Hours of the Soul

"The noisy honking of trucks and cars outside the window accompanies the drone of a teary conversation which gives me goose bumps – it seems to be coming from a movie which is showing on the basketball court. It's the same old story of melodramatic separation and reunion, only the time has changed." – Gao Xingjian, from Soul Mountain








I walk out onto my city courtyard,
it is all stone and only shows weeds
coming up from muddied cracks;
along the edges are planting beds,
raised a few feet above the shadows;
so this is my city farm and I walk
along hidden inside its tall gates
and I listen to the geese trail
their passing voices over the lake
which sits just across the street.
I do a little mind-roaming on sunny days.
I am sure I can rid myself of modernity
by thinking nothing and watching breath.
Here I am on an ancient mountain,
I am looking down on a string
of valleys speckled by friendly farmers;
after tending to a plot of mixed
crops and flowers a certain hour of the soul
comes calling again like the passing geese.
I pour an ale and I am not sure
where my imagination begins and ends.
Little poems circle about in the wind.
One last finger smudge of sunshine
streaks across the courtyard wall.
Tomorrow another poem will come.