I pissed off an internet blogger & photographer whom I want to befriend and ask business information from. To summarise the unfulfiled event, I approached the conversation by showing my share of understanding (of his life) and sympathy which did no good. So the snobbish and nosy me was duly detested and ignored. Fine. But hell, why would you make the blog grandly public, put your msn up there if not to satisfy voyeurism while at the same time so guarded and not interested in talking? That I'm pissed off as well.
Below are poems by Jane Hirshfield, from the anthology 'After'. The collective title is 'seventeen pebbles', under which are 17 short subject poems. I just can't help admiring her mastery in evoking the senses and posing a spiritual insight.
Lighthouse
Its vision sweeps its one path
like an aged monk raking a garden,
his question long ago answered or moved on.
Far off, night-grazing horses,
breath scented with oat grass and fennel,
step through it, disappear, step through it, disappear.
Maple
The lake scarlets
the same instant as the maple.
Let others try to say this is not passion.
Insomnia, listening
Three times in one night
a small animal crosses the length of the ceiling.
Each time it goes all the way one way,
all the way back, without hesitation or pause.
Envy that sureness.
It is like being cut-flowers, between the filed and the vase.
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