New China Poem
Long flight, day lost,
well met. I wake
to greet the morning
in Beijing...
through Tokyo from L.A.
Outside my window,
the room
my Chinese friends
have given me,
I see
old men doing taiji,
their bodies more graceful,
agile, subtle,
than mine will ever be.
'You either make it
on the dance floor
or you don't make it.'
Well, then,
I don't make it.
Earth, as planet,
is dance... is floor.
Outside my window
I hear rooster crowing,
band saw sawing.
Workers
building New China.
Out of what?
Old lumber.
New China, new music.
I'll grow new ears,
learn to hear it.
But, for now,
I'll stay in,
read something old--
Confucius, the Analects.
Discipline myself.
Go out later,
travel great distances,
visit Qufu.