Inside is an outside of everyone
Whose inside is of fleshly mind.
How the flesh aggregates mind
And later crumbles is a mystery
And soon flesh burns to embers
In silence to form layer on time.
A wised up flesh is broken stone
Whose inside forms our outside.
It is deep inside echoing outside
Making an empty vessel’s noise.
From the sea we wanted to hear
Its big great hum of the stories
And an only story just drowned.
And they said do not enter sea.
Drowning stories we remember
Like this recent boy from desert
Who had come all the way from,
Thought sea was hard as desert.
One never drowned in a desert
That had only a camel as a ship.
Do desert’s eyes become pearls?
In sea-desert they are just shells.
Man has his mind in four seasons
Aware of misfeature in the fourth.
This poet had misfeature in a first
When a lusty span should overlap.
Why did he have to look heavens
The boy who saw funeral on urn?
It is body that has its four seasons
And has a mind fixated on winter
All seasons are bleakest of winter,
In a quiet contemplation in coves.
(referring to John Keats’s poem The Human seasons)
In the morning , I walk by the sea
To feel what it is like another day.
Men’s silhouettes stand on beach.
A sun flowers behind their backs.
I start yet another day by the sea,
Under the gray cloud-scarred sky.
It has followed me from far space
As empty as the sky I left behind.
Unlike Anne Sexton’s action figures
Our roaches are tiny ,golden brown
But they scuttle all over the kitchen
Just like hers and those of Randall.
It would take a woman to terminate
Their crawlings, where a hunger lay.
She brings an innocent cherub child
To insert poison in home’s crevices.
There are several confused desires
Smelling of darkness in our crevices.
Their golden wings are flimsy to fly
But spindly legs scurry fast enough.
Child’s poison reaches deep enough
To eliminate them in kitchen’s holes.
(Taking off on Anne Sexton’s poem Cockroach and a similar one by Randall Mann)
I see grownups with their prose
All round me , far from Vietnam.
Mylai is far off from their hurts.
My poem is near a writer’s bloc.
Look at how this sister of mine
Embraces bro me and she gross.
An old grandfather poet writes
Poem stuff at the crack of dawn.
Who do you root for in football
Is it Crotia or a big dad France?
Sometimes a poetry they write
Is full of cliches, like grown ups!
This old man makes tennis ball
Seem like FIFA football coming!
You got to give old boy his due.
He pulls poems from his cracks.
Cooley´s concept of the looking glass self, states that a person’s self grows out of a person´s social interactions with others. Actually, how we see ourselves does not come from who we really are, but rather from how we believe others see us.
I would imagine the looking glass
On the footpath where a lavatory
Stinks and a repetitive song plays.
I imagine how singer sees himself
And how he views me in my glass
What he sees himself in my glass.
A monk says you look at the glass.
It will break someday, you know it
But the fact is it is already broken.
In the looking glass I ask myself
is my poem my equipment to die
Or gratitude to live another day?
My looking glass shall lie broken
In moon-like pieces at a lavatory.
To my left is sea reflecting them.
(After reading a thought-provoking article “Idols of Immortality ” by Jacob Rubin )
They groped in her dark clammy cave.
They had started journey in her water,
Mother who loved and cared for them.
Why did she have to overwhelm them
Who only loved to play ball with earth?
She was powerful and yet loving mom.
Would she have wanted her boys back
In her cave and free of an earth’s mud?
(A dozen Thai teenage soccer team members with their coach had stayed holed up in a flooded cave for ten days before they were finally rescued by divers)
We would stock up on luck.
It grows wet on sea’s vapor.
The sea has so many inside
Who had stocked up theirs.
We see Ridley’s turtle child
Has stocked up luck to live.
Adult crow has stocked up
On its luck and is waiting.
Luck seems interconnected.
Our fates get too mixed up.
We stock up on a little luck
But it disappears like vapor.
Like wind that touched the tree
Called it its own now I call Rilke
My putative possession at night.
Now I find Rilke gone like wind
Like his God who is inside afraid
Yet touches all things putatively.
But God goes on into the night
As darkness severs us from Him
And light turns all faces exotic
But all faces putatively my own.
They are light inside darkness,
Rilke’s God who is wind in tree.
(Remembering Rilke’s beautiful poem People at Night)