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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 2 of 2. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by malthus on September 3, 2004, at 22:50:29
Rose-garden of murmurs,
cicadas insomniac
in the sleeping grass,
the stars are swimming
in a pool of frogs,
summer collects
its vases in the sky,
with unseen hands
the air opens a door.
Your forehead's the balcony
the moon prefers.The moment's enormous,
the world is now small.
I am lost in your eyes,
and lost, I see you
lost in my eyes.Motionless couples
in a Philadelphia park,
or in a garden in Asia:
daily communions
under the various stars.
On the trellis of touch
we climb and descend
from top to bottom,
kingdom of roots,
republic of wings.Twisted bodies
are the book of the soul:
with my eyes closed
with my touch and my tongue,
I trace out on your body
the sacred canon of the world.
A knowledge without a name:
the taste of this earth.
Posted by Atticus on September 4, 2004, at 19:12:07
In reply to poem...Pillars, posted by malthus on September 3, 2004, at 22:50:29
That first verse especially is a stunner. It really evokes a sense of night as a sonic presence, filled with "cicadas insomniac" (great turn of phrase) and night's dark murmurs. It's exactly what summer sounds like when I visit my parents' house in New Jersey and leave the window in the guest room wide open, something I could never do in my apartment in NYC, as my window faces out onto a fire escape at the rear of the building and I'd just be laying out the welcome mat for unwanted visitors. There's an increasing sense of romanticism apparent in your work, of love's sweet possibilities. It's when your head goes to this place that your work seems to be at its most engaging to me. That's not to say that I think poetry should be all Pollyanaism and sunshine, so to speak; it needs to go to the dark, unpleasant places when the mind needs that as well. But this is a wonderful poem in terms of metaphors and tone and phrasing. There's a lassitude, a gentle midnight-breeze rhythm that I find so interesting. The tone has the air, but not the construction, of haiku; a transitory moment of great symbolism captured in your poet's grasp like a firefly, and held up for others to see. :) Atticus
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