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 Feb 2020 Nina Chin
Rumi
      These spiritual window-shoppers,
      who idly ask, 'How much is that?' Oh, I'm just looking.
      They handle a hundred items and put them down,
      shadows with no capital.

       What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping.
      But these walk into a shop,
      and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment,
      in that shop.

       Where did you go? "Nowhere."
      What did you have to eat? "Nothing much."

       Even if you don't know what you want,
      buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow.

       Start a huge, foolish project,
      like Noah.

       It makes absolutely no difference
      what people think of you.
 Feb 2020 Nina Chin
T. S. Eliot
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies
By A Foreigner

I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you **** somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says "Thank you."
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.
 Jul 2016 Nina Chin
Adam Mott
Surmise your gravity with verve and wonderment
Donate love to the basest of desires
Avert the eyes from a silhouette of man
The lifeless frame ringing in your head
Reflecting all of time,
The mechanisms holding back the years
Ducts which no longer produce tears
As all things do, pass
Tags are not representative of content
 Apr 2016 Nina Chin
Traveler
BURNOUT
 Apr 2016 Nina Chin
Traveler
I fell in it
A handful of times
Those burning embers
Of love and trust
The consuming flames
Of the pleasures of lust
The perpetual game
Of push and shove

I get tired
And burned out
Running from all
Life's broken rules
And after all
I don't care to revisit
Those old blues
But don't get me wrong
I'm still your one
And only fool

Because you know
Once or twice
In the darkest
Part of life
I was so blessed
To have your light!
I would never take your love for granted.
(My girlfriend edits all my poems for me)

This didn't even trend, how can it be a daily?
Thank you my cyber family!
 Apr 2016 Nina Chin
Montana
I remember vividly,
Thanksgiving, 1999.
I asked my mother
for a sip of her wine
(Pinot Grigio).

She hesitated, then laughed,
and let me press my small lips
against the rim
of the long stem glass.

The cool liquid
stung the back
of my throat
as it went down,
and I furrowed my brows
in disgust.

"Why would anyone drink this?"
Adult laughter erupted
around the table.

I didn't smile.
I wondered what they knew
That I did not.

Flash forward.
Present day wino
with a strong preference
for red
but a known policy
of indifference.

I enjoy it now.

But every once in a while,
I take a sip
that stings the back
of my throat.
And as I furrow my brows
in disgust,
I remember
That I still don't know
anything.
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