Full Fathom Five

by Silvia Plath

Old man, you surface seldom.
Then you come in with the tide's coming
When seas wash cold, foam-

Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,
A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
Crest and trough. Miles long

Extend the radial sheaves
Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins
Knotted, caught, survives

The old myth of origins
Unimaginable. You float near
As keeled ice-mountains

Of the north, to be steered clear
Of, not fathomed. All obscurity
Starts with a danger:

Your dangers are many. I
Cannot look much but your form suffers
Some strange injury

And seems to die: so vapors
Ravel to clearness on the dawn sea.
The muddy rumors

Of your burial move me
To half-believe: your reappearance
Proves rumors shallow,

For the archaic trenched lines
Of your grained face shed time in runnels:
Ages beat like rains

On the unbeaten channels
Of the ocean. Such sage humor and
Durance are whirlpools

To make away with the ground-
Work of the earth and the sky's ridgepole.
Waist down, you may wind

One labyrinthine tangle
To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,
Skulls. Inscrutable,

Below shoulders not once
Seen by any man who kept his head,
You defy questions;

You defy other godhood.
I walk dry on your kingdom's border
Exiled to no good.

Your shelled bed I remember.
Father, this thick air is murderous.
I would breathe water.

from Electra, by Marilyn Hacker

by Marilyn Hacker

Someone I used to be friends with walked off with a copy of Babel-17. The fact that this poem was in it was one of my greatest regrets, that, and it was a pretty good book too.

Growing older I descend November.
The asymptotic cycle of the year
plummets to now. In crystal reveries
I pass beneath a fixed line of white trees
where dry leaves lie for footsteps to dismember.
They crackle with a muted sound like fear.
that and the wind are all that I can hear.
I ask cold air, "What is the word that frees?"
The wind says, "Change," and the white sun, "Remember."

Rhapsody on a windy night

T.S. Eliot

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of the memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions.
Every street-lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne gard aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevises,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

What the Hands Do About All of These Parts: Advice from a 14-Year-Old Friend

by Lois Ann Yamanaka
From "Parts", Saturday Night at the Pahala Theatre

Take the needle. Take it.
Cut your arm. Cut.
See. You feel no pain
'cause you already so-wa inside.
Keep going. Make plenny lines,
as much as you can take.
Feel good, yeah?
Feel icy, yeah,
when the needle break your skin?
Push um deep, the needle,
till you see the white part
of your meat. Spread um--
spread the cut you just made
before the blood get hard.
Look inside. Trippy, yeah,
the small blood drops?
How's your head?
Feeling white?
Kind of gray, yeah the feeling?
Going away, the pain inside,
'cause you getting numb.
Your whole body not throbbing yet?
I remember the first time
I did this. Felt so good
when my whole body was going
and the blood started dripping
on my leg and my friend
wen' tell me taste um,
'cause that's me coming out
of myself. Tasted like rust.
And I wen' forget about all the shit
that was happening to me.
My father took me emergency that day.
That was the first time
I seen him cry.
No. No need towel.
Lie down. Let the blood
drip on the sidewalk.
Then we write her name
with the blood
and when dry,
she going know
you was here
and she going know
how much you love her.

It's Depressing Poetry Day today. However, sarcasm aside, I like this poem a lot.

Tai Chi Masters of Dim Sum Checks

Peter C. T. Li

Like two Tai Chi masters practicing the art of the sticking hand
my father and my mother-in-law pushed each others' arms in various
circular motions while fighting for the prize of the dim sum check.
The check would be passed from hand to hand,
back and forth,
up and down,
round and round,
in sync with the Yin and the Yang motions of the universe.

Both dueled to save face in the name of family honor.
Armed with ancient secret techniques such as
"Crane Plucks Check from Tiger's Claw" and
"Buddha's Benevolent Palm Tipping the Waiter for Check."
It was no surprise that my father would defeat
my mother-in-law each outing and pay for the lunch.

The only time my father lost was when my mother-in-law
snuck away from the table while he was busy eating the last
siu mai of the meal.
I named her technique "Fox Stealing from Sleeping Monkey."

It was an unwritten Chinese tradition of the dining martial arts
passed down through centuries from one generation to the next.

Dim sum and my in-laws at the China House Restaurant.

My family, not being Chinese of course, just brawled in Sav-on. Although my favorite technique, (ssh, don't tell) is to leave money in a coat pocket, in the car, or on their person. Although of course, in a place where it will not get lost, stolen, or end up in the washing machine. I almost always win too.

Haupu Mountain

Lois Ann Yamanaka
from Saturday Night at the Pahala Theatre

My madda she very mad at me today
because I answer her back with a sassy mouth.
She punch um with her big ring
so she no need hear me talk no mo.
And she say, Get the hell outta this house
and don't eva come back. Beat it.
Pack up your stuff
or I going send um to Salvation Army
so somebody can appreciate
all the nice shit you get.
Get outta my fuckin' sight.
That's why I here so early today, Bernie,
'cause I couldn't think of where else to go.

And Bernie, he close his taxidermy shop
and say, Business slow today anyways.
He take my small bag and carry um for me.
How come you get oranges in this bag? he tell.
I tell him that when my madda say beat it
out of this house, I neva know if I need food
or clothes so I grab some food from the icebox
in case I gotta sleep outside someplace
and I get hungry.

Bernie tell his wife make some musubi
and Vienna sausage. He tell her
we going hike up Haupu mountain.
If she like go, he tell, she can.
I hear them talking soft kine.
Then she say, No need take me, Bernard.
I gotta go graveyard today put flowas.
You two guys go.
I put your bag in the back bedroom, okay?
And I cook a special spare ribs dinner for you.
You watch. You going come back
and feel better, okay?

Bernie and me, we no talk too much today.
My face was getting real so-wa
so he put a bag of ice in a towel
and tell me put um on my face as we walk
through the big cow pasture.
It surround with ohia log fence and barb wire.
The grass is green and tall
like amber wave of grain, 'cept green.
The grass grow out of the eye socket of a cow skull.
Get bones and skulls all over.
Some cows and horses, they follow us
and I getting kinda scared, but Bernie,
he shoo um away, No sked, he tell.

Here, he say, we go sit under this tree.
This one pandanus tree.
I look up through the leaves and see some blue sky.
Bernie dust the ground for me.
Look. See how small the camp look from here.
He take out one musubi wrap in wax paper
from his knapsack and give um to me.
Then he take out the Vienna sausage and orange.
His wife had slice up the orange
I had in my bag for us eat.
Bernie pour some ice tea
from one long thermos for him and me share.

There my house, he say. There the shop.
Over there the Catholic church.
Where your house? There. Way over there.
I put the musubi on the wax paper in my lap.
And I look down at our camp and my house. Real small.
So small, I cover everything with my hands
and no see nothing at all.

If you haven't read Lois Ann Yamanaka, you really should. Saturday Nights is her best book in my opinion.

Fisherman's Pride

by Li Qingzhao

In the sky, clouds churn and unite with the morning mist,
the river of stars longs to set a thousand sails dancing.
As if in a dream, I return to the palace,
I hear the heavenly voice,
gently asking me where I have returned from.
I reply that though the road is long and the day is late,
my poems still have the power to astonish men.
The wind from the Peng bird's wings travels 900,000 li,
the grass boat sets sail for the three mountains.

好了歌

Ok, this one is from 紅樓夢, or Dream of the Red Chamber, one of my favorite novels, quite possibly my favorite novel of all time. Lots of apologies, there's a rhyme scheme in this poem that that I just can't do.

Everyone knows that enlightenment is good, if only they could have fame, that would be enough.
Yet those ministers and generals, where are they now? In a lonely grave, disappearing into the grass.
Everyone knows that enlightenment is good, if only they could have silver and gold, that would be enough.
From dawn to dusk, they only worry that they don't have enough, yet by the time they're satisfied, they will have shut their eyes for good.
Everyone knows that enlightenment is good, only they can't forget their beautiful wife.
While you're alive, she says nothing but good, day in and day out, but when you're dead, she's gone with someone else.
Everyone knows that enlightenment is good, only they can't forget their children.
Since the beginning of time, there have been doting parents beyond count, yet a faithful son, I've yet to see.

Alright, fuck this heavy shit, let's get drunk

Shui Diao Ge Tou
In the ninth year of Xining, in mid autumn, I drank until dawn and wrote this poem while thinking of my brother.
Su Shi

How long has the moon been there?
I raise my glass and ask the evening sky.
I'm not thinking of what year it is
in the heavenly palace.
I want to grasp the wind and fly there.
I'm just afraid that that lofty jade realm
will be a bit too cold.
Dancing with my shadow,
what could be better than being here?

The moon shines,
glancing on crimson towers,
slanting down on embroidered windows.
I cannot sleep.
I shouldn't be bitter,
but why did the moon choose this lonely time to be so very full?
People have sorrows and joys, partings and reunions.
The moon brightens and darkens. waxes and wanes.
Although it is difficult to be together now,
if we live long enough,
we may be able to enjoy this beautiful moon together once more.

Anything I would want to say about current events Du Fu said better

Looking out at spring
Du Fu*

The country has split apart but the mountains and rivers remain,
The spring grass and trees have overrun the city.
Remembering old times, even flowers cause me to weep.
After saying farewell, calling birds unsettle my heart.
The signal fires have been lit for 3 months,
One letter is worth 10,000 pieces of gold.
I have torn at my white hair until
it cannot hold a hairpin.

On visiting the man who lives on the western mountain and not finding him

Qiu Wei

I climbed up 30 li to reach the grass cottage.
There were no servants at the front gate.
Inside, there was only a table and some tea things.
He hadn't taken his carriage,
so he had probably gone fishing on the autumn river.
One coming and one going, we had missed each other.
I hesitated by the gate, for I greatly respected him.
The color of the young grass amid the rain, the sound of late wind at the window
matched my lonely mood, and stirred my spirits.
Although we had not been able to meet as guest and host,
I had clearly realized the truth.
My pleasure thoroughly satisfied, I descended the mountain.
What need was there to wait for him?

Poetry

A couple weeks ago, a discussion about poetry got me thinking about what poetry is exactly. There is, I agree, a certain sense of recognition. That's half of it. I guess for me it's also a question of rhythm. Some poems or their rhythm or something will get in my head and once inside, it's usually rather difficult shake off. I'm not really sure why that happens, it just does.

Like this, for example.

When the green field comes off like a lid
Revealing what was much better hid:
Unpleasant.
And look, behind you without a sound
The woods have come up and are standing round
In deadly crescent.
(from W.H. Auden, "The Two")

I don't know why it got stuck in my head, but reading the whole poetry discussion, I remembered it, and felt compelled to go look it up.

Honestly, as a former literature major I've often had to analyze things in great detail. While I probably gained a lot of insight from the process, it took a lot of the magic out of things. Knowing the why and the how usually do. I never really studied English (language) poetry, and I'm really glad, actually. So I can just say, poetry is just magic, simple as that.

曉出淨慈寺送林子方 - 楊萬里

畢竟西湖六月中，
風光不與四時同。
接天蓮葉無窮碧 ，
映日荷花別樣紅。

New Year Letter

Under the familiar weight
Of winter, conscience and the State,
In loose formations of good cheer,
Love, language, loneliness and fear,
Towards the habits of next year,
Along the streets the people flow,
Singing or sighing as they go:
Exalte, piano, or in doubt,
All our reflections turn about
A common meditative norm,
Retrenchment, Sacrifice, Reform.

from W.H. Auden's "New Year Letter"