no boundaries here
as we walk
hand in hand

ai li

d  e  w  -  o  n  -  l  i  n  e
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five

created, designed & edited
______________________________________________

by  ai  li

for sky now blue
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out of still

                        the barefoot child
                        finding a caterpillar
                        with no shoes on

                         There is something in me which cannot stand
                         A long poem, the way the oak apples
                         Fall on seeding nettles, the fact
                         That Basho went further than the rest
                         & he travelled on foot
                                                             the wind
                         Scatters itself over the ragged stones
                         Of Northumberland, I am
                         Alone, it is
                         Enough

                        i will come softly
                        in the night
                        like a moth
                        to your window

                         Archive drafts...
                         cobwebs hang from a shelf
                         with out-of-print monographs

                        WEST KENNET LONG BARROW

                        swallow me, goddess
                        your wound is a door

milk everywhere and the ghosts of cats
                        

quiet after solstice winds mountain snow
                         

                        pleading for death
                        in his chest
                        the steering column

                        moonlight
                        on the old bridge
                        giving every nail shadow
                        

                         on this frozen lake
                         ghost of
                         your voice
                         in cold rooms
                         echo

                        lLove embroidered
                           on the silk scarf.

                        lsunday school class--
                         coveting my neighbor's
                         faith

                        lEnlightenment

                         It comes into focus, the face of the man
                         in the moon.  Not just a disease of pock

                         and shadow, but the full faced caricature,
                         the same as seen by you, unknown illustrator

                         of my mother Goose, fellow artist
                         once maligned - now vindicated.

                         Twilight fades to slate-blue...
                         a dusting of snowflakes
                         on the lake-mirrored moon
                        

                         now that you are gone
                         the realization dawns
                         you are no longer
                         the brother
                         nor the friend
                         you are the man i love 

                         empty evening
                         fish & chips
                         on a newspaper
                         with headlines of
                         yet another war 

                         Squares of unsold plots...
                         slabs without flowers
                         scattered here and there in fog 

                         TALKING ABOUT LIFE AND POETRY AND THE 1953 FLOODS    

                         Out on that spit of land   
were houses overwhelmed by the sea    

And we   
decades later   
shaken   
in this thin space   
are awash with each other's words    

almost up to the sill today - the snail
                         

                         LEAF POEM
                         (for Julie)

                         The green
                         Miracle, feeding

                         The bark with light
                         From the darling buds

                         The sap descending
                         To the veins of root

                         Through you we give
                         The name of rowan

                          Maple, we give
                          & we are given

                          O sacred
                          Photosynthesis

                          O incredible
                          Leaf, the wings

                          Of the seed
                          Returning simply

                          By the turning
                          Of the ordinary world
       

                         Gates locked, old snowfall
                         covers the headstones...
                         the shadow of a shovel 

                         Wren for all Seasons

                         A thimble
                         borne on autumn leaves

                         A snuff box
                         filled with summer seeds

                         Tom Thumb
                         perched on springtime's palm

                         A haiku
                         for a winter psalm 

                         a matchstick spent
                         on formica
                         the smell of evening 

                         weary of silhouettes
                         I want something plump
                         in the hand 

                         IN THE SKIN HOUSE

                         There is the skin house
                         & there is a reason
                         for all this goo, sweaty
                         bits, either too big
                         or too small

                         It means we can walk
                         breath, sitting ourselves
                         into a balance, the feeling
                         of the earth, any
                         sentimental search

                         For the cliché
                         of being human, all that
                         is forgotten when joy
                         goes into happiness, when
                         the body is breathing

                         wasp
                         like time-lapse photography it was
                         in the air 

                         if another chance
                         should be given to me
                            i will catch the time
                            and clasp it tightly
                            on my palm
                              so that i can sing
                              with you again
                              and laugh with you
                              and dream with you
                                        over and over again

                         broken dryer
                                   three sheets
                                           to the wind

                         Maya           rainbow in the clouds
                         lighting our path
                         caged bird no more
                         singing          in a different key      

                            glorious golden
                         purple red sky
                                                so many
                           flowers for the void 

                         screams                  across oceans
                         now in aquamarine skies                 swifts    

                         caught by a leg  (in a discarded web)
                         d-r-a-g o n f l y    

                         Daisy Wheel

                         Suffer the daisies.
                         Come into their innocence
                         and forbid them not.

                         They are the day's eyes
                         even now ringing a smile -
                         I turn to garlands.

                         Rolling away in
                         the slipstream of a white van -
                         the lei of my love.

                         What god of the road
                         punches a wrist full or air
                         through this daisy chain? 

                         The rain makes tiny circles in the water, a mass
                         of wild garlic, cuckoo flowers, seeming so hardy
                         so shy & delicate, protected by ash

                         A robin flits among hazels, the rain
                         thickens, creating bigger circles, water
                         becoming water, the circles merge, become each other

                         This spring we could drink from, also the soul
                         of this place, a thicket of willow, blackthorn
                         separates from the field, years later, miles away

                         laying the scarecrow
                         across the bonfire
                         not without qualms   

                         Bed lamp turned low...
                         the moon's flicker through leaves
                         shadows the attic window   

                         PLATE 44, MIYAMOTO MUSAHI

                         Reading a book about the influence
                         of Zen on Japanese culture
                                                                        no poem

                         Looking at a picture by Niten, early-
                         17th century, a shrike
                         on a dead branch
                                                        no poem

                         How wonderful it is when the poem writes itself!
                         it takes over, it surrenders
                         completely, it bows to the void
                         victorious, it is the caterpillar
                         crawling up the branch, the colours
                         of the black-&-white painting
                                                                          start to sing

                         the storm rages -
                         hand shielding
                         the flame    breasts clothed
                         in candlelight
                                 she finds me 

                         nebulous shapes borne of the breath of silvery metaphors
                         
                                                                                             prodigal liars
                                                                                             leap into faith
                                                                                         clouds and dancers 

                         packing away
                         her cotton dresses
                         in my autumn 

                         OUR LAST WALK

                         In memory of Cody,
                         who left the earth June 15, 2002 

                         
                         Our last walk
                         past the willow
                         has come to an end.

                         Slow brushing
                         his golden fur before
                         we drive him to the vet.

                         His last meal -
                         a lamb chop
                         quickly gobbled.

                         Sun glinting off
                         our long black car -
                         his head bobs up and down.

                         From the back seat
                         his whimpers
                         pulling at my heart.

                         He gives me his paw
                         over and over,
                         and then his name is called.

                         "Such a good looking dog,"
                         even at the moment
                         of death.

                         His panting stops -
                         a year of seizures
                         also gone.

                         Euthanasia -
                         consoling me,
                         classical guitar.

                          The retriever who pranced
                          through our neigborhood
                          now at one with the Golden Light.

                          Silence greets me
                          as I walk into
                          the house.

                          Cleaning up -
                          finding his frisbee
                          under a chair.
         

                         tonight
                         i'm left
                         with departures
                         early opening roses
                         in the back room 

                         I must be there
                         I looked and looked
                         lost in other people's words
                         and faces 

                         ROOTS & WINGS

                         Become a seed
                         the tiniest

                         of them all
                         we will water you

                         with tears, the grief
                         of longing

                         for a name
                         we will call you

                         thistle
                         archangel

                         willowherb
                         you will become

                         a dark river, a root
                         of fire, the wings

                         of the mind
                         the wind

                         blows right through you
                         getting rid

                         of all worry
                         the letting-

                         go of self-pity
                         for this earth

                         is intelligent
                         this earth

                         is prayer
                         for survival

                         for the glory
                         of chaos, for love
                          
 
                         

                         Aspens lace stone walls
                         falling to emerald pools
                         translucent dresses. 

                         The bed unmade
                         must I sleep under dried rushes
                         like a mouse among owls?

                         Come home, the table
                         is set with clean linens,
                         cattails and old poetry. 

I am a glass flower under glass
hold me still

for when I break
I wound   deeply

then seal your wound  with my knowing ruby mouth
brand your soul with a jealous stigmata

this is how I love

I am a glass flower under glass
hold me quiet

for when I break   I injure
then taste your hurt with cruel lips boasting salient promises

you adore       I receive
you descend       I ascend
you exist only through me

this is how I Love
to your dreams   to death

break me...
                         

                         and when you left
                         the door was ajar
                         crumbs
                         in half-light
                         distant thunder
     

                         someday her crooked teeth
                         won't matter
                         old tombstones aslant
     

                         fallen square boulder
                         in the emerald pool.  wish i
                         could have seen the splash? 

                         under the spring moon
                         we trace
                         each others footsteps 

                         summer evening-
                         scent of mint leaves
                         from my cycle's basket

               

                         catching my breath-
                         the scent of lilac indoors
                         against your wishes 

                         Well, so here we are
                         somewhere between stone and sand,
                         rushing water bends. 

              POETRY

             is a funny thing, not really life, but more like a little world, just to the right-hand
            side of it
             maybe it is like those wooden seats the old monk at Chithurst used to make,
            somewhere to stop for a while, where there is no wind, no rain, but often there is 
             a sunset, or an oak tree through mist
            these poems were written to be poems, that is, to be judged & criticized, to be
            praised & blamed as poems
             but please accept them for the friendship of it, as a gift, something like what that
            scabby, gritty Welsh priest would say "Eternity/ wearing the green leaves/ of
            Time"

                         Starbucks cafe:
                         watching the snowflakes
                         over the steaming brew 

                         this used night
                         a suicide note
                         the moon
                         from
                         empty scaffolding 

                                                                                           Heckler

                         Like a device for dialysis,
                         You just sat there
                         Taking the piss. 

                         Valentine's Day
                         on the walls of the old people's home
                         hearts and flowers 

                         silent water
                         a photo of a brook
                         that foreign man
                         she won't tell me
                         his name 

                         you smile at me
                         taking a sip of the moon
                         floating in your glass 

                         discussing plans
                         for the annual fund raiser
                         painfully aware
                         that beneath the white dress
                         there's a woman 

BUS STOP

And
After
Twenty minutes
The bus
Came.
I hope
They make Kleenex
That big.

                         red lantern
                         a room
                         with sandalwood
                         embroidered slippers
                         with beaded peonies 

                                            Watching Thomas

                         I sometimes watch you when you do not see
                         In an armchair, relatively huge, enveloped
                         By the words on a page you cannot understand,
                         Yet wrapped in the arms of communication.

                         Almost motionless you sit in an instinctive
                         Anticipation of a time when the key will turn
                         Setting you forever free
                         Showing you what it means to be
                         Human, unique and alone.

                         You will grapple with ideas,
                         When life gets too much or not enough
                         You will escape into fantasy
                         Inhabit for a time, another person's dreams
                         And return as and when you choose.

                         You will be your own person then
                         In touch with the minds of millions
                         Yet remote from them and me.

                         middle-aged bachelor
                         still trying to think of names
                         for his children 

                         The diary
                         of love
                         in a chinese box. 

UFO.

UFO
UFO
UFO
NO
Saucepan lid
In the face
Again. 

                         So easily
                         she forgives others,
                         my friend
                         with the less than perfect
                         memory.

                                                                                                      for Florence 

                         crowded train
                         an empty seat next to the woman
                         who talks to herself 

                         sickle moon
                         of january
                         under a haloed streetlamp
                         your promises
                         join the mist 

                         it is frustrating
                         to see a blind man walking
                         thru a closed exit
                         and you can't do anything
                         because you're in the train 

                         a thousand miles
                         remembering
                         one evening
                         the car
                         by the lake 

                         You are my truth-friend, come in a far season
                         O for a thousand years, tomorrow it will be Spring
                         & together we will speak the language of flowers
                         snowdrop means atonement, yarrow means helping
                         together we make music with earth & fire
                         these oceans apart. these words are made of air
                         hazel reconciled us, to come in a new season
                         I am glad you call me lover, brother, friend

                         nouveau riche
                         building their own
                         snubdivision 

                         subway ride
                         counting the stops
                         before i reach you 

                         suckle

                         honeysuckle offers
                         bees in loco parentis
                         a sweet enwombment 

                         Enemas To Enemies

                         Remember
                         Keep your friends close
                         And your enemies
                         In various bell jars
                         Around your study. 

                         my best one
                         was the one she opened--
                         birthday present 

                         silk

                         as far as clothes go
                         silk is the closest texture
                         to a flight feather 

                         Suicide (Slight Return)

                         They
                         Always
                         Say
                         And then he turned the pistol
                         On himself
                         Sorry
                         Didn't realise
                         The mere rotation of a revolver
                         Was deadly. 

                         college journal:
                         pressed between the pages
                         valentine roses 

                         nude
                         in my garden
                         he rakes
                         the leaves
                         with green eyes 

                         when i was a child
                            i kept a promise to myself
                            i shall never love but one man
                            in my life
                            so if you fail to return
                            i shall close the door
                            of my heart
                         and never love again

                         but if you return
                         i shall catch the sun
                         and hold it tightly
                         on my palm
                         maybe someday
                         i shall give you
                                       the
                                    sunset
                                         tied
                                           in
                                                a
                                                      white
                                                                     string.

                         Cool wisps of fog
                         in necropolis ruins--
                         soft coos of roosting doves
    

                         lightning flash-
                         starting to count
                         I miss you 

                         My Uncle's Knee.

                         I sat upon my Uncle's knee
                         Temporarily
                         Forgetting he was an amputee. 

                         she blushes
                         as I remove her stockings--
                         an old fashioned girl 

                         taking the onion apart

                                    how many tears
                                    till you touch
                                    the heart? 

                         double glazing
                         twice the moon 

                         water hangs from cliffs
                         the world divided through the
                         microscope of light. 

                         The poem's black ink
                         runs on white paper...
                         through the window, sparrows sing 

one more glass of wine/evening darkening/you're not coming 

                         morning
                         this day
                         lightly lightly 

                         The sumo lifts trees
                         The woman lifts a bucket
                         Heavy with sorrow
                         Heavier than all mountains
                         One drop is mine rippling

                         i climb the side walk
                         and think
                         of the trees
                         we hide
                         with

                         Without a word

                         Lanyard cold and pinging

                         ...and numb our fingers too

                         holding down the service pages

                         flapping in November gusts:

                         Only the memories warming,

                         clinging...and then the silence

                         broken by the piper's elbow

                         and first deep breath

                         sleeping puppy
                         out cold
                         the purring cat
                         cleans his face
                         with determination

                         his head the size
                         of her whole body

                         moon caught between rocks
                         I gaze as I cross the bridge
                         breathing deep sweet sage

                         paradise on earth
                         he says he loves her
                         putting on his trousers
                         to go home
                         to his wife

                         POEM FOR JOY, BEING A PERSON

                         Wood pigeons cooing into the cool of the morning
                         Blue sky shimmering fresh between birches
                         The details of the dew on each leaf
                         Our daily task, to fall in love

                         This cutting of ragwort, bracken, thistle
                         The annual ritual of scything
                         An excuse to be joyful, something to do
                         In order to be whole, "they stayed asleep

                         So that we would find them", this purple yellow
                         Green August morning, leave a few to seed
                         On purpose, to keep the world turning
                         In the Summer grass, the circle round

                         gasping sunset
                         I almost missed
                         the lone lake swan

                         set my shoulder
                         on fire
                         warm your face
                         in my flesh
                         and marrow

                         How romantic:

                         So I left you
                         and now I am
                         Here.
                         Alone
                         in a distant land.
                         Distant.

                         I fold paper over
                         Creased tight as age wrinkles
                         Hatching paper crane

                         tossing the ball
                         to serve-
                         birds in the sky

                         gathering darkness -
                         the power line crosses
                         a pale sky

                         the other playground
                         where every mother
                         is ghost
                         and the prams
                         are empty

f i n i s

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