Prose and Poetry

1. Field Days, a novel in process, Hughs Park and the Neil Kervis Stories (to be posted eventually) 2.The Wolverine 3.Ogontz (under construction)

My English translation of Chinese Novel PING YAO ZHUAN, Feng Menglong's 40 chapter version of the Late Ming, Complete and unabridged.
HUGHS PARK, 1987

Hughs Park in November is a heartless place
Dying leaves linger on the dogwoods and oaks
Winter clouds race across a grey-blue sky
The sun struggles to peer around their ragged edges
Geese rush south without apparent fear, mocking me with their calls

Hughs Park in November seems abandoned
Yellowing weeds poke out from rotted ties
Graffiti covers the station walls like broken promises
Current flows no more through the sagging catanary
A distant plane passes, beating rough air with its props

Hughs Park greets my fortieth year
A discarded pumpkin decays on the bench
Yellow jackets swarm to devour it
Red Arrow trams roll no more to Upper Darby
Nature is harvesting, taking another year in turn

SCHROON MOUNTAIN, AUGUST 1977

It was hard getting in with a tailwind
Our approach was steep between the hills and fast
Clean ship too, eyes latched unto the flightpath
Firm hands on yoke and throttle smoothed us into that uphill meadow.
The field at Schroon was unattended, only a payphone presiding over the place
A sign proclaimed that calls to Glens Falls FSS were free
All others for the usual fee.
What would mother say if she knew? (IN MEMORIUM, N65)
Our departure gave us the view of Schroon Mountain painted by Thomas Cole
(Alas no "thin trace in high air" above the Li River this Only a lesser range above the upper Hudson.)
We soared out under a rising moon
A dying red sun at our four o'clock.

ONE OF THE GREATEST

A winter night, West Philadelphia,
Late '81, in Tavern now long gone
Except in heart's space where one cherishes
Fleeting shades; the bartender'd set up
My last call, whiskey and a beer when I
First noticed the oldtimer next to me.
He was in fact no older than I, now,
Recalling how he stared into his glass
And told me of his hardships as a child
In Andalusia, Pennsylvania.
Of how they played by Pennsy right-of-way
Of snowball fights and sledding after school
Into snowy cold December nights
Of staring wide-eyed as New York-bound train
Sped past, its windows all aglow with gaiety
Inside, rich people in their suits and furs.
He told of how with runny nose he stood
Looked at those racing flashes on the snow
And shivered, felt the shame of those below.
He talked of tough nuns at the parish school
Of happy Christmas mornings without heat
The value of the money in his time
His service in the War and afterward:
Philco, marriage, son lost in Vietnam
Daughter’s family living far away,
Unable to recall the face his wife
Had worn the morning of their wedding day;
His boy as well, a fading memory.
The thing that oddly seemed most clear to him
Was how the Boulevard Airport had smelled,
A mix of fresh-cut grass and gasoline
One summer day when as a lad he got
An airplane ride with Clarence Chamberlain.

BEIDAIHE, CHINA, DECEMBER 2001

In the marketplace behind our school
An evening sky above, the dipper hung
Full icey moon's Yin energy diffuse
Its paleness showing all in silhouette
Along the alley that our students feared
I see them in the starkness of the night
Those ovens and their chimneys in the light
There in ruin near the Russian park.
Some hours later in my room alone
From the courtyard comes a scraping sound
Of old Yang humping coal and now the bangs
Of radiator by my frozen bed
Old fiery furnace casts an eerie glow
On frosted windowpane, the ancient tale
Comes into mind, of Daniel
In the old bible, the astrologers,
Address Nebuchadnezzar saying things
That we still sometimes hear today although
Hong Xiuquan said not so long ago
All men were brothers, circumcised or not
Awake in light of early winter dawn
From memory it seems I can recall
Some of the mourner's kaddish for them all.

(this area under construction)
Back to Homepage