tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91142965359911921172024-03-16T09:09:02.091+08:00The Tao That Can Be Named...Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.comBlogger991125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-29321492161757081232017-09-20T00:30:00.002+08:002017-09-20T00:52:35.457+08:00An Amanda Joy Poem
Your Ground
Its tongue
is the only thing moving
A striking distance
from your face
Sharp arc of snake
head flared with venom
A totemic weight
posted darkly in
suddenness of
grizzled air between you
Your body in mirrored freeze
still on your knees
swiveled from a lizard
you were attempting to capture
on a fistful of phone
Your jaws both clamped
over a rising silence
Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-89181501507687620422017-06-26T16:22:00.004+08:002017-06-26T16:23:24.291+08:00POEM: "Falling"Falling
Good night, dear friendSurrounded by wordsAnd forgotten chengyuListen to what the birds sayGood night unchangedTomorrow’s on the roadWhat will soon be writtenThe day's already differentAsleep last thought fallingCollecting the firewoodWalking the way of silence
©2017 Rob Schackne
Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-52138078470155973612017-03-07T01:37:00.000+08:002017-03-31T01:37:54.404+08:00POEM: "My Indian Restaurant"
My Indian Restaurant
My Indian restaurantfinally got aroundto oiling the back doorbeautiful actionthe ragas morningthe ragas eveningit's quite irregularbut me none yet knowsserved another helpinghow much appetite remainsKrishna to Arjunavictor upon this plainpopular fellahell has three gatesgive them uppay at the counter and leave
© 2017 Rob Schackne
Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-49339300979409982542017-03-06T01:34:00.000+08:002017-03-31T01:39:07.944+08:00POEM: "Grimace (Take 2)"Grimace (Take 2)
One more lessondon’t daydream in taxisshenanigans everywhereespecially where I sitthe world senses the gravityof the situationhigh jinks in cahootswith the setting suncar tyres burninga film still in productionleave your phone on the seatyour expat groceriesthe expensive umbrellathe new laptopyour new haircutnever coming backshe’s still shouting inthe back of some other taxi
Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-71588106315869296892017-03-05T01:31:00.000+08:002017-03-31T01:31:34.632+08:00POEM: "Several Moments Of Intensity"
Several Moments Of Intensity
Several moments of intensity
anytime in the next 7 yearsbefore squirrels lose their pawsand the Milky Way waltzes awaylike before a canvas or a pagewe'll come and go togetherthis masterpiece of lovepicture a harmonious displayan astronomers' party with starsa helium balloon to lift us upyou'll be on time for onceand I'll be racing to catch youwhen we leave this Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-74977668836935569142017-03-04T01:29:00.000+08:002017-03-31T01:29:24.882+08:00POEM: "In The Crackle Of Dreams"
In The Crackle Of Dreams
In the crackle of dreamsthe swirl of the sore heartguns be fired everywherelet it never be anyone herethere is not, or me, childrenafter a street scene, a battlethat didn't end all battlesthere is not, shit on a walla future happening, or tyresthey're burning like leavesor the personal bullets, I runthe shells ripped up like the sunthe night I was losing my mindgod, Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-77799357559590727612017-03-03T01:24:00.000+08:002017-03-31T01:38:31.815+08:00POEM: "We Do Love Each Other Feast"We Do Live Each Other Feast
Believe it now you writing
my eye and body the sameplease translate this for merock a meditation till it sleepthe word coming at speedyes that when I love itprayer flag and prayer wheelwatch a drop of butterflycharmed thing inoculated (but let's no talk of blood)the fighter be the artistshe live along the battlefieldshe fight for other not herselfhow the wizard stillRob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-29344871483187641612017-02-06T19:10:00.000+08:002017-02-06T19:10:03.068+08:00POEM: "What we hope for"“What we hope for” Lived once near a small town named Roadkillwhere years ago the fencing was taken downand where all the people looked well-fed…What we hope forso capable of happinessinstead the infantile ragetakes us and bracesdown into the groundthe unhappiness and despaircan poetry complete thecircle we can wonderall we want abouthow our language betraysgood notes and sensegets carried far Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-40206824488167765512017-02-01T03:24:00.004+08:002017-02-04T08:22:22.376+08:00POEM: "Becalmed"Becalmed He becomes a writer a thousand years waiting and for some reason for a harmless detonation he writes odd poems of hearts and souls (by all means, sweet love transfer those cultures Astérix to Astro Boy) he starts off on the Mekong a thousand years waiting for the wind to pick up a kite gets caught between the gust & the air and falls at the border he watches a boat by a slow silverRob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-73880233648798872722017-01-31T13:57:00.000+08:002017-02-01T03:28:59.939+08:00A Lisel Mueller PoemHope
It hovers in dark cornersbefore the lights are turned on,it shakes sleep from its eyesand drops from mushroom gills,it explodes in the starry headsof dandelions turned sages,it sticks to the wings of green angelsthat sail from the tops of maples.
It sprouts in each occluded eyeof the many-eyed potato,it lives in each earthworm segmentsurviving cruelty,it is the motion that runsfrom theRob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-54765856962271031272017-01-30T02:59:00.000+08:002017-01-31T03:00:25.074+08:00POEM: "Spend ten minutes""Spend ten minutes"
Spend ten minuteswriting a poem, easy breezeand palm trees, everyword comes naturallylike a posse of catsor a plaintive songwearing silk pyjamashurtling through the jungleand what have I gota cartoon finisha deck of cardsthese aces high as always.
© 2017 Rob Schackne
Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-23997680623967486982017-01-29T19:24:00.002+08:002017-01-29T19:25:12.049+08:00POEM: "Come closer"“Come closer”
Come closerlook away from theywho want dominionover all the pretty thingslet’s put them off the tracewith beautiful extremesan old ship’s mast an old log of claimsa poem hard to fathommany hours on the phonesome thorny music some priapic joya list as long as a waterfallthe trees on a ridgethe birds are singingand there’s so much lightit all zips itself in you.
© 2017 Rob Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-50941143002038037192017-01-28T02:55:00.000+08:002017-01-31T02:56:56.320+08:00POEM: "Delivered by her coming"“Delivered by her coming”
Delivered by her comingsealed up when she leftit’s like old Willie McTellsearching the desert for the blueswhile he wanders blind in a dirty citytrying to stay in the outside lane& why single out the female formnow she's someone's angel childmirrors are turned in everywherethese clothes are their clothesthere's a squatter in your houseturn back the clock in Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-31720329578950995922017-01-27T19:20:00.000+08:002017-01-29T19:21:33.384+08:00POEM: "The Body"
The Body
"Are you really Doctor Wu?"
Its horrible politics
the practice of the body
how desire twists
an octopus cooked alive
till a small girl is horrified
the things she has to eat
from a cavity she whispers
how true is this desire
baby baby baby
gimme a private room
how much to consume her
girls in a cage
swimming in a sauce
a fat Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-73778936248805395502017-01-25T03:02:00.001+08:002017-01-25T03:06:12.077+08:00POEM: "One Bad Man"<!--[if !mso]>
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Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-85275441687956857062017-01-18T03:17:00.000+08:002017-01-26T03:20:41.290+08:00A William Butler Yeats Poem (6)The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,Because a fire was in my head,And cut and peeled a hazel wand,And hooked a berry to a thread;And when white moths were on the wing,And moth-like stars were flickering out,I dropped the berry in a streamAnd caught a little silver trout.When I had laid it on the floorI went to blow the fire aflame,But something rustled on the floor,And Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-24565931351057659892017-01-17T16:04:00.005+08:002017-01-17T16:05:37.461+08:00POEM: "Translate"Translate
for Romaine Scott
How a poet turns
another poet's translation
into another poem
sinking a shaft
no weakness or cracks
no reference to the original
or the translation of it
imagine that
there are parts to assemble
flecks of gold here and there
so language will get off
the late Sunday train
in a little country town
there's Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-76002523042450996292017-01-13T03:29:00.000+08:002017-01-26T03:35:56.118+08:00POEM: "Ákos"ÁkosMight as well be daybreakthe big nets stringed with knotsthe ropes, a rats nest of fingersglass balls that floated the catchthe fishermen asleep under boatswho always shouted ven aquí guapowe have sardines for breakfasta dim grey beach stretched for milessand sprints against wind and memorywith old Ákos my Hungarian coachex-Olympian, ex-police chief, ex-prisonersteely teeth, stories and Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-55805289919765968302017-01-12T03:33:00.000+08:002017-01-26T03:35:11.410+08:00POEM: "Crapped out, he said"“Crapped out, he said”
Crapped out, he saidlooking down at the seayou lost every single betagainst the cliff, the sunjob market, supermarketyour educational promisea bicycle next to a freewaya shudder against a shocksays now it’s probably overall the exits are barred, sayssomething like an octopusonce had a tight hold of you.
© 2017 Rob Schackne
Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-32150003104535824702017-01-11T11:48:00.002+08:002017-01-11T19:51:59.493+08:00POEM: "They came from the middle part""They came from the middle part"
They came from the middle part
they'd been mostly hollowed outthe rebels, killers, the survivorsscavengers who when I tookthem into the bush would tasteevery plant and remember itthe other biggest bunch camefrom the Horn of Africa, andthey were not so hollowed outalso killers, rebels, the survivorsof course, but with their joywhich was naturally delightful to Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-42015246285388110292017-01-10T10:03:00.002+08:002017-01-10T10:05:56.439+08:00POEM: "A restaurant proposition""A restaurant proposition"
A restaurant propositionhas all the tables in a rowthe eaters are nonchalantordering from a slim volumeof old poems they recitefrom their fans or panelsa curvaceous Chinese girltreats the room to her displayaround me they're lookingat what's generally happeningbut stranger things than foodstranger than a lifetime latera bicycle barely carried usa car narrowly missed Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-54231298080558731122017-01-08T17:15:00.005+08:002017-01-10T09:57:44.257+08:00POEM: "In Moonlight"In Moonlight
Bumping along
this horse before a cartthis thought this songthe head before the hearta strange feeling in the airexoplanets and atmospheresleepy roos and sandtelescope delivered lateat the ditch where it stopspencil paper calculationsthe next heaven is immensethe name of one true lovehanging on the starstea and damper hungerthe homestead lights© 2017 Rob SchackneRob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-78746091767547509772017-01-07T21:58:00.003+08:002017-01-07T23:25:56.725+08:00An Anne Porter Poem
Music
When I was a childI once sat sobbing on the floorBeside my mother's pianoAs she played and sangFor there was in her singingA shy yet solemn gloryMy smallness could not holdAnd when I was askedWhy I was cryingI had no words for itI only shook my headAnd went on cryingWhy is it that musicAt its most beautifulOpens a wound in usAn ache a desolationDeep as a homesicknessFor some far-offAnd Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-4753551017322685712017-01-06T21:44:00.000+08:002017-01-08T17:19:29.006+08:00POEM: "String Haiku in Five Parts, for John Cage R.I.P."String Haiku in Five Parts, for John Cage R.I.P.
A piece of my mind a billion bits and pieces after the hoodwink they were scattered everywhere trucks thundering past the music schools and factories that irresponsible bomb invited today to feel someone's space cotton my grandmother's cheek the sound of wings the last notes of a city how dramatical once the music fades away I don't really care Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9114296535991192117.post-7867756642776349062017-01-05T21:32:00.000+08:002017-01-07T23:29:48.557+08:00BOOK COVERS: "Other Minds"
Yes, please.
Rob Schacknehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03472139702551957034noreply@blogger.com0