hope

John Berger says, 'Every hope leaves the self
or seizes it, to take it with it in its vertical ascent.'
Photo: Towel drying, Wellington, New Zealand
Text: From the essay 'Manhattan' (1975)

suburbed cube

Each suburbed cube
holds its life a little differently.
I translate that as an invitation:
Come, see who I am.
Photo: Driveway, North Island, New Zealand
Text: Excerpt from an abandoned poem

ba

In Chinese, sentences are necklaces, he says. You can always add another bead. English ones are more like tree trunks, with a central form.
I know two poets who write under a pen-name beginning with 'ba', a Chinese sentence structure that stresses the action done, the condition made. They read aloud side by side, switching sides, sometimes echoing each other, or interchanging words. Sometimes one poet stands behind the other. A title can be a long necklace, the poem forty minutes long.
Photo: Two trees, Lantau Island, Hong Kong
Text: After poetry readings by Roo Borson and Kim Maltman, who comprise Baziju,
and discussion of Chinese sentences by Luo Hui, the Director of the Confucius Institute
in Wellington, which presented the events

the fruit, the flower, one man, one woman

Today, I am floating. Yesterday, a concert of erhu, gujin, pipa, poem, friends. Friendship is common in Chinese poetry, writing together, for another, maybe missing each other, inspiring, inspired.
I want to remember these words a friend introduced, originally in Chinese, about music, 'Some would call this music death, some life; some the fruit, some the flower.' It reminds me of James Thurber, 'And All That Remained Was One Man, One Woman, And One Flower.'
Photo: 'Feathered' by Rebecca Rose, made with aluminium and stainless steel, 
at 'Sculpture in the Country', Gladstone, New Zealand
Text: From 'The Yellow Emperor's Music Lesson' from The Zhuangzi (4th Century BCE)
and from The Last Flower by James Thurber (1894-1961) 

Love to you all

A little boy wants to know the mechanics of what went wrong in Fukushima, so his father draws him ‘beautiful diagrams of atomic shells and fission’, to which the boy replies, ‘What a mess!’

The boy is the son of a dear poet-friend who, a few hours ago, wrote me an email. A few days ago, she and her family left Japan in fear of nuclear fallout.

The flight out was full. ‘Across the aisle, a Japanese woman stared past me out my window. She stared until the plane taxied and she could see only air. Then she looked away, and covered her face with one of the plane’s blankets.’

The last four words of my friend's poignant email: 'Love to you all.'

Photo: Croquet balls, Gladstone, New Zealand

Text: Email excerpts from a poet. I have printed out all of her emails, am saving them.

Taipei and great perfection

A few months ago, a friend showed me some of his Taipei. Later, I wrote a poem which begins, 'We walk past maybe three hundred advertisements, eighty cars and one hundred scooters, everything alive. A few doors after the coffee roaster comes the temple, on the second floor.' There, we met a man who blesses us with rice and says, 'before we are generous, we must be calm. And ask ourselves if we are able, willing. He says be kind and joyful with another. Maybe we can reach great perfection.'

Photo: A city view, Taipei

Text: Excerpts of the poem, Temple in the City

I live near pastures

I live near pastures, cattle, dairy, sheep, deer. See all the resources to keep the farms going. Sometimes, sprinkler systems 24 hours a day. I live near pastures, and eat very little meat, most days none.

Photo: Near a butcher shop, Masterton, New Zealand

circle of friends

A friend and I once found a roll of this orange mesh and wanted to make a bright carpet for the hallway. Cool on the foot. Joy for the eye. Then one day, we came across this circle near a stream...
Photo: 'Circle of Friends' an installation by Aaron Frater, at the exhibition
'Sculpture in the Country', Gladstone, New Zealand

the moon is always full

Last night, the moon was full.
As tonight, and every.
And yet.
Photo: Fruit in plastic, Los Angeles

the body the smallest part

My body is living in a no-nuke country, New Zealand,
but the body is the smallest part of us.
Photo: Sheep made of plaster, laundry, lawn, in Xinjiang 

last

I am thinking about the 180 people who remain working in the Fukushima nuclear plant, trying to make it safe for all of us.
Photo: One word of a protest banner
for a man, recently deceased, who believed in public calligraphy
The entire text: 'The last free man in Hong Kong'

where does the sky begin?

words are earth
where does the sky begin?

it begins at the window
where does the window begin?

window is visible air
where does the eye begin?

it begins here, a rising mountain
and where does the shoulder begin?

Photo: A piece of glass, a piece of window, Wellington, New Zealand
Text: The beginning of an email poem-dialogue with poet-storyteller Yuen Che-hung

From Japan: 'I want everyone to be safe'

Six hours ago, an email from a friend in Japan. She and her family will leave the country on a 10:40am flight, Wednesday. She says many people in Tokyo are leaving, if they can.
With her son's small hand on her shoulder, she has wept, saying to him, to us, 
'I don't want to be the only safe ones. 
I want everyone to be safe.'
Photo: Mongkok, Hong Kong, 31 December 2007
Text: Excerpts from a friend's email, from Tokyo

each loved world

Each loved world
needs one
promise.
Photo: A large puddle and reflection, Hong Kong
Text: The last poem in the 'To Nature' series
from my book 'Delicate Access'