The Beggar Poet' Hexagram 9: The Taming Power of the Small

I catch my reflection


unshaven, blemished


a droop in one eyelid


hunt a blank sheet
to make notes for a journal:


today...I, today


nothing much


prepare supper


tins piled in a corner,
the tea bag used for the tenth time


could live as a man
of means
if I gave up ‘softness of a petal,
clouds disappearing in spring heat
and the rainbow becoming intense,
brightening the earth where it ends’


illuminate the ocean,
discover the deepest creature
and follow its path till every secret
of its dark life gives an answer
to the tearful face
of one close to me


under the auspices
of a sovereign, who would grant a kingdom
to understand why the disease spread to her heart,
fathom the recesses where an encounter made her vulnerable
to the curse
that followed her blundering attempt
to dominate a sorcerer


with the cunning
of a transparent shadow,
hide where every new word that could change humanity
for the better has its inception


however,
with every sentence
the broken window lets in a breeze
which ruffles the paper


just like the wind
across my mother’s brow raising her forelock,
a loose fitting gown I had to wear
for an unlikely meeting
with a ruler of the district,
who not only took me for a girl
but wondered whether I’d grow into a man,
forbidding me
to swim in the deep side of the river
where it curved around the shallows


how I couldn’t join the others
for fear I’d lose my balance
and fall in, but let me sit
in the pebbles throwing arcs of water
into the light


with every faculty stained toward transcendent realms
a mosquito hovers over my shoulder,
waiting to descend
where it can find an exposed piece
and lift satisfied


a kite flying in the blue sky
held by a small hand,
tugging away until disappearing into the clouds


smacked for breaking a plate, mother’s treasure


a swing and a miss


mist blown
from an inscription after years
of neglect,
heaven’s answer why we have to suffer


a nearsighted warrior making his way to the summit,
mistiming his blow,
shattering all that could be read


late at night,
awake
and listening to sobbing
that could only come
from one who lost her dearest


be that as is may,
I’ll fold the paper in half, scent it with incense
and use it to identify the spot
in my dairy where I will touch the bottom,
evoke fields
where glowing sentinels ask your identity
as if only the occasional traveller entered their environs


long before answers were broken,
a boy lost his father
in battle at a tender age




a clean demeanour facing the morning sun
where the tablet will appear.