Monthly Archives: October 2013

Music: Blue requiem by Blue Asia

In Prince Rupert the deer cross at the crosswalks


A car backfires in the parking lot

faking a gunshot, and a flicker


Crosses the Tim Horton’s, riding radio

waves that hold some simulacra


Of Betty Everett’s voice, at once both

perfect and temporary, maintaining


It’s in his kiss with some authority,

in fact insisting on it. Is it in his eyes?


Oh no, you’ll be deceived. Is it in his sighs?

He’ll make believe. (The instrumental


Break, a weirdly detached marimba solo)

Is it in his face? No, no that’s just his charm


In his warm embrace? No, that’s just his arm.

Meanwhile, at my table I’m trying to make


A little sanctuary inside it all,

made out of a coffee, a newspaper


And someone’s collected poems. The world

presses in and  I can’t press back.


She’s singing about what’s real, what’s

in his kiss and everything I need


to know about being in love suddenly

is there – bang! it becomes clear


That the kiss Betty Everett’s singing about

is my kiss: it was my kiss that it was in.

Zhuangzi and Huizi were strolling along the dam of the Hao Waterfall when Zhuangzi said, “See how the minnows come out and dart around where they please! That’s what fish really enjoy!”

Huizi said, “You’re not a fish — how do you know what fish enjoy?”

Zhuangzi said, “You’re not me, so how do you know I don’t know what fish enjoy?”

Huizi said, “I’m not you, so I certainly don’t know what you know. On the other hand, you’re certainly not a fish — so that still proves you don’t know what fish enjoy!”

Zhuangzi said, “Let’s go back to your original question, please. You asked me how I know what fish enjoy — so you already knew I knew it when you asked the question. I know it by standing here beside the Hao.”


Zhuangzi (trans. Burton)

The shepherd asks for her hand, but

she refuses and later hires him

onto her farm, and the neighbouring farmer

falls in love with her, but she falls

in love with the handsome sergeant,

and marries him, but the one he loves

dies, and he leaves and so it goes.


Like the changes of Stella by Starlight,

chords falling to cadence,

and falling,  start another sequence.


Or like when Pegasus took a plunge

behind the ridge of new maples last night.


And, almost always, there’s a rising back,

against the grain, so that, just when


 Pandarus is about to skewer Menelaus

Homer gives us his bow- how it’s made

Of polished ibex horn, where he shot it,

how he fashioned it- and so it goes


And holds us there. And there

is almost always something like a ruffle

against the grain, a countervail


That suspends us against the gravity,

that takes shape for a moment, and then


Is folded in, and takes its place

in the joyful general collapse again.