(Sitting Still)

The muse of fire is not admitted here.
Imaginary forces have no right
To prick their proud hooves on this tender place
And print impressions there.
This is sequestered space.

Nor dreams-that-come-from-Zeus, let them be light --
As insubstantial as the wind, as frail
As fleeing ghosts that slip across the gaze --
Here no intruding sight
Assaults the wash of greys,

The shadowed lavender, and, lichen-pale,
The creep of green across the hemming wall.
This plot belongs to Mnemosyne alone.
And here things past assail
The senses till they drown.

Except when Lady Mercy pays a call.
She drops in uninvited as the dawn
And scatters balm like petals on the floor.
Unquiet waxes small;
And ease engulfs the sore.

What Mulan Said To Elaine

Girl at the window, tell me
What is in your heart?
Your shutter has gone quiet,
But your sighs are loud.

You should not be idle, girl, your hands are young and deft.
You should not be heartsore, girl, not for any man.

Girl at the casement, how you
Hold yourself apart!
No homely thing can touch you --
Girl, your wound is proud.

Turn your time to profit, girl, addressing warp and weft.
There's your proper business, girl; attend to what you can.

Or come to France with me and
Study there the art
Of Bonny Jeanne who left us
Billowed on a cloud.

(Spring Scene)

See the river, splashed with sun,
Clear on pebbles, clear on sand.
See the pansies prank the slope,
Purple spattering the green.

How could you think it would alter?
How could you think it would stay?
This place is too big to be shattered.
This place is too small to sustain.

(Cypress Boat)

Lie!

I need a story.
Tell it to me, quick.

Do you not see?

My heart is not a mirror.
How can I compass all these particles?
Do you suppose that I can draw them in,
and sensibly reflect the way they look?

I need a legend.
I must have a tale.

I want it gaunt and speedy,
so thin the wind can whistle through its bones,
so spare the shadows cannot cling beside
the sharp-marked edges of its easy shape.

Please,

the dazzle hurts me.

please, please:
I need a lie.

A Little After Sappho

Yes!

Yes, beloved, come to me,
and stay beside me here.
Listen to me chatter,
listen to me peal.

Only let me lean to you
and hear you talk to me:

on a blanket, shadow-hatched;
at the table, near and glad;
by the river, willow-pied;
on the pillow, just awake --

brush your hands across my hair
and let me lean to you.

Only let me sit with you
and hear you read to me:

in the twilight, opal-dim;
through the rainfall, low and grey;
with the daylight’s quickening;
when the sun is slanting gold --

brush your hands across my face
and let me sit with you.

Only let me look at you
and hear you play to me:

let me see you arch and stretch;
let me watch you tap and pluck;
let me know the ordered chords;
let me feel them, keen and sweet --

only let me stay with you,
and you shall hear me peal.

Found

Now let the fish-hawks call in pairs
from the sandbars in the stream.

And let us take the painted boat
through the cresses on the lake.

And let us track the silver sun
on the ripples, on the waves.

And let us have the bell and drum --
ringing bell and beating drum --

With bells and drums let us rejoice;
with bells and drums let us be glad.

The Well is Deep in Thistle

The well is deep in thistle;
It clumps and crowds the stones.
The tufts are incense-purple,
The leaves are green as brine.
So dense and thick it grows here,
The stones cannot be seen.
However could you see them?
The thistle is too full.

Sir: tell me when the riddles
Began to fret the edge --
I saw them rip the core, Sir;
I saw that day with you.
Since you, Sir, would not keep me,
You ought to tell me this.
Sir, bend your head and tell me:
Acknowledge what you owe.

The well is deep in bracken;
It rustles on the stones.
The fronds are sere and whirring;
They rattle in the air.
Just try to drop a stone in:
You cannot hear a splash.
However could you hear it?
The soughing is so loud.

My Mother! Tell me, show me!
You heard the fringes tear.
Remind me how they sounded;
Unfold the things you know.
If only I could reckon,
How easy I would be!
But till the threads unravel
Who understands the fray?

The well is deep in bramble;
It snakes across the stones.
The spines are harsh and jagged,
As long as crickets’ wings.
So thick the bramble grows here,
You cannot walk this way.
However could you walk here?
The thorns are far too sharp.

My Father! Tell me, show me!
You saw it sailing near.
Point out the spotted sky-line;
Another time I’ll know.
Then, Father, give me comfort,
For just a little space.
It isn’t that I’m daunted --
But who could fail to balk?

The well is deep in thistle;
It clumps and crowds the stones.
And you, Sir, far away now,
Are you not thick with shame?

(Zhong-zi, Please)

Meet me on the broad road,
Where all the ways converge.
It isn’t that I love you --
But let me see you there.

Meet me on the high road,
The track aross the ridge.
You’re nothing but a shard now --
Still, show me where you’ve been.

Meet me on the mill road,
The path beside the weir.
There’s nothing you can give me --
Still, let me pluck your sleeve.

Meet me on the hedged road,
Where hawthorn lines the lane.
I would not keep you long there --
Still, let me speak with you.

Meet me on the broad road,
Where all the ways converge.
It isn’t that I love you --
But let me see you there.

Strand Song

This is the matin-bell.
Bird twines a spiral
of floss and waking air.
Dawning splashes sand and
singeth loudly, lowly
all through fog and foam.
Night creeps beneath the
sea-long
plumes and whiting waves.