Sunday, March 14, 2021

hidden behind the leaves

Stanza 30 will be the last of the hidden behind the leaves poems to be published on this page. Next week hidden will be available only as an email subscription. Those who wish to continue reading the poem simply need to send a request to gvsimoni@gmail.com.


thirty

two days of clear crystalline sky walking the cleared paths of the university but with no warmth from a fulgent, garish sun; folks bundled, his heavy woolen vest wrapped about his thin frame, hands folded and wrapped beneath the hem, mayhem of chapel roof collapsed beneath snow, came a stooped old man, one-armed, his medal pinned, shuffling along arm in arm with a sad eyed young girl, taller, shoulder to shoulder, feeling mia's letter folded in a pocket thinking all at once of kawabata's suicide drinking bitter green tea from an empty brown cup


NOTES:
Lau #30
The harvest is destroyed in the wake of a great war, and weeds grow in the fields in the wake of the army.
fulgent (ful'jent), adj. shining brightly; dazzling [ME < L fulgent]

Yasunari Kawabata (1899 - 1972), winner of the 1968 Nobel Prize for Literature, was one of Japan's most distinguished novelists. He died in April of 1972. No explanation for his death by his own hand has been offered.

Sunday, March 7, 2021

hidden behind the leaves

twentynine

cup cradled on palm, a swipe of hand, a streak across wet pane peering through, dawg there slowly trotting over the red arched bridge, flakes of snow lightly falling, each paw lifting through snow, snow swirling away, ears up and alert, suddenly ashamed of his warmth and comfort; then, at once, a snort and curt laugh: such foolishness, he thought, how frail becoming a distant shade and gone into the density of wood


NOTES
Tao Te Ching 29, D.C. Lau
The external world is fragile, and he who meddles with its natural way, risks causing damage to himself.