Voice Poetry: my recording of "Self-embrace on Silk Prayer"

I have always loved hearing the sounds of poetry: reciting quietly to myself, listening to poetry recordings, and those lovely songs set to poems as well as lyrics composed for music. Being particularly drawn to, and as a firm believer in, the "poetic essence" in written words (and in all artistic mediums), I love reciting and hearing the sounds of many different literary genres, not restricted to poetry－this awakens in me the beautiful psychological state of "flow"...

Here is a recording I made the other day reciting my recent poem Self-embrace on Silk Prayer. It was my first attempt at recording my poetry. :-)

宋徽宗，欲借風霜二詩帖。

Huizong's poem and exquisite Dancing Crane/ Slender Gold calligraphy, 

Northern Song dynasty.

Adagio of Thyrsus' Seduction

Fallen leaves from the maple tree slowly consumed
like a melody, into meticulous scales scattered on soft earth.
Blushing petals floating whirling dancing twisting in welkin,
delicately weaving heaven.
What is bound by faded rose gold are memories sealed
in the arms of wood;
What mesmerises from underneath that silken surface
pliably embraces the tree－
in soft compliance, nibbling ancient bark.

Paradise, featherlight, touches his earth,
gazing upon the heaviness of her kiss standing lifted
by branches of ethereality.

Self-embrace on Silk Prayer

*With thanks to Hamlet-at-Sea of this incarnation, for being the final catalyst of my poem.


"Is it a blessing for a poet to be a natural poet-magnet?"
The romantic thinker wonders to herself.
'Oh you Little Fool,' she whispered,
A foolish thinker I am.

All these men, coming
in and out of me. All this pleasure and pain,
flickering like dying blue flames.
An instant garden trampled upon for hundreds of years
by those he loves with his Life－ah, such blasphemous
Beauty. An instant paradise turned
into the most exquisite ice ablaze.
A bruised garden amidst the flames.
The love and devotion that it takes to create
－such Beauty－
I can never fully comprehend.

Threads of a thousand hues are weaving themselves
in and out of each other; breathing esoteric,
breathing erotic, into
the weakest Bird of the most powerful strength－
A Bird without a name－

Can I be spared－Can I be
abstract like your patterns of this mesmerising nature, again?
I plead with my heart to be
as romantic and as abstract, like
your Little Brother, again.
Tears from the eyes of his heart are still rolling,
shining on my quill
like dews on those pink Oleander flowers－
falling, falling, fallen.

(And in case you were wondering, I was not speaking of
your little brother, I was speaking of
Mine. Like all these quests for Beauty and pleasure－I was
speaking, and thinking, of Mine.)

Breathing erotic. Breathing esoteric.
All these fiery blossoms burning way below sub-zero,
I could faint,
just listening to them.

I have no refuge in the world other than thy threshold.
There is no protection for my head other than this door. ~Hafiz
(inscription on the Ardabil Carpet)

+See also Lisa Creagh's Floriculture 1 and the artist's website.