Tag Archives: poetry

Original poetry and translations of poetry. © Warren M Tang.

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

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
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