My master knows no-
thing. I gaze at him and see
nothing, his mind un-
moving and unmoved.
My self selves many others,
but not him, no way.
He meditates, he
says. Keeping all things open
between us, I blink.
Author: Tom D'Evelyn
Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.
Nil Admirari
On a cool bright day
a smart lady walks down Broad.
She’s wearing Gucci
shoes, and I think of
you. Gucci shoes, Gucci shoes,
you loved your Gucci
shoes. Rome, Paris, Bath,
black patent Gucci shoes. In
later years you leaned
on me, and I did
too much admire your pretty
feet in Gucci shoes.
Cat Wang (2)
I sit in the win-
dow space just watching the sun
rising through the trees.
Birds flicker, being
and nonbeing in my eyes.
It’s not nothing, O-
rigin. It takes my
steady gaze to see the whole
that is and isn’t.
The birds flicker. The
whole flickers open to not
having been at all.
My master sleeps. Walk-
ing on the wind can’t compare
to riding the curve.
Cat Wang
I am Cat Wang hang-
ing out in Tom’s window as
still clouds gather and
high summer shimmers.
I sense the origin of
coming and going,
the absolute sweet-
ness of being at all. It’s
irritating when
poor Tom listens to
the radio: more mass shootings,
more rage. He fixes
on what just happened—-
is there no limit to news?
We live in Troubled
Times now. He used to
read Chinese poems to me:
mind knows beyond cloud.
Last line from David Hinton, Classic Chinese Poetry, p 157.
My Nietzsche
The Gay Science is
my favorite book of his.
It solves the problem
of my life. Two faiths.
Weak Christianity with
its stress on pity
(my childhood faith) and
Epicurianism,
study of my old
age in the pages
of Horace, mocking will-to-
power: these are the
same. So my life flows.
On summer nights like this I
moonwatch and listen
to garage bands chase
Nietzsche’s dream of total sound.
Everything makes sense.
The Heart’s Word
August evening:
the lawn overwatered, bright
oak leaves reaching through
into the thick air
shot with gauzy stars. Desire
has found its voice in
the low drying hedge
or is it from under the
steps. Now listen to
the first cricket of
the season, of his one and
only season: I
have a month to live
and I’ll spend it singing you
into my life. La
petite mort my theme.
This house belongs to a hu-
man poet. His chirp
lacks my jeweled charm.
Now that it’s hot he can’t sleep,
he just lies awake
listening to me
woo you with pulsing, some say
eternal, music.
The Signature
Drifting in and out
of sleep in my reading chair,
I glimpse bits of you.
Once a yellow check
appeared with your signature.
You’d use a thick black
Sharpie (you were half
blind by then). You loved to help
with the rent when you
could. You loved signing
the name you chose as a child.
It blurred in my tears.
