There is a famous account of Jiang Yan, an official of the Southern Dynasty. One night, he dreamt a god presented him a wondrous writing brush. From that day forward, his literary talents were beyond compare. When he grew old, the god appeared again as a dream and retrieved the brush. Jiang Yan’s writing was never as brilliant again.
Given a thousand nights,
Someone stole my boots from
A Phonsavan porch
Around dinner time
In the dark.
Maybe one day,
A page will be found,
A song will be heard,
A stroke will be drawn
Youa tells me a story over the hot hibachi:
How she went to Laos
To see her lucky sisters
We turn our dishes to
What manner of dog will come running
Our pilot packs a Makarov
Flying into the outskirts
Of the old province capitol
Long since delivered to kingdom come.
Speak to me of padaek
And some poor ba ferments, pungent, chunky and spicy.
Alas, so unlikely to catch on like sriracha or sushi,
At least in this century.
"Dream, " I said,
"Aren't you tired of making new legends
That no one but I ever hears? "
From the moment I met her
She's been wiggling,
It took me by surprise that Hitler was a vegetarian.
Rudolf Hess, too.
I remember reading about them as a boy.
I remember the outrage when someone asked us to forgive them