Short Poems

I see before me now a traveling army halting,
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer,
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high,
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen,
The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the mountain,
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering,
And over all the sky--the sky! far, far out of reach, Studded, breaking out, the eternal stars.

Kori nigaku enso ga nodo o uruoseri


Bitter–tasting ice —
Just enough to wet the throat
Of a sewer rat.

bitter, sweet, lover
happy, sad, impossible
tragedy of hearts


(Previously published in Poems Md, Apr 2008)

I have a sister whom God gave to me;
He formed her out of trouble and the mists of the sea.
Like Aphrodite, she came to me full-grown.
Oh, I am blest forever with a sister of my own.

Tiny heart beat new
cradled in awkward tenderness
learning one-to-one


(Previously published in Poems Md, Apr 2008)

„Sandheden troe døde Birkner!" Hvad var han? „En redelig Borger."
Ellers intet? „Skribent!" Meer ey? „Christen og Præst."
Giv da Keiseren det som er Keiserens, Gud det som Guds er,
Og sæt for „Sandheden" Gud! bedre det passer sig her.

Birdsong brings relief
to my longing
I'm just as ecstatic as they are,
but with nothing to say!
Please universal soul, practice
some song or something through me!

A girl whose cheeks are covered with paint
Has an advantage with me over one whose ain't.

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud, a French poet, was born Oct.20,1854, in Charleville. His childhood was marred by a 'cantankerous and vindictive' mother and by the discipline of the local school, but his poetic virtuosity was extraordinary. By the age of fifteen he had written verse in imitation of the Romanticists (Vers de College,1932) , and one of his teachers, Izambard, introduced him to contemporary poetry. He was fiercely revolutionary, and wrote the words 'Down with God' on the public benches of Charleville.

Authorized, booked
By my steadfast prose
The dead I ghost write
Shed shadows that shine
With hindsight, hearsay—
The last word is mine