Poetry Blog by Michael Kwack

Résumé / Michael Kwack

Love is,

like art,

dull without passion.

Marriage is,

like enterprise,

tough without fortune.

Home is,

like chair,

harsh without comfort.

Life is,

like sleep,

dry without dream.

Death is,

like letter,

empty without story.

Will is,

like poem,

absurd without wit.

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Play in the Night

                      --Michael Kwack

From two o’clock

When owls hoot

Up to four when cocks crow

Surely I will be kept awake,

To watch the secret play

Of the conscious and unconscious.

However, I will not see

The queer performance inside me

As a mere dream in the night.

If I long for better plays,

More I will wander dur...

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Putting Out the Lamp

In the dusk of early evening, one day,

I awakened from a belated nap,

And came to find nobody back home yet,

Only the wall-lamp flickering away.

I, the child, quickly getting quailed,

Started to run away from the dark haunted place,

But soon stopped for looking backward

For some reasons I couldn't quite understand.

Probably it was the ...

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was it true,

sleep depends on tears?

to refill the well

that had dried up by day,

or to wet the lids, at least,

by dreaming sad dreams,

with that tearful hope,

had the sleep come by night?

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A Pilot's Joke / Michael Kwack

Once upon a time there lived a flying man

Who kept flying all over the land,

Never thinking of landing.......

......One day he accidently landed

Somewhere, or Nowhere, on the sand......

He left a poem when he left that land,

After having lived alone happily ever after:

Quote,

A Pilot's Joke.

I used to love sand,

For, wh...

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What springs up in spring

Will all fall in the next fall;

Summer sums all we have,

Saying we are rich,

Not having to worry where to winter.

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Dominoes are hanging, like 88 wind-chimes, inside a

Record shop window;  whereinto an old Irish priest, once a dreamer of becoming

Michelangelo, or Liszt the virtuoso, today called

'Father Manyon,'  is peeping;  recalling the scented

Solitary pine, on the hillside of his home town; whereunder he used to recite

La Belle Dame sans Merci, often wishing to

See the pale sighing face o...

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Leisurely and alone,

I was wandering in a palace garden.

​

Flowers were completely gone,

But deep green

Summer leaves were fully grown,

And on each branch

Small birds were all the way chirping:

​

Seemingly for me a perfect afternoon

To be lost in poem-reciting!

​

Suddenly a wind arose,

When a human voice came to my ear,

Saying low yet rather vivid:

It's...

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To hang on a wall of my empty room,

I think I will need a picture of rain.

Hitting the ground, and springing up to ankles,

Rain wets the socks and trousers from below.

My eyes chase along

Roof-edges, streets, sidewalks,

--tick, tick, tick--

Checking all, one by one,

To find a dark brolly,

And a woman in black enamel shoes,

Lightly treading the...

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The Poor Little Dove

To watch the wind play with the wave,

I sat on a bench by the museum garden pond.

Then a small pigeon came flying,

Landing to her feet, tiny and cute,

And stared up at me, a bit intensely,

Only blinking her eyes, with no other move.

She looked like a baby as a camera model,

Getting me to recall my infanthood picture.

I took s...

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A word,

whispered

in secret;

A name,

dropped

there-under;

A woman,

reflected

​there-in;

The transparent 

afternoon,

splashed

​on her 

thin fingers.

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Rain-drops are laughing,      

Falling

​Like blossoms                      

Of cherry trees,                    

Or snowflakes,

​Onto the garden                   

Pond                                     

​I am alone                             

Floating on,

                                      ​

​A ...

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