Whats eveyones favorite poems? I’m going with dream deferred. So evocative… such allusionary power…
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Federico García Lorca is good
I wrote a poem so good in college in Simplified Chinese that the teacher was convinced I stole it from a new modern poet.
I wrote it in brush on 2 pieces of 2ft x 4ft paper.
It was titled “Shui” (Water)
The poem is about water running off of a cliff over many centuries. At first the water was gushing over a cliff, then the water slowed to a constant drip over one stone.
For centuries, the water dropped on a single stone, making it become smooth. Shui.
The water slowly began to overcome the stone, as years and years passed. Shui.
The cliff was overlooking a pond. Shui.
One day, many years later, a boy found this smooth small stone and picked it up, throwing it into the pond. Shui.
The stone skipped into the pond, leaving ripples all across the water, finally becoming one with the water, in its final resting place. Shui.
That was the gist of it, and I phrased it much better in Mandarin. I had to write it out as my tones are crap when I speak Chinese so I wanted people to understand what I was reading. I could have spent more time on writing the characters, but I guess it is readable for people that know simplified Chinese. I want to re-write the characters one day. I purchased a large banner (scroll) to re-write the poem one day. I also have my name in ancient Chinese chiseled into a marble stamp to finish the piece. (This stamp is permanently inked in red on my spine under my collar as well).
#Forever
Pure gold, Jerry
It’s a Wonderful Loaf
If you look down upon a city with the widest bird’s eye view
You might wonder how it functions, who takes care of me and you?
Who makes sure there’s food for vegans, and for carnivores as well?
It seems like there’s a wizard who has cast a magic spell
Just think of one small part—who makes sure there’s so much bread?
You want rye, she wants ciabatta, or make it sourdough instead
A baguette or a croissant, it doesn’t matter, don’t you see
You get yours and she gets hers, and I get mine, how can that be?
One’s buying a dozen bagels to grace an impromptu brunch
One’s using food stamps for a simple loaf to make her children lunch
No matter the amount we require, no matter the choices we make
An army of workers has mobilized to fashion the bread we partake
The farmer who grows the wheat, the miller that grinds the flour
The baker and all the others who work hour after hour
They’re all on their own, each one making independent decisions
But somehow their plans fit together with the greatest degree of precision
So there must be a czar of wheat and flour, of trucks and of bread and yeast
To allocate and oversee and plan at the very least
For the unexpected change. What if today’s not like yesterday?
It never is, though, is it? So who keeps chaos away?
Because there’s order all around us—things look as if they’re planned
Like the supply of bread in a city—enough to match up with demand
And though flour is used for more than just bread, we never have to fight
Over where it goes and who gets what. So why do we sleep so well at night
Knowing nobody’s in charge, it looks like all is left to chance
Yet in New York, or London as well as Paris, France
No one’s worried the shelves will be empty, we take supply for granted
But it’s a marvel, it’s a miracle, the world’s somehow enchanted
Of course the result’s never perfect, but the system’s organic, alive
Over time fewer people go hungry and more and more bread-lovers thrive
And if you’re allergic to gluten, there are sellers who work for you, too
Your choices expand and what you demand is created and waiting for you
I have my tastes and you have yours, we each have our own urges
Yet somehow there’s no conflict, a harmony emerges
Our dreams can fit together like a quilt that someone weaves us
But there isn’t a weaver of dreams, reality deceives us
And here’s the crazy thing, if someone really were in charge
To make sure that bread was plentiful, with the power to enlarge
The supply of flour, yeast and of bakers and ovens, too
Would that person with that power have any idea of what to do?
Could a minister of bread do even half as well?
Would there be enough of every kind of bread upon the shelves?
How could he know how much to make of each kind every day?
There’d be shortages and surpluses and waste and much dismay
You might think the job is easy–if the top seller’s rye
Then for every variety push production up that high
Then no one’s disappointed, bread eaters will rejoice
When they see that every bakery is filled with so much choice
Bread eaters, yes, but “Help!" the forgotten pizza lover cries
All the flour’s gone to baking bread there’s none left for the pies
Of pepperoni, deep dish, thin-crust and Sicilian
You’ve solved the bread challenge, yes, but created another million
Problems. No problem! We’ll just grow lots more wheat
But that means less of something else that people like to eat
Which only makes the puzzle of the harmony around us
Much more puzzling—this order, this peace has to astound us
So many things we count on, yet no one’s behind the curtain
No wizard, no controls, yet the supply of stuff–near certain
Every morning the bakers rise early to make sure your bread is fresh
And the world gets more complicated but the plans just continue to mesh
Every morning the bakers rise early, though not under anyone’s command
Where in the anatomy textbooks can I view an invisible hand?
Where in the anatomy textbooks can I view an invisible hand?
The key to the process is prices and the freedom to shop where you want
Competition among all the bakers, makes sure that they rise before dawn
To make sure the bread’s near perfection, to make sure that the buyer’s content
You don’t have to know economics to know when your money’s well-spent
We know there’s order built into the fabric of the world
Of nature. Flocks of geese! Schools of fish! And every boy and girl
Delights in how the stars shine down in all their constellations
And the planets stay on track and keep the most sublime relations
With each other. Order’s everywhere. Yet we humans too create it
It emerges. No one intends it. No one has to orchestrate it.
It’s the product of our actions but no single mind’s designed it
There’s magic without wizards if you just know how to find it
The Wombat
The wombat lives across the seas,
Among the far Antipodes.
He may exist on nuts and berries,
Or, then again, on missionaries.
His distant habitat precludes
Conclusive knowledge of his moods,
But I would not engage the wombat
In any form of mortal combat.
– Ogden Nash
ler me see the mandarin if you’re legit
The best poem is probably when Rakim rips for 3 minutes in Microphone Fiend
manadrin is the spoken language, simplified Chinese is the written language. sure I’ll send you a picture this week of the poem if you’re really interested.
You can read simplified Chinese?