This morning I asked my class of Master students about poetry. It seems poetry is not a regular part of their life.

I used to write poetry when I was young, but I have not written much in the last two decades. Did immigrating to Canada have anything to do with that?

Is poetry among the many things I have lost in the transition. I checked out one of my favorite poets in my youth Yaxian, and found that he, too, has immigrated to Canada. And he has not written in 30 years.

While life without poetry does not seem like a problem, and is not listed in the DSM-V, I feel a sense of sadness and loss over the last two decades of my life, which, according to most measures, is going well.

Last month, poetry was re-introduced into my life. In the Chinese tradition, poetry has its root in feelings, emotions, and passion. Poetry germinates through words and language, and flowers in sound, rhythm, and rhyme. Ultimately, meaning is the fruit of poetry.

It is a space when imagination is freed like a falcon, and rules turn into threads, bringing words, sounds, images, feelings, meanings, and worlds together to form a rich tapestry. Before that, we feast on the sensory, the sensual, the significant, the intense, the delightful, the ironic, the insightful, the disturbing, the scary, the inspiring, et cetera, et cetera.

Red dust is the heaviest of all

Words are crashed under its weight

What deliverance we seek, in signs reclaimed

An experience takes flight

And someone just gets into my room when I am writing this. I am pulled back into the red dust. C’est la vie.

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