This poem of mine came to me through 'conversational' writing in March 2005 between myself and an unknown netizen who served in Iraqi war.
Writing Verse in Classic Chinese
I was smashed by a pale spirit
out of Bath a misty winter morn
it haunts hours away
from my X-Window frames.
Alas by this end of hours
and by this end of day
oh How i cut and paste
in every way
to restore a dream I've dreamt
yet lost ever since I left.
O blessed is the hours so ardently spent
waiting by wings of angelic forms
whereby beauty and grace behold
a forgotten tongue
a rusty art
of making ancient music
with silent sound
echoing between thousands of years
and thousands of miles around.
[fiveshinylights: comrade, dost you speaketh the china man's tongue?]
Brother 'cool hand luke', yes i do.
now as i remember my mother tongue
endured warring kingdoms hundreds of centuries strong
it is not to speak
but to paint, silently
out of gentle brushes rainfalls of firm strokes
thy worst enemy and thyself's speck of mind
for words uttered always turning into querrels by hauling wind
for words carved into oracles smoked by time and shifted by sand
can mean many things to one eye kings
thus bind thy people with one faith
no words no names
but mixing bloody drops from unquenchable dreams
Writing Verse in Classic Chinese
I was smashed by a pale spirit
out of Bath a misty winter morn
it haunts hours away
from my X-Window frames.
Alas by this end of hours
and by this end of day
oh How i cut and paste
in every way
to restore a dream I've dreamt
yet lost ever since I left.
O blessed is the hours so ardently spent
waiting by wings of angelic forms
whereby beauty and grace behold
a forgotten tongue
a rusty art
of making ancient music
with silent sound
echoing between thousands of years
and thousands of miles around.
[fiveshinylights: comrade, dost you speaketh the china man's tongue?]
Brother 'cool hand luke', yes i do.
now as i remember my mother tongue
endured warring kingdoms hundreds of centuries strong
it is not to speak
but to paint, silently
out of gentle brushes rainfalls of firm strokes
thy worst enemy and thyself's speck of mind
for words uttered always turning into querrels by hauling wind
for words carved into oracles smoked by time and shifted by sand
can mean many things to one eye kings
thus bind thy people with one faith
no words no names
but mixing bloody drops from unquenchable dreams
