A Question…

A question:

For the one(s)

Who name heroes of men

Whose pedestals mock,

Which culture is cast

In battle and bronze?

Citing disregard for history,

Incomparable beauty,

The rending of a nation…

Casting blame and shame

Upon those who would see

Veneration placed

More appropriately.

Perhaps the speaker’s

View is skewed?

A rhetorical question.

Even yellow fever and polio

Look beautiful

Under powerful magnification.

–C. Green

If monuments are to be historical lessons, then let us place an accurate accounting.

 

 

 

Sunny…

Illumination…

An altercation 

Between parchment and ink

And possibly the quill.

A quibbly sort of fellow,

He draws lines

Too sharply at times.

They cut,

And the cost 

Is much too heavy to blot.

Scribes have tried.

Those writers in robes,

They would know

Having spent hours

Over books bowed.

I have made a lousy one.

What might it matter

If script became dragon?

A mistake is only made

When spied through the page.

My menagerie 

Would never betray.

So still, I parlay 

With my quill…

Or, perhaps, it’s parley?

He so likes to argue,

And I’ll happily oblige

As it is in my disposition

To remain sunny.

–C. Green

Sunny

Angles…

I am at all angles–

Acutely distressed

By those in the “right”

When clearly,

They are being obtuse.

To what degree 

Must I speak

To be plainly heard?

Turning circles,

Those round-a-bout hurdles,

Is just as frustrating

As miscalculations

And ill-derived math.

This type of revolution 

Was not the revelation I sought.

Revelation

–C. Green

More Distant…

We took to the streets,

Pavement under feet,

And the pounding

Took its toll…

Rushing through each meter.

You could hear every foot there,

Panting, struggling,

Begging for air….

In the way some fell at the finish.

We ran–

From borders, nightmare, disease.

We ran–

From the terrors of human extremes.

We ran–

And were afraid to cross the line…

The end should be more distant.

–C. Green

Distant

(There are so many reasons why we run. It can feel deeply satisfying, so very visceral, to physically run away from the stresses that plague modern urban life. I began with that feeling, the freedom of being able to flee… remembering the marathon I ran with my brother a few years back… in the first three lines. However, the newest terrorist attack in London weighs heavily on my mind, and so it’s colored the rest of my words.)

音乐 Music (Yin1Yue4)

Here goes… I’m studying Mandarin on my own. Only my family and close friends have known I do this for fun. It’s been six months since I started sitting down with books and recordings, sporadically studying when I have time. It’s as fascinating as it is frustrating in the way of delicious puzzles, just like music. The language is tonal. It feels like singing when I speak, and learning to read and write feels like my first lessons in reading notes on a staff.

I am many, many years away from being able to communicate with any fluency… Wo3de Zhong1wen2 bu4 hen3 hao3… 我的   中文   不很好… but I still feel the push to try. I write. Like making music, it’s what I do. So, here goes my poem in Mandarin about music. I only used words that I actually have in my vocabulary, but I had to look up the characters, cut and paste via Google Translate and verify via my Pleco app. The second set is without tones indicated and with my rhyming translation.

音乐  Yin1Yue4

Music

他们不听我.  Ta1men bu4 ting1 wo3.

(They do not listen to me.)

我不要骂.   Wo3 bu4 yao4 ma4.

(I do not want to scold.)

为什么我要说.   Wei4 shen2me wo3 yao4 shuo1

(Why would I want to speak)

言辞说太大了?    Yan2ci2 shuo1 tai4 da4 le?

(Words too loudly?)

我不会.  不教导.    Wo3 bu4 hui4. Bu4 jiao4dao3 ku3.

(I cannot. I don’t teach suffering.)

, 那么给我音乐.    Qing3, na4me gei3 wo3 yin1yue4.

(Please, then give me music.)

孩子, 你们唱歌.    Hai2zi, ni3men chang4ge1.

(Children, you sing.)

我是你们的音乐老师.   Wo3 shi4 ni3men de yin1yue4 lao3shi1.

(I am your music teacher.)

C. Green


YinYue (Music)

Tamen bu ting wo. (They do not listen.)

Wo bu yao ma. (I wish not to scold.)

Weishenme wo yao shuo (Why would I want to speak)

Yanci shuo tai da le? (Words so brash or so bold?)

Wo bu hui. Bu jiaodao ku. (I cannot. I don’t impart suffering.)

Qing, name gei wo yin yue. (So give me melody, then.)

Haizi, nimen changge. (Sing for me children.)

Wo shi nimen de yinyue laoshi. (I am your mentor in music.)

C. Green

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Corner and I…

The corner and I, we met–
An intersection, an angled glance–
Our initial acquaintance
Little more than passing chance.

When past the line of strangers,
I thought to cordially invite
A sitting amid evening hours,
A meeting of lonely minds.

We spoke of things like silence,
The quiet chaos of sleeping tears,
Matters of arrhythmic hearts
And the aging of youthful fears.

My corner came as comfort–
A haven where pauses thrive.
It was upon this corner I leaned my head
And let myself survive.

C. Green

Survive

As I Grow Older…

It’s on my mind ALL the time.

As I grow older, who am I?

All those years ahead of me,

Stretch as far as I can dream.

Am I bold, or am I blind?

What will I do with my life?

Outcast, scholar, jester, friend…

Who will I be in the end?

There are forces, I assume,

That might stifle, might consume.

Like I’ve studied, like I’ve read,

Pressure folds. Pressure bends.

Of the mantles I will bear,

Which will buckle, smother, flare?

What will I have upon my plate–

Friction, fortune, love or hate?

Where will I be given strength

To face my fears and discontent…

Inner, outer, through the core,

Vigor, valor or rapport?

Who can know, predict, foresee,

Future selves, philosophies?

It’s on my mind ALL the time.

As I grow older, who am I?

-C. Green

(One of my core teachers asked me if she could share some of my poetry with her 5th graders as part of her poetry unit. I gave her a few accessible offerings and then offered to write a poem tonight to suit her/their needs. So this one’s about peer pressure, worry about the future and wondering about our future selves… all with a rhyme scheme of sorts, some good vocabulary, symbolism and a predictable rhythm they’d find pleasing. I’m happy with it.)

 

 

 

Invisible…

If I were but invisible…

Would you see me?

Take notice of a turned page,

The flicker of a candle’s flame?

If my hand existed only as silhouette,

Would you indulge in my fancy

Of more profitable script?

I think we should be as ghosts–

My sisters and I–

Wandering about in poetry and prose

And upon our leaving this constrictive plane,

Would you see us off,

Clear the path along the bramble…

Dismiss us not and wish us well?

Would you be our brother, truly?

We can be as superlative as any man…

Your sisters, 

Charlotte, Emily, Anne.

-C. Green

(The Bronte sisters… What would it feel like to live in such a rich world of internal language and not have the immediate means to share such talents, to be denied the opportunity to flourish… to have skill be rendered meaningless for not being born man?)

Meaningless

Paper Crane

A slendar piece of paper,

Creased with bends and folds,

Made smaller with each adjustment,

Until its form emerges whole…

A slendar piece of paper,

Transforming from the plain,

Becomes a healing symbol–

Granting peace to those in pain.

-C. Green

Ordinary

Spare Thoughts…

Sometimes errant,
They tightly bind
Truth and meaning
Through rhythm and rhyme.
Weighted, yet waiting
To lift from the page,
Some thoughts trifle like jesters
Or evoke like the sage.
A poetic line may unwind,
Unravel and cynch
The deepest emotions,
Yet remain on the brink…
Of song.
-C. Green

(Happy World Poetry Day!)

Minimal