Poetry by Karen Kung
by Karen Kung
I wish I were a mountain sitting there The wind-bell is always silent
And not to remember my own name But it starts jingling, when
When I wake from my dream. The wind’s caress breaks its heart.
When the quiet of night occupies the eardrums.
When the shallow of desk lamp captures the spirit,
There is nothing by the dialogue
Between the pen nib and the manuscript left in the universe.
People love candles, Shells keep quiet all the time
Because they are well supplied with affection. For listening to stories
They always drop their tears Occurred on the beach.
Whenever people need their warmth.
I know you don’t want to be put into the kiln
With dusty and bloody hands.
For you, is a shackle.
The extreme heat in the kiln is
Not the temperature for you.
But how could I endure
Letting you exposed to the speed-dropping air?
That would make you worn-out and fragile,
When sunshine and wind are gone far.
You have never told me,
But I know you always liked to be unconstrained.
Thus, please accommodate yourself
To my hands, peacefully.
Before being put into the kiln
I will hold you tenderly, stoking and comforting you.
Let you be whatever the shape you want in the warmth of my sweat.
If my perspiration gland would stop secreting,
Please don’t worry.
As I would mix stored tears in your body at that time,
And at least you would still have some transient freedom
In the temperature you have ever been fond of.
I would accompany you to sit in the flames
Till you have got used to the temperature in the kiln,
Till I have meditated enough on the shape of a poem
Meditating next to the windowsill,
You are enchanted by the beautiful world.
Looking into the brightness of nature,
The glare of your eyes becomes more shining.