Chapter 5 Chapter Four

Now I want to explore beauty, where no one has hitherto explored in this way.Now I will call aloud, So far no one has called for it.now i'm going to try A job no one has ever tried.Now I'm going to do what no one else has done. Speaking of this wonderful machine: what confuses me is What is the difference between the two creation methods: This kind only churns in the poet's mind, As he repeatedly scrutinized and refined his words, While soaping the legs for the third time; The other is dignified and decent, He carried a straight book in his study. The latter method is the aid of the mind,

Concretely unfold that abstract battle. The pen stays in the air, suddenly blocking The sun sets, or the stars reappear, so as to directly guide the wise words Through the dark maze, towards the dawn of dawn. The former method is annoying! The mind is quickly capped by the steel hat of pain. The Muse directs the auger from beginning to end, Grinding drills, no will can stop, As soon as the beautiful words and sentences are considered It will be automatically canceled again, discarded like a trash bag, Or he'd run to the corner shop, Go buy that newspaper you've already read.

how so?maybe because Penless creation lacks the suspension of the pen, All three need to be taken care of at the same time. To choose an appropriate rhythm, With the finished lines before me, Do you have to memorize the previous exercises one by one? Or there is no desk, the creative process Easier to be illusory, with poetic ups and downs? The magic moment is coming quietly When I am tired of deleting and revising, I cast my pen to reverie; I paced and meditated - a certain god immediately ordered silently When the word plays the flute, it rests on my hand. Morning is my best hour;

Midsummer is my favorite season. I felt half awake once in a trance, And the other half is still asleep in dreamland. Out of my body, I overtook myself—on the lawn, The clover leaves hold the topaz dawn, Shade stood there in his pajamas and one shoe. Then I realized that the half was also In a hazy sleep; I suddenly wake up with a smile Still resting on the couch; dawn is breaking on the horizon, The robin walks and rests, Wet turf studded with gems, on which lies a brown shoe!my dark footprints, Shade's mark, inherently mysterious. The mirage, the miracle, that midsummer dawn.

My biographer was perhaps too cautious, Maybe I don't know much, so I can't tell for sure. Trimmed in the bathroom; lo and behold, it begins: "He installed - a hinged steel support with screws, It spans the tub, holds the shaving mirror, settled on his cheek impartially, Then the toes beat warmly again, He sat there like a king, and like a bloody Marat. The more weight I put on, the less secure my skin is, Ridiculously thin in places; Near the corner of the mouth: this pasture and that monster alternate Incurring a wicked crevice rift. And this pine dewlap: Someday

I had to give up the deep-rooted wrinkles that were pretentious. My throat core is a prickly pear: Now I will speak of the evil and disappointment, So far no one has said so.five six seven eight Nine strokes are not enough.Ten beats.I stroke with my hand Blood clots under strawberry cream, It was found that the thorns had not changed. the one-armed guy in the tv commercial suddenly From the ear to the chin suddenly cleared a smooth path, Wiping his face, rubbing his skin with joy.I doubt it very much. I'm the kind of person who fumbles with my hands. Like a handsome teenager in a bodysuit,

Discreetly assisting an acrobat girl to dance gracefully, My left hand helped and supported me, changing postures. Now I'm going to say... what poets yearn for The sentiment is far better than the soap bubbles; Inspiration with its cold spark, The sudden image, the instant word, Brings bursts of ripples and triple waves to the skin, Surprises and surprises, the hairs stand on end, Just like the vivid large-scale advertising screen, Our cream holds up the shaved beard. Now I will speak of the sin no one has ever spoken of. I don't like such things: jazz; The one who beat the strong black man to the point of bloodstains,

stupid guy in white leggings; abstract bauble; Primitive folk masks; radical schools; supermarket music; swimming pool; Brutes, nasty people, class-conscious philistines, Freud, Marx, False thinkers, exalted poets, financiers and charlatans. The safety blade hisses and flies, Through the country of my cheek, Cars flow on the highway, The truck climbs the steep slope around my jawbone, At this moment, a liner docked quietly, At this time, the sunglasses traveler visited Beirut, I plow my gray bearded old Zambala land, Slaves toil between my muzzle and nose turning the hay. human life is profound

And unfinished poetry notes.Write it down for future use. While I was dressing, I walked through the halls and rooms, Strolling about the house, rhyming poems, With a comb or a shoehorn in hand, In a blink of an eye, it became a small spoon for me to eat eggs.afternoon You drove me to the library. At six-thirty we dined, and my queer muse, My patron saint, with me everywhere, In the private cubicle, in the car, in my seat. And all time, always the same, my dear, You're there too, lexically, in syllable, emphasizing That crucial rhythm.Once upon a time I heard a woman's dress

Rustle rustle.I often catch Your proximate thought sound and consciousness. Youth stays in your heart, after you quote The poems I dedicate to you, turn the old into the new. "Dark Bay" is my first collection of (free style) poetry; "Voice of the Night Waves" Followed by; and after Hebe's Cup, That was the last time I floated in the wet carnival, Now I call everything "poetry" and I don't toss and turn anymore. (And this dainty thing really needs a The name of Moonset Crow.Help me, Will. ) The years passed in constant and coordinated musings.

the mind is declining; A swarthy idiot, a noun I meant to use, All shriveled and dried up on the concrete floor. I long for accentuated consonants, god-son of Echo, Maybe it's based on a feeling, Prefer that whimsical daydream, Rhythmic life. I think only Through my art, combined with joy, I can understand survival, at least understand A tiny part of my existence; If my personal scan of the universe is accurate, The verses of divine splendor must not be bad, I guessed it was a line of iambic verse. I'm sure we'll continue to exist, My darling will live somewhere too, as i am sure i will be in Woke up at six o'clock in the morning July 22, 1959 It may be a sunny day; Yawning again and again, I turn on the alarm clock, He hurriedly put Xie De's "poetry draft" back on the shelf. But before bedtime, the sun is setting The two lowest mullions of old Dr. Sutton's. The man must be—what?eighty?eighty two? He was twice my age when we married. where are youin the garden.i can see You are half-shadowed near the walnut tree. The child is throwing horseshoes.Kali.click (Like a drunk leaning on a light pole.) A dark Vanessa with crimson trim, Hovering in the sunset, resting on the sand, Showing off its dark blue wingtips speckled with white. Through flowing shadows, fading light A man, ignoring the butterfly— I guess it's some neighbor's gardener - pushing An empty trolley, stepping into the alley.