David Chorlton

Seeing Chinese Painting

Seeing makes no sound
as the eye travels 
through the spaces a brush
left behind
when the painter, having made his stroke,
raised it from the silk
to let it breathe.
Old pines,

sages with spines that creak
as they climb
the steep paths,
and simple pavilions
held together by a prayer
populate the misty
distance between mountain ranges.
A dove sits
soft as the ink that bleeds

on a snow laden branch,
a monkey is depicted
less for appearance 
than for touch,
and an ox
plants hoof after clumsy hoof
along a road unwinding
where willows
are spare and the bridges 
are weak.
From grey to grey

to nothing,
the land unfolds beyond
its dimensions.
So tranquil.
So much time
We could believe
in balance here, between

diplomacy and wisdom.
We could paint ourselves
into a crevice
and wait
for peace to be declared
were it not 
for the green-eyed demons

who live a the Great King's court
and cut the souls away
from those who sin.
But their sins
are kept from us forever;
they were acts committed
behind the screen
that is so dazzling 
and so delicate
it hides all evil
in the veil of its mist

Seeing Night in an Old City

The pigeons
who nest among antiquities
fluff their feathers
and grey
blends into grey.

Conspirators close
their windows
as the silhouettes
of their anguished faces
appear on yellow blinds.

On the gravel paths
winding with the river
lovers' footsteps
crunch into the ground.

The chill 
from moist cellars
rises to the weathervanes
at the tips
of a thousand spires.

Gravestones
rub their shoulders together
beneath the leaves
grinding in the breeze 
like teeth
of old men sleeping.

In cold pews
widows rustle their coats
as they sit down 
and clench their beads
in fingers
stained with candle wax.

Gypsies walk
on staves of music
into a cloud
of cigarette smoke
scented with apricot blossoms
and brandy.

The secret police
deal a hand
of cards
and laugh
so as to be invisible
among the crowd
at the tavern.