Windblown
Come, butterfly
It's late--
We've miles to go together.
—Bashō, On Love and Barley: Haiku of Basho
soe-uta:
disintegration cannot bear
the body it wears:
each solid breath numbered
kazoe-uta:
his thumb draws one line down
her cheekbone, another across
her lips, a trace of fire, a
wheel spinning through her
windblown thoughts
nazurae-uta:
the sow slaughtered into sections
on his return; stooped father
ripe with rings, purple robes and
wine in hollowed barrels: her
eyes as inevitable as drunkenness
tatoe-uta:
cold to her fingers: the metal
bowl filled with rainwater from the
last 24 hours, a storm she could not
contain, water to the lip and
over: his continual leaving
tadagoto-uta:
mourners led forward, mud splashed onto
bare legs; he is no longer sure she wore
satin, no longer sure the words he
left lined her pillow
or the dreams she floated in
iwai-uta:
to the third layer of heaven where she
waits, to the earth beneath
her waiting, to who she was, fine
bones, soft breath, before the
leaving, her fire roused then traced
across the sky like butterfly in flame
footnote: In his kana (phonetic syllabary) preface to the Kokinshu in the tenth century, Ki-no-Tsurayuki lists six types of poetry. These can be found in Bashō’s Narrow Road to the Interior, Translator’s Introduction, written by Sam Hamill.
1st Place Oregon Poetry Association 2011 Spring Contest, free verse category. (Published in Verseweavers)
Three Nights with Crow
To climb through layered
dreams and lift the last
tissue of waking, to
find soot on the pillow,
prints splayed and wet.
For three nights there
are nameless children in
cribs, faceless people I’ve
forgotten to feed and
coddle. When the nursery
door opens, they move
into the next room
through walls, like ghosts.
I’ve given names to
even earrings and the
tags around the dog’s
neck—names like
sweet ones, and
low-jingles—now
when it matters, there
are only crossword
puzzles with boxes
half-filled, the forgotten
syllable, the blind
hope of touch. He
dips his beaked face
over mine, eyes widely
spaced, sore from flying
into the sun—grips the
off-green egg with
care—lays it
within the slippery-walled
nest among wood
shavings, kapok and
horse hair for its
eighteen-day gestation.
Deeper still, to the
place truths unrobe,
where children
wear avian heads
(feathers bristled along
their spines), where
he removes human
offspring, arcs overhead,
returns for the mother.
Recompense
He guides me to the soft center of
the mattress, his talons pucker my
night sheets, his pinions press deep.
His third eye centered and obvious
in profile, studies my stash of
shortbread cookies. I offer him one,
watch crumbs skitter across the bed.
I ask his reason for disturbing my
dreams. He apologizes, offers his secret
for richer cookies, a fistful of pecans,
shares his true purpose in visiting: his
sorrow for the loss of habitat, his family’s
frequent relocation. I listen to his
doleful stories, his voice softened from
ginger and tears, his poorly-concealed
fears. To trap his bright body, trace my name
along his slippery back, indelible proof of
our meeting, to release him from the
silt of my dreams. An unnecessary
offering, he says, praising the lift of his
own wings, deriding the density of human
form, how lithe his own. He compares
the length of pinion to arm, then the
surprise request for recompense.
Bring us your children dressed in beaded
muslin, braid their hair with thin wire,
perfume their skin with milk of aloe.
I find muslin in the attic, fine wire for binding,
round tins with clattering beads. The plant
is milked at the kitchen sink, the children
awakened one moment after midnight. I
smooth back their hair, watch them stretch
and quiver in their agreeable tiredness.
Barbed calls filter down the chimney with
a lover’s insistence, Bring us your children
dressed in muslin, scented with aloe.
I struggle to open the flu, build up a
fire from dry kindling. I ease the children
away from the flames, kiss the tops of
their heads, ask them to huddle close; but
they are squirming in discomfort, the
prickly beginnings of wings, foreheads
opened raw and blinking. As the sky turns
white, a hundred blackbirds on the line,
three hundred eyes looking inward. The
children have brought me their boxes of
mismatched puzzles, keyless diaries. On
their slight shoulders, jackets of feathers.
(Published in Progenitor)
Third Place
I’m gathering evidence of hope
news taken from the paper
people are eating again
in Darfur or eating a little
or some of the people are
eating a little
I want to get this right so I
reread the news fourth page
second column
the noise of too many morning voices
reverberating off the ceiling
I observe people in conversation
we’ve all stumbled
into famine of a different kind
logos cover every surface
opulence for the common man
I like it here
the feel of it
when I walk through the door
the girl knows my drink
extra-hot latte with caramel drizzled on top
I cannot turn away from excess
from the cup steaming my glasses
from the measured geography of hope
from the next paragraph
people in hard-backed chairs
leaving scones broken
on too many
pristine plates
(Published in Alimentum)
Approaching the Delta
We shall find peace. We shall hear angels.
We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
—Anton Chekov
I want to be there when mourning doves
glide above the river, downstream where
leaves and branches snare on rocks, where
deer hesitate to go further. I want to be
there when this war ends, and the next,
where under cover of trees we touch
the wind with our nakedness. When there
are no words left, only emptiness angular
with hope, I want to be there. The rush
of us, dense thighs and arms entwined,
the world grown dark, water the only
continual. Bodies buried nameless, the
quiet after; the named restless still. I
want to be there, near the crookneck,
where water eddies, glides past in
spirals, like the fingerprints of those gone,
left to memory and statistics, their
voices snagged in branches overhead,
speaking little of fallen matter, but of
water carried downstream with remnants
of winter, of the swift lure of salt right
before the river becomes something else.
(Published in Rattlesnake Review)
Come, butterfly
It's late--
We've miles to go together.
—Bashō, On Love and Barley: Haiku of Basho
soe-uta:
disintegration cannot bear
the body it wears:
each solid breath numbered
kazoe-uta:
his thumb draws one line down
her cheekbone, another across
her lips, a trace of fire, a
wheel spinning through her
windblown thoughts
nazurae-uta:
the sow slaughtered into sections
on his return; stooped father
ripe with rings, purple robes and
wine in hollowed barrels: her
eyes as inevitable as drunkenness
tatoe-uta:
cold to her fingers: the metal
bowl filled with rainwater from the
last 24 hours, a storm she could not
contain, water to the lip and
over: his continual leaving
tadagoto-uta:
mourners led forward, mud splashed onto
bare legs; he is no longer sure she wore
satin, no longer sure the words he
left lined her pillow
or the dreams she floated in
iwai-uta:
to the third layer of heaven where she
waits, to the earth beneath
her waiting, to who she was, fine
bones, soft breath, before the
leaving, her fire roused then traced
across the sky like butterfly in flame
footnote: In his kana (phonetic syllabary) preface to the Kokinshu in the tenth century, Ki-no-Tsurayuki lists six types of poetry. These can be found in Bashō’s Narrow Road to the Interior, Translator’s Introduction, written by Sam Hamill.
1st Place Oregon Poetry Association 2011 Spring Contest, free verse category. (Published in Verseweavers)
Three Nights with Crow
To climb through layered
dreams and lift the last
tissue of waking, to
find soot on the pillow,
prints splayed and wet.
For three nights there
are nameless children in
cribs, faceless people I’ve
forgotten to feed and
coddle. When the nursery
door opens, they move
into the next room
through walls, like ghosts.
I’ve given names to
even earrings and the
tags around the dog’s
neck—names like
sweet ones, and
low-jingles—now
when it matters, there
are only crossword
puzzles with boxes
half-filled, the forgotten
syllable, the blind
hope of touch. He
dips his beaked face
over mine, eyes widely
spaced, sore from flying
into the sun—grips the
off-green egg with
care—lays it
within the slippery-walled
nest among wood
shavings, kapok and
horse hair for its
eighteen-day gestation.
Deeper still, to the
place truths unrobe,
where children
wear avian heads
(feathers bristled along
their spines), where
he removes human
offspring, arcs overhead,
returns for the mother.
Recompense
He guides me to the soft center of
the mattress, his talons pucker my
night sheets, his pinions press deep.
His third eye centered and obvious
in profile, studies my stash of
shortbread cookies. I offer him one,
watch crumbs skitter across the bed.
I ask his reason for disturbing my
dreams. He apologizes, offers his secret
for richer cookies, a fistful of pecans,
shares his true purpose in visiting: his
sorrow for the loss of habitat, his family’s
frequent relocation. I listen to his
doleful stories, his voice softened from
ginger and tears, his poorly-concealed
fears. To trap his bright body, trace my name
along his slippery back, indelible proof of
our meeting, to release him from the
silt of my dreams. An unnecessary
offering, he says, praising the lift of his
own wings, deriding the density of human
form, how lithe his own. He compares
the length of pinion to arm, then the
surprise request for recompense.
Bring us your children dressed in beaded
muslin, braid their hair with thin wire,
perfume their skin with milk of aloe.
I find muslin in the attic, fine wire for binding,
round tins with clattering beads. The plant
is milked at the kitchen sink, the children
awakened one moment after midnight. I
smooth back their hair, watch them stretch
and quiver in their agreeable tiredness.
Barbed calls filter down the chimney with
a lover’s insistence, Bring us your children
dressed in muslin, scented with aloe.
I struggle to open the flu, build up a
fire from dry kindling. I ease the children
away from the flames, kiss the tops of
their heads, ask them to huddle close; but
they are squirming in discomfort, the
prickly beginnings of wings, foreheads
opened raw and blinking. As the sky turns
white, a hundred blackbirds on the line,
three hundred eyes looking inward. The
children have brought me their boxes of
mismatched puzzles, keyless diaries. On
their slight shoulders, jackets of feathers.
(Published in Progenitor)
Third Place
I’m gathering evidence of hope
news taken from the paper
people are eating again
in Darfur or eating a little
or some of the people are
eating a little
I want to get this right so I
reread the news fourth page
second column
the noise of too many morning voices
reverberating off the ceiling
I observe people in conversation
we’ve all stumbled
into famine of a different kind
logos cover every surface
opulence for the common man
I like it here
the feel of it
when I walk through the door
the girl knows my drink
extra-hot latte with caramel drizzled on top
I cannot turn away from excess
from the cup steaming my glasses
from the measured geography of hope
from the next paragraph
people in hard-backed chairs
leaving scones broken
on too many
pristine plates
(Published in Alimentum)
Approaching the Delta
We shall find peace. We shall hear angels.
We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
—Anton Chekov
I want to be there when mourning doves
glide above the river, downstream where
leaves and branches snare on rocks, where
deer hesitate to go further. I want to be
there when this war ends, and the next,
where under cover of trees we touch
the wind with our nakedness. When there
are no words left, only emptiness angular
with hope, I want to be there. The rush
of us, dense thighs and arms entwined,
the world grown dark, water the only
continual. Bodies buried nameless, the
quiet after; the named restless still. I
want to be there, near the crookneck,
where water eddies, glides past in
spirals, like the fingerprints of those gone,
left to memory and statistics, their
voices snagged in branches overhead,
speaking little of fallen matter, but of
water carried downstream with remnants
of winter, of the swift lure of salt right
before the river becomes something else.
(Published in Rattlesnake Review)
