Poems by Christopher Mulrooney

 

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big rug a boxed set of his works with a dancing girl
red cockatoo the fairy dream ¡@


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big rug

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how can we keep the poor warm?

one snug alone's no good

a ten thousand foot big rug

would keep the whole city cozy

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a boxed set of his works

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I hew a bookbox

fine of hard cypress

whose works shall it hold 

but those of PO

all my life I've written books

in youth and even now

all told seventy tomes

about three thousand pieces

I know they'll be dispersed

I fear they'll be discarded

I turn the key myself

put it before the bookdrapes

abandoning a child

who rescues an orphan?

my daughters shall share them

my grandchildren inherit them

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with a dancing girl

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she still wears her pigtails

half thirty years old

a fine lady you are

to be my hill-and-stream companion

we frolic in the springs

scramble up the fine trees

she reddens at her dancing

saddens at her song's end

don't sing the willow song

no heart's here to break

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red cockatoo

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a gift from Annam

red cockatoo

shade of peach blossom

talking like a human

as it ever is

with wit and eloquence

they made a cage

and kept it

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the fairy dream

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once one dreamed of heaven

went soaring there in space

on a crane's white back

led by two red banners

flapping wings and flapping coattails

jade bells jangling suddenly together

halfway there he looked back

upon this dark tumultuous world

no longer saw his town

nothing but mountains and water

Eastern Sea a pale strip

China Hills dots of green

a fairy throng swept past

to the Jade City palace

who knew that the Immortals

pay homage like earthly courtiers?

meets the Great Jade Emperor

he bows and pays respect

the Emperor says You're talented

take good care of yourself

we come in fifteen years

to make you an Immortal

he bowed twice receiving this

and awoke feeling quite ecstatic

he kept this to himself

but vowed a hermit's life

cut off kith and kin

ate the plainest of foods

for breakfast only coral dust

for dinner only dewy mist

in the mountains thirty years

waiting for the heavenly coach

the time was long past

but nor wings nor coachbells

his teeth and hair fell

his ears and eyes weakened

one morning he changed altogether

and was one with dust

be there gods and fairies

their ways aren't our ways

unless you bear the marks

and your name is written

you but fast in vain

what is metaphysics to you

what are all your labors?

do not shorten your life

he who dreamed of fairies

ruined his life with dreaming

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