Colette Jonopulos
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)
In the Midnight Car
rows of seats
covered in blue cloth
the scent of unwashed
bodies
south on metal rails
my hands numb
from too much writing
or infection or longing
evening’s broken light gives way to repetitive movement
to be a singular entity driven
from solitude to sitting
side-by-side with a stranger
cars piped with cool air
chairs that clunk forward
backward like mothers
birthing the unknown
awake and scared
useless little desks
on their backs
after sensors activate
car 11 is emptied of
laptops suitcases people
after an hour of stalled waiting the engine pulls 11 cars into the night
leaving us with our arch of door open into blank untamed space
animals gathering
pointed south (I’ve said this)
the manic in me repeating
circular thoughts
wheels unturned
unsaid locomotion
while Alberto
next to me
on his way
to UC Santa Barbara
giggles nervously--we could kick the windows out if necessary—he suggests
St. Barbara dwells close to the sea in her folds of blue on blue
—another difficult father-daughter relationship:
St. Barbara’s father commanded that a bath-house be erected for
her use during his absence. Barbara had three windows put in,
a symbol of the Holy Trinity, instead of the two originally planned.
When her father returned, she acknowledged herself to be a Christian;
and was ill-treated by him and dragged before the prefect, Martinianus,
who had her cruelly tortured and condemned her to death
by beheading--
I am looking through the window
of the midnight car
my neck pressed against the headrest
St. Barbara sits between Alberto and me
her bruised cotton gown flows
over my knees over Alberto’s thin hips
her scars barely discernable
her thin hands rest like sleeping doves in her lap
her eyes rest on the open space beyond our car
to where the animals gather
to where the night dissolves
in silence
in the darkened car
Alberto confesses he’s seen Il Postino 15 times
the last in Italian
Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?
Neruda asks in his book of questions.
I answer Neruda’s ghost:
Yes, a train whose engine has pulled all the cars in front of ours away.
—these are questions we don’t ask of those closest to us but ask of a stranger on a train:
How do we transcend our bodies, these primate senses?
Do octaves determine the opera singer’s ability to move us?
Why do those who speak Spanish consider Lorca’s translations inadequate?
—and one declarative statement:
God sits gingerly on our tongues.
II
we are coupled with the observation car (car 11 abandoned somewhere in the night)
we are moving again
we echo the slip slip slip of smooth metal on smooth metal with our voices
the sway of our words
the weight of our words
the dark outside ourselves
the night within ourselves
reflected in every window
Grand Prize (Published in Prick of the Spindle Poetry Open, No. 1)
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)
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)
In the Midnight Car
rows of seats
covered in blue cloth
the scent of unwashed
bodies
south on metal rails
my hands numb
from too much writing
or infection or longing
evening’s broken light gives way to repetitive movement
to be a singular entity driven
from solitude to sitting
side-by-side with a stranger
cars piped with cool air
chairs that clunk forward
backward like mothers
birthing the unknown
awake and scared
useless little desks
on their backs
after sensors activate
car 11 is emptied of
laptops suitcases people
after an hour of stalled waiting the engine pulls 11 cars into the night
leaving us with our arch of door open into blank untamed space
animals gathering
pointed south (I’ve said this)
the manic in me repeating
circular thoughts
wheels unturned
unsaid locomotion
while Alberto
next to me
on his way
to UC Santa Barbara
giggles nervously--we could kick the windows out if necessary—he suggests
St. Barbara dwells close to the sea in her folds of blue on blue
—another difficult father-daughter relationship:
St. Barbara’s father commanded that a bath-house be erected for
her use during his absence. Barbara had three windows put in,
a symbol of the Holy Trinity, instead of the two originally planned.
When her father returned, she acknowledged herself to be a Christian;
and was ill-treated by him and dragged before the prefect, Martinianus,
who had her cruelly tortured and condemned her to death
by beheading--
I am looking through the window
of the midnight car
my neck pressed against the headrest
St. Barbara sits between Alberto and me
her bruised cotton gown flows
over my knees over Alberto’s thin hips
her scars barely discernable
her thin hands rest like sleeping doves in her lap
her eyes rest on the open space beyond our car
to where the animals gather
to where the night dissolves
in silence
in the darkened car
Alberto confesses he’s seen Il Postino 15 times
the last in Italian
Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?
Neruda asks in his book of questions.
I answer Neruda’s ghost:
Yes, a train whose engine has pulled all the cars in front of ours away.
—these are questions we don’t ask of those closest to us but ask of a stranger on a train:
How do we transcend our bodies, these primate senses?
Do octaves determine the opera singer’s ability to move us?
Why do those who speak Spanish consider Lorca’s translations inadequate?
—and one declarative statement:
God sits gingerly on our tongues.
II
we are coupled with the observation car (car 11 abandoned somewhere in the night)
we are moving again
we echo the slip slip slip of smooth metal on smooth metal with our voices
the sway of our words
the weight of our words
the dark outside ourselves
the night within ourselves
reflected in every window
Grand Prize (Published in Prick of the Spindle Poetry Open, No. 1)
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)
