Thursday, June 6, 2013

Mark MacDonald 

For the Poetess Lan Lan 

A new way of looking, a glance through the eyes
of somebody, anybody, someone not me, someone not
so gregarious, someone alone, someone not lonely:
 
A woman not washing dishes or cooking, a woman
not staring out the window; a woman not nursing a
child, or picking up after strangers; or even the people
 
she loves. So very few people stand on the sidewalks
in the city where I live, so very few people wait for a
bus or a friend with whom they work on the corner. 
 
This morning I fell in love with the poetess Lan Lan who
watches a flock of birds fly away and gathers the wind
in her scarf. “If anyone else stops to see what I see, 
 
I will accept that as a way of loving me,” she writes
in her poem called “The Village” a poem about
waiting, a poem about the promise of summer, a
 
poem about life lived in a village and standing
beneath the moon with only a candle. I love you 
Lan Lan, I love you. I love your orange scarf that
 
captures the breeze and lulls it to sleep; I love
your small hut by the river where two, only two,
quail play together in the grass. I have stopped
 
to see what you see, Lan Lan: “the apple flowers
fallen on the tombstones; the birds of the morning.”
I love you Lan Lan. And I know what the dead know.