Dreaming in Chinese ~ a plein air poem & reverie

Dreaming in Chinese

 

 

It hasn’t happened yet.

But I wonder

what it would be like

to dream in Chinese.

Maybe induced by

the smoke of lapsang souchong

or fire of rice wine, mijiu.

Would I find myself

standing on a corner

in old Shanghai singing

a song to the moon

in Mandarin?

Buying a bright-throated bird

in the market, maybe

a hua mei to stroll with;

serenade my mornings.

Fishing for mottled carp

from a low wooden boat

on the Yangtze.

Dipping a brush to paint

a mountain landscape

disappearing into the mist.

 

 

Colin Goedecke

Convent Station, New Jersey

May, 2016

 

Picnic in the Air ~ a plein air poem for summer

Picnic in the Air

 

 

Where gravity is suspended

by late-afternoon.

Leaving you free to picnic

or frolic past sunset,

moonset,

at any altitude you desire,

on deep cushions of air.

Round an awning-striped

tablecloth spread

weightlessly,

elegantly

with cold, blushing

bottles of wine,

hard and soft cheeses,

cow and goat

from France and Spain;

wildly crusty loaves

of bread, whose crumbs

drift off here and there

on the breeze

to feed peckish passing birds.

Wrinkled olives,

ripe berries,

sparkling water;

bubbling laughter

and languid pleasure

over the floating feast.

 

 

 

Colin Goedecke

Convent Station, New Jersey

July, 2016

Klimt in His Garden ~ a poem for Klimt & Krabbe

Klimt in His Garden

        

      for Jasper Krabbé  at his 2007 New York Opening,

      on a painting of the painter Gustav Klimt

 

 

 He moves in a moonlength robe

through an evening green garden

of quietude; with hidden feet

that touch the muted grass and moss;

his figure almost afloat

under the first blooms

faint and soon fragrant

on the branches over his silent head

and soft beard, without thought

of brushes or canvases,

only this moment

savoring the poetry

of a Spring night

in his garden.

 

 

 

© Colin Goedecke

In Chelsea, New York City

March, 2007

Snowfall, a poem for winter

Snowfall

 

 

It powders down

onto the heads and shoulders

of men, houses, and horses,

whitens the teeth

of picket fences,

lathers the bristled faces

of Northern forests.

It boughs down

to the outstretched arms

of trees, tongues of children,

the folded wings of sleeping owls.

Confettis down

past millions

of living room, bedroom,

office, train windows,

seen and unseen.

Swirls down

in great silence,

eloquence;

with pure, hushing,

comforting presence.

 

 

©Colin Goedecke

January, 2014

by Central Park

New York City