved.
Then you will understand
what love is. Love is
not a thing.
Just love.
no more love (poems)

to you
it’s the world,
your world,
a kind of
definition

but one day
you will know
it cannot
define you
or even love

(Originally published 22nd November 2013)
lucien freud

they sat for you
waited for you
craved for
your attention
as much as
those numberless
lovers did

that was
your other art —
seduction

and now
they tell their stories
about your genius
and their pains
among other things

(Originally published 14th October 2013)
sand dune

the rain has stopped for you
as you lie there gleaming white
beneath the once more ancient sun
across my wide-field of vision
and people walk all over you
like men in gulliver but still
you lay there lazy
under the strange
grey summer sky of
two thousand thirteen
our day’s trek a daze trek
daughter and son
climb the steepest
part of you while we take
the easy route up
your naked young leg
perfect for black & white art
sexy as the grains
of your worn down
washed up pristine earth
Karate #haiku revised

Children trade punches
As parents trade gossip
In the stifling gym heat
walking with the dog

i walk the path
that many have walked
for a millennium

watched over
by the green life
the network
beneath my soles
the quiet over sphere

the pulsing
under the surface
connecting but
separating us
all at once

led by my dog yet
constrained by my lead
i am now convinced
she knows infinitely more
about the world than me
kawabata

your life in forty volumes
shows you had your art
from almost the very beginning

it only takes one word
an adjective perhaps
or an emotive one

to change the meaning
of the work, to give it
a nuance not found otherwise

be it a few pages or a hundred
unmistakably it was always there
and forty volumes later

you have had enough
i see what you mean

if it is not with your eyes,
then what is it that you see
the world with?

some say
you see
with your mind.

if so, then why did god
bother with giving us eyes
in the first place?

the “mind’s eye”
is a great metaphor, but
in there it shall remain.

for words can do this –
make things appear
from paper thin air

and their appearance, it
may linger in the wind or
on the page for far too long.
Time is too precious

Time is too precious
to think about
eternity
.
God’s Imperfection

Time is important.
Change and difference create value.
God means nothing without man.
The imperfections of man generates
the perfection of God.

Yet, God’s perfection
is nothing and everything.
For that is the power
of a knowledge that comes
from nowhere.
halfway through the show

forever, we come in
“halfway through the show”.
never to go back
to the beginning of time,
to our parents’ birth or
even to the last minute
or second that had just past.
for that is time’s character.

there is neither reverse to reality,
nor fast forward, but only ‘play’
we must live with it, deal with it,
but also enjoy the show while it’s on.
still in the shadows
where is the law
when the law
is standing over you
and standing on you,

that a man can die
for no better reason
than for his colour
simply is unfathomable.

one has to wonder
why so little
has been learnt
all this time,

all these centuries.
how can someone be a threat
when one is cooperative,
patient and forgiving

only to be toyed with
then killed, murdered
as it were
in the darkness

that was apparently
not dark enough
for it to be captured
on film, as if

we do not have enough
evidence already
that racism is still
hiding in the shadows.
white paper from the start
a blank slate
or white paper –
our minds are
from the start
like this.

a mind
without sense-experience
will continue to be
a blank slate.
no perception,
conception, or signification
is possible
unless
we have
the initial
sense-experience.
Chemtrails, Beck
hollow awe followed by
the complete decadence
of drums

the scene is set in cold
cold waters
what exactly is happening
only we can guess

to be sure
the throng of people
is imagined
like a painting by Bosch
only in my mind
in psychedelic blue

no conspiracies here
just airy travel trails
high, up in the stratosphere

wild guitars stop abruptly
only to fade in once more
the drummer boy
not wanting to end

the euphoria of music
must continue
heisei
for thirty-years
and a little bit more
you had become pacified

the past still haunts us
as long as there are
those who remember it

brightly but not luminous
you leave us
we are grateful, not sad

for not since
two centuries
has this happened

an orderly and peaceful
end to the gentle
quietude of your reign

by your side
the strength of your queen
so to speak

and now it shall continue –
the common good even
if it is with spiritual overtones

welcome
welcome
new era
building metaphors
we are forever
building metaphors
bridging gaps
between meaning
and form

transmitting
our intentions
our perfect,
static, timeless
ideals

from the mind
extended, like
antennae
now this –
my simile

constructed
and unplanned
the metaphor is
the foundation of
our abstractions
the definition of a soul
cultures posit this.
give it an existence
despite any evidence,
apart from its name.

this thing
is essentially
( )
no-thing.

& those left behind
gaze at the soul
as though it is there
on the other shore

when in reality
even the shoreline
is a necessary part
of the illusion.
annual check up
sometimes
you just dont want
to know, when
everything
is running fine
running smoothly
it doesnt matter
if the metaphorical “oil”
is just a little dirty

starved
of food and water
i wait for my turn
along with the other
starving people
in the hospital
white rooms
that are never
quite white

the stale stench
fills the space
patients reading books
swiping screens
not wanting to know
not wanting to wait
the ping of machines
marking time, timing
the inevitable
inside the mind
we have no idea
we never do
what pains do people
have inside

a private space
for some
a suffocating prison
to others

my advice:
leave the door
open or at least
unlocked

let others in
keep plates
cups and cutlery
for guests

have seats
for friends to sit
keep it tidy
for unexpected
but welcome visitors
noumenon
you are not there
only in name
not fiction
not real
either
My 9-11
i woke to horrors others
had seen with their eyes
and i, only through
this tiny screen

but still
it was terrifying
to watch the heat &
the synchrony of it

that evening waiting
on a sydney pier
waiting for a friend
to arrive by jet plane

i watched this
faraway yet near
not dear skyline
in unnatural fear
sunday afternoon
slow but not
slow enough
is the sunday rest

tapping keyboards
before going to listen
to that strum and rap

all so uncanny
what technique is that
talking, talking

to lost acquaintances
before being bored
with the sunday afternoon
Multiplicity
not one, many
sometimes
we come together
but in the end
we come apart
into regression
a reverse infinite

nothing (no thing)
is missing
like a complete set
only to be added to
be supplemented
to start all over again
never coming to a close

identities
by difference
& differance
only in differences
that things (yes, things!)
shall contain in it
imperfect meaning
nude
it isn’t being “naked”
they are different things
meaning is there from
our point of view
pet dogs see
nothing in our
flesh anymore
than we see
eros in theirs
in art the nude
is a symbol of
some deeper
misunderstanding
as man nothing more
rushes to our heads
than those very
curvatures and
as woman
lean strength
signals
security
that more
or less
guarantees
our future

(In response to Nude: Art from the Tate Collection exhibition currently showing at Yokohama Museum of Art.)
one, forty-two
everything real
has a positive
equal value
called existence

un-equivalence
is our choice
our preference
our bias
our privileging
of a thing
over others

be it god
the self
the soul
or whatnot

that
is the nature
of me
a human being
E=mc²
think about it –

energy
is matter
is space
is time

while god
maybe 0
the world
is an integer

and nietzsche
may have
proclaimed
“god is dead”

but to me
“god is ‘nothing’
& the world is
everything”

from the world
came god and gods,
not the other way
as we might believe
i like god
i like god but
only in the same way
that i like harry potter
or purple unicorns

if god makes someone
a better person, i am happy
but i am annoyed when god
tells me i have to believe in him

it seems easier for god
to tell me these things
through others, and never
to speak to me directly

i am not worthy (they say)
to hear god’s voice
or to be graced
with his presence

or is it just
his presence
is in the word,
and word alone

either way
i like god
and, yes, i “know”
he likes me
hospital ward
the smell of dying
and death overflows
into the hallways
fills the rooms

they wait seemingly
in silence resigned
to the inevitable
carers indifferent
to it all and
visitors numbed

but life
must make way
for new life
in its march
to the song
of evolution
to the harmony
of survival
wedding ring
well worn
and
worn well

the band
has kept its shine
over the years

scratches here
and there perhaps
from ‘08 and ‘14

but as clichés go
the ring
is unbroken

like the promise
we had made
all those years ago
heart and soul
the necessary engine
of a body
the illusionary essence
of a being
coffee bean
en(capsul)ates
the past
painful histories
the not so
dark (roast)
secrets of man

each little bean
can represent a soul
the soil and toil
that had been lost
for the present

or it can re-present
a now and future
that we aspire to

to wake
or awaken us
rejuvenate

invigorate
temporarily
and get us ready
for another day
Anxiety
Exhausted, yet
Not wanting to sleep on this
Stagnant night of anxiety
Karate #haiku
Parents trade gossip
In the stiffling gym heat
As children trade punches
space
what is it
about you
(or rather
the lack of you)
that gives you
your quality?

is it the objects
that do not fill you
or is it
the march of time
so steady
that make you
what you are?

some people fear
your vast emptiness
but really
you are nothing
nothing
whatsoever

you should be
embraced, loved
if possible
for without you
i & everything else
would not exist
mao
it was inevitable
but only too soon
too young at thirty-four
the order was wrong
all too wrong
she left behind three
dear ones
(the world was a stage
and she adored them
through every fault
and every perfection
until the very end)
& thousands more
who knew her generosity
her kindness, her courage
people wanted to know
to connect with her
and she chose to connect
publicly
in the most modern of ways
that may have taken her away
frogs
the sun hides behind the dark mountain
a low murmur seeps into my silent soul
the familiar chill of evening covers me

mosquitos hum their high notes
and the languid stars gradually appear
upon the blue-black washed sky

there, the waltz of the moon
continues among the stellar crowd
the organic night comes to life

unseen, in the shadows their talk
turns into song, i meditate to the drone
of late spring, early summer

and by morning light their chorus
fades to become scattered distant croaks
replaced by the ensemble of birds, bugs
miss conception
everything
without exception
are concepts
and no more

anything to lie
beyond
conception is a
misconception
vr
virtual reality
is nowhere near to be
virtually real

only noumena
& phenomena
will allow that

what is real
is your existence
but neither do you

bring reality
closer nor put it
any further away
switch
switch it on
where 2 can tango –
spice up lives

offer something
not virtual
limit my time

so that 1
can be real again
switch it off
sick poetry
literally
i am a figure
doubled over but
steering metaphors
driving porcelain buses

winter’s end
is always vulnerable to
birth, sickness, old-age & death
in that order. two more stops
until i get off
forty eight
life rolls on
as the hills
over the hill over
the hump, at least

will i
be ever satisfied
with who i am or
what i have become?

or is life
supposed to be
forever a bitter
disappointment?

forty eight
is not quite fifty
too close, i would say
the fa(r)ther away the better

no running in
the other direction
but try to run
i must & i do

because fifty
is too close
to a conveniently
imagined halfway
atheist become
released from
some kind of burden
you are light as air
& heavy as clouds

god did not leave –
not there to begin with
as they would
like you to believe

the world is yours now
but nothing will free you
from death and
to nowhere will you go
morning phase
pastiche pastel hue
of cycle
time rolling like waves
across your ocean
breaks in the light
up in the air
three sunbirds
a blue moon &
a drum for a heart
beckons me
#wordplay #poetry
i must write
must write
must write
must right
must right
right a wrong
write a wrong
it is wrong
not wrong
not wrong at all
at tall
at tall things
a tall thing
is this poem
a poem it is
air/glass/concept
there, but not
seemingly with substance

like air
invisible until smoke

and glass
transparent until rain

or god
real until conceptualised
I think I am
It is not
I think therefore I am,
but rather,
I think I am, therefore I am.
The difference is one of illusion.
the view from the penthouse
my two windows
face one direction
i am a penthouse
on legs
lame as it may be
(travelling the world
and the seven seas)
seeing only
what i want to see
and no more
in/space
space
is that special room where
everything is in
the empty machine
minds do not emerge
as metaphors
would like them to
the machinery, empty
mysteriously move through
space, time

how are we to know
if any thing exists at all
if this, our greatest illusion
kept up its charade
until the very last
and beyond

i cannot know anything
a god or a self
but only
to have concepts of them
trust them
to be our creations

that the world
out there
is void and full
all at once
from the beginning, and
until the very end
one moment (nirvana)
it only takes
one moment
for rebirth to end
and Happiness to begin
every moment (samsara)
every moment
is simultaneously
a small death
and a rebirth

(This is an edited version of an earlier poem.)
meta-valentine

it’s not
that the love
has died

but rather
the love has meta-
morphisized

it is not worse
or incomparable
it is still love

but quieter
and (imo) more
beautiful
look carefully …
look carefully
and everything will
show you its beauty
(no more) love
to you
it’s the world,
your world,
a kind of
definition

but one day
you will know
it cannot
define you
or even love
speech-less
perhaps
when words
do not come
one
should keep silent.
is that not
its will?
on (the) edge
we walk
the edge
of the earth
at every moment

and yet most
do not know
this simple
obvious truth

Monday Meme with Shawn L Bird.
forgiveness

if we think
only God forgives
then we are weaker
than we believe

forgiveness is
a matter of choice
not a given
just because
we are mortal

if we are willing
to forgive then
we have taken
the first step
to forgiveness

being willing
to some action
is something
we can do

that in itself is proof
we have the capacity
for forgiveness
photograph
some-thing 
beautiful is  
captured then
 (re)arranged on 
sensitive surface

becoming 
an-other object  
not a ‘you’ or ‘it’ but 
an image and schema

without
 time 
place 
essence
Monk Begging in Shopping District
Recitations
Drowned out
By summer heat,
Rushing crowd.
Falling Leaves

My begging bowl
Accepts falling leaves

A rendering of Santoka’s poem teppatsu chirikuru ha o uketa.
Travelling the Narrow Roads with Basho
Go where
The wind blows
Far into the interior
Of the mind
Of your haiku

Then beyond
Its borders
Through towns
Pass common folks
Over seas
And in love
With your
Companion
Only to return
To reality
That is the Edo.
every moment
every moment
is simultaneously
a small death
and rebirth
How to Build a Buddha
Like everything else,
You build a Buddha
From the ground up.
ferris
clockwise ascent
 more progression
sideways, slow  
doesn’t describe you

procession of souls  
cabinet  
as life  
views far
 beyond mountains, seas

sees before again  
gentle decline  
setting  
your anticipation

a rebirth  
before next ride
Santoka’s Hailstone Poem
Into
My begging bowl too
Fall hailstones

Teppatsu no
Naka e mo
Arare

teppatsu (steel begging bowl)
no naka e (falling into the)
mo (also)
arare (grain-sized hail)

A teppatsu is a steel bowl for receiving alms from begging or takuhatsu. Begging is an important part of Buddhist practice. Not only should the receiver, the monk, be thankful but also should the giver, the lay people. People often think that takuhatsu is a base practice but it is really the highest of practices in Buddhism. Takuhatsu is different from begging. The begging of the poor is seen as receiving something for nothing. But in the takuhatsu the giver is also receiving the Teaching of The Buddha from those practicing towards enlightenment. Thus the monks hard work is not only for himself but for others as well. So the receiver and giver both should have a spirit of gratitude for this reason.

The e in the second line is a grammatical particle in the Japanese language. It is possible to replace the e with a ni for the sentence to still remain grammatically correct. But there is a difference in meaning, in nuance. E denotes a movement whereas ni denotes a state of existence. With a ni the sentence would then translate to ‘In my begging bowling too are hailstones’. The cruciality of the movement thus signifies the striking of the metalic bowl by the hail, making a sound which brought probably Santoka to some kind of great realization.

For it to be hailing it must have been during the cold winter months. How hard and lonely it must have seem for Santoka. Yet his poem is full of joy and gratitude. How wonderful is the Teaching! How powerful it is! How deep his realization!

It should also be noted that Santoka is famous for his free-form haiku. While the haiku is usually 5-7-5 in syllables this haiku is 5-4-3 departing radically from the norm. Furthermore it is standard to have a season word or kigo. Here the season word is hail but Santoka may not put one in. This freedom of style is powerful and natural for him, making his poetry closer to modern verse. Indeed he lived in a time (1882-1940) of great change in Japan.
The Sure Bet (Short Version)
Death, of course
Is the sure bet
But you are either
The horse
Or the punter, and
Never both at once.
the sure bet
death
is not such a scary thing
not completely unexpected
it happens to everyone
it is the sure bet

so why do we fear it
it’s as natural as birth
to be born is
to be guaranteed a death

a wise man once said
‘what is unborn cannot die’
how wonderful it is, then
to be born and not live forever

because how boring
would life be
as beckett put it, to be
waiting for godot
Fukushima, 11 March 2011, 2:46pm
The devastation
Was shocking.
Made disaster movies look
All the more unreal.

Actuality
Is meant to be infinitely
More frightening and tragic.
But the wide angle
Helicopter view
Of the (un)natural quiet gentle onslaught
Looks like a child’s play puddle
Less CGed and more muddied
The brown mass rolls across
A miniature landscape.
People are puny ants.
Cars are tiny toys.
Unaware until the very last moment
Or aware but it is too late
Everyone, everything is swept away
Reluctantly with the front.
Bridges
Are supposed to be
Over water
Not in.
Houses float down streets like boats
And boats will sit far inland like houses.
A Nuclear power station
Is not supposed to fail
And explode like a fire cracker.

Postmodern and simulating
The world is now seen
Through the colourbox
Like characters
In a soap opera
Unaffecting.
The quake, tsunami and accident
Seem to exist
Only in the images of our memories
Like some far away fictional place
Of the past or future,
And not of the suffering or joy
Of the here-and-now.

In memory of the 18,500 who died or are missing, and thoughts to the 35,000 who survived and are displaced.
youth, gone by
no message of thanks
like dropped stone into black well
waiting for an echo
complete silence
as though my letter
had never reached him
or else it had gone straight past

youth, selfishness
same thing
common curtesy out all windows
but i cannot be angry
all i can do is write a poem
for i was as young and
more selfish once
Anger
Where does anger come from?
Perhaps this is poorly phrased,
An inappropriate metaphor.
For something to come and go
It must be real.

But anger isn’t real.
If I understood that, then
The world would be
A much better place for you
Me and everybody else.
Santoka
sentiment
need not follow
form
The Last of the Snow – Tetsuo Sakurai
Along the road
In the last of the snow is a gravestone.
The valley wind clings to it.
The voice of the twenty-six year old wife
Who died after surgery
The voice of the daughter ten hours after the operation …
The last of the snow will fade
Towards the coming spring.
In the warmer months I will come again.

(My translation)