It’s a pork and fried rice night.
My Chinese acquaintance
(well, she hands me my take-out orders,
so we’re familiar)
explains to me that being born
during the year of the tiger
doesn’t make me one.
She says that I am more stork, white,
with a black beak, for writing.
I give her a side-eye, at least I’m tall
(as I look way down at her).
She says don’t be mad,
because have I ever seen
how a stork kills a fish?
— Stabs it upon its beak, then
slams it upon the ground many times;
So violent when it’s hungry.
I guess I could be.
~
There’s an avalanche of fog
rushing me to my car.
I left it running while I was inside,
because it’s so cold, and no bad guys
are out stealing anything.
Some song about the holidays
is pissing upon the radio.
I mash the button until something
sounding like death-metal comes on.
That should kill the fake joy.
~
Somewhere, where the snow never settles,
as north as the Jesus star,
you’re rolling up your poems
into thin, tight mini logs.
I remember when I did it, wrong,
and just laid my own down flat
and open, into a fire.
The ashes stayed intact,
and I could make out some words
before they crumbled.
It was like a mocking goodbye,
to myself, one more time.
“I will never write again” —
lasted a few days, once for a week.
Because my stork-beak snots with ink.
I have to get it all out.
You had told me that your poetry
was always made for the fire, only.
Had warned me; don’t love it.
But I committed to it, a paper lover.
I rolled around with it, I put it to my nose
and breathed the ink, that fading scent.
I cancelled dates, with real bodies,
just to read of you, and dream.
And I pretended that I was there,
at the conception of each poem.
Watching your thin, graceful fingers
create calligraphy with vocabulary.
And then you’d hang them like sheets
upon a line, for the sun to make them forever.
I didn’t want to believe it was a lie.
You only wrote commitments
to the fireplace.
~
Someone once told me that Buddha
never wrote anything down.
It was meant for the wind, and any ears
that could capture them.
High above, where nature runs low on breath
but high on mist.
Where fog is the ghost of snow,
and none of the storks are pretty.
They’re too busy writing down His wisdom,
with their God-given beaks.
~
I should have stole your poetry,
like a well-meaning friend.
Something to keep me warm
when my heart is cold.
Everyone we knew is gone.
I’m trying to hold on,
so you don’t have to say goodbye to me too.
You’ve not had much fair;
your car no longer makes it up the mountain.
The firewood guy has the long flu…
So you write to burn; banners towards
a predetermined lost battle.
You are a frazzled swan, far from water.
The only currents are swaths of snow.
I’m down here, a stork stabbing fish,
wincing at my own reflection.
I don’t like this groveling.
— While Death is etching our names
upon his scythe.
I wish we had longer names.
You’ve always been my buddha, and I believed.
Your words have guided me.
Every blossom that ever bloomed,
you wrote them into existence.
Created them, with ink.
You showed me how to see.
When the fog rolls down your mountain
like the ghosts of snow,
I will look for the swan
flying within the current of the poetic air.
With its black webbed feet,
burnt from feeding the fire
its everything.
~~~
She is a very good writer. Her way of writing steered my own into how I write today. She is an older Chinese woman, lives alone (her surviving son moved to California) on a mountain in the northeast. I am so grateful to have found her talent and kinship for writing.
hello dearest Styxian so much of what you wrote gave me comfort I’ve been pondering today different things and this gave my racing mind some peace Snow must be beautiful indeed if she inspired this from you ❤️
We all have our own tastes with what appeals to us, be it written word or songs, movies, etc. I like the idea of how we create little movies perhaps, when we write. The little details that give it authenticity. Perhaps even, a mini novel condensed into a much smaller piece. So we have to pack in the details that make it interesting.
I’ve been on a lot of writing sites over the years. She is top ten in talent, to me.
But, again, we all like different styles and such.
good to see you Crims. Merry Christmas!
This is a very well-written piece, and I can tell she means a lot to you with how you thought every minute detail to put in it. Form the way you eat to conversations, of her writing will be met with the fire. Nice done. I would love to read her writing.
I’ve asked her if I could post something of hers, several times, both on DUP and now here. She always says no. I respect her wishes.
I can’t stress enough how much her own writing changed my “limitations” on what is considered creative writing. Some argue what is and isn’t actually poetry. I do not care. I enjoy writing, and that is what matters. Yeah?
Merry Christmas Fia!
Dear M,
Wow! I love her commitment to writing for herself and like Buddha whomever is lucky enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of her words will last them a lifetime. Im choked up by the influence she has given you in this telling story. It’s a lovely tribute and beautiful write. H🌷
She sometimes writes with “traditional” Chinese themes, as is her past as a younger person. It intrigued me a great deal.
And yeah, she took to my writing as well, because I dabbled in various subjects over the years. Still do, obviously.
She is very keen to nature, and details. It’s apparent in how I have absorbed some of her traits.That’s not a bad thing!
I don’t like how she has become a hermit with her writing and her site. Yet, it is her prerogative.
Thank you, H. It is my xmas gift to her, I suppose. I gotta cheer her up!
Beautifully penned, Mark. Such a heartfelt tribute my friend. Grabs at the old heartstrings, she sounds like a wise and humble mentor. That is a special bond indeed, we learn so much from the people who have influenced and guided us. Some people are meant to alter our lives for the better. Excellent work, thanks so much for sharing. Merry Christmas to you and Adel. Appreciate you.
Damian
I’ve always said how much I take in from other writers, that appeal to me. The sentiment, the vibes, especially. It is a huge motivating factor in why I bother to write. We are a circle, to me. It’s a good feeling to have.
Thank you, Damian. She deserves the accolades.
This is tremendous poetry Mark. I consider myself to be blessed to have encountered good folk like yourself in the DU dark portals.
I buy a fair amount of contemporary poetry and your scribbles could easily sit beside the writers. Betty actually has a paperback to hit the shelves shortly and it’s an absolute privilege to be friends with you all.
I wish A and you the most beautiful 2026 and everything you wish for yourselves.
Your Welsh comrade, Rob
I heard about Betty’s latest book thats due out. She is kicking butt! Like five books now?!
Right back at ya, Rob; The camaraderie we get from being in a writer’s circle is as strong as any “outside” friendships that we may incur. Sometimes, more deeply felt because of the personal details shared. It has an intimacy to it.
2026 will be okay. ’27 is our goal for me to move to Texas. It makes more sense that I go there. So, in the meantime we have our plane rides and daily video talks in between the visits.
Comrade??! You guys are commies there? LOL. Dude, I am as independent as they come. Most governments are full of shit for the most part, regardless of location.
I hope you had a good holiday, in spite of some things that are a drag I know. Live to thrive, Rob.
This is one of the best pieces I’ve read from you:).
All the details and meanings behind them.
All the mini scenes flow into each other just like currents of snow:)
That is my favorite writing.
As writers we tend to connect instantly with other writers who are able to express themselves uniquely. It’s a talent we tear ourselves up with because it takes a unique ability to express it with words. Written or spoken. It’s not easy so when we spot talent we tend to get inspired. It’s part of being in the creative field.
Beautiful tribute sweetie! I hope she reads this!
It all started with that line ” Fog is the ghost of snow”. From there it became a mini movie, sort of. I think I write best when I write things along this format, (lack of!). I’m a story teller, really. Part of why you and I clicked so early on.
She read it, didn’t say anything about it. Stubborn ol coot! LOL
Hey, I love you! My box of puppies!
This is fierce and intimate at the same time—hunger, devotion, and grief braided together. The stork/swan/fire imagery carries real weight, and the way poetry becomes both sustenance and sacrifice feels earned, not romanticized. There’s a hard honesty here about loving words that were never meant to last, and still needing them anyway. This stayed with me.
I would guess that part of her motivation is her personal losses in life, including a son. He was still a child. Her “culture” has certain traditions and outlets for release that is quite admirable to me. And the ties to nature, too. Everything seems to have a reason, including simple things. it’s within that detail that she thrives, and that I picked up on.
Thank you, Thomas.
Her influence did you well. She affected you in a way that made you a better writer. I can’t top what others have said, so I’ll just say: great poem, Styx.
Thank you, Tim. I was an okay writer back then. But when I started reading her material, and others like it, I really amped up my sense of creativity. I get so much motivation from good writes. So write!
The white bird play is so evocative. Like, holy shit, the symbolism shoots you between the eyes; a stork is a harbringer of life while the song of a swan is a harbringer of death. The interchange between a character at the end of a story to a character bringing a new story… and then you wend in the scrolls and smoke and narrative fusion.
FUCK IT’S GOOD!
I’m basically a product of my environment, when it comes to creative writing. I will read a few good writes and get some cool ideas. Then hopefully it just spews out pretty flawlessly. I live in my head too much. LOL.
Hey, good to see you around!
Perfectly poemed in my humble opinion good sir .. and correspondingly muchly enjoyed .. Neville
Thanks a bunch, Neville. I’m supposed to be assembling my material into a book. Yet, I end up creating new material to add to the stack instead. LOL.
Stay awesome, fine sir!
Having read the note, I think appreciate the friendship between folks who have never with an affinity for poetry. The line where you canceled real bodies to read shows a beautiful and meaningful this can be. Not many people can claim they’ve had friendships that last decades, let alone a friendship with a poet in another part of the world.
Amazing write.
Thank you much, Wally. I’ve always loved to read and write. Her style of writing just caught my attention. It’s down to earth, with intricate details that make up our days. Easy to get into.
There are words that warm you even after winter.
Yep. Some we carry around for ages after.