Monday, March 1, 2010
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Times for drinking tea in China
When you’ve bargained well at the market
When you’ve cleared stones from a field
When sheltering from rain
When the horse you’ve tethered quietens
When resting by a riverbank
When a stream’s fish resist your baited hook and shining lures
When envious of a neighbour’s larger herd of goats.
When dreaming of leaving your village, never to return.
When the landlord visits
When remembering lean years, the selling of family heirlooms to buy food
When the midwife has left, her good work done
When a fox has been amongst your chickens
When a lost sheep is found, bleating in a ditch
When you’ve repaired your bicycle, brushed the dirt from your knees
When you’re the only one awake in the dormitory
When far from home.
When thinking about what your parents taught you
When thinking about what you’re had to learn for yourself
When you’ve paid off a debt
When trying to understand a relative
When you’ve paced the room for too long
When discussing the afterlife
When the fog lifts from the path you’ve taken
When your tea canister is almost empty.
(from Beneath Our Armour)
A cup of water, Suzhou, October 1945
The cup of water
accepts
rain
the wind
a leaf leaving its mother.
It has heard
husbands and generals give orders,
grandparents talk of gods and ancestors,
children conversing with a friend or sorcerer
whom no adult can see.
Set
on bench or table
it hears
the swish of a broom,
a cat scratching at a closed door,
the clock complaining
that it’s only a clock,
a button torn from a lover’s robe
roll across a bedroom floor.
The cup of water is
raised to the lips of
a monk,
a fisherman,
a fortune teller,
an orphan.
The cup of water waits
to be refilled,
to be of use
or forgotten.
It waits for footsteps,
the nearness of a hand.
* This poem was commissioned by the Victorian Government as part of a gift to Jiangsu Province, China, honouring their sister-state friendship.