weekend update (so dry! a gnawed bone from two days before)

Have made room clean for visitors--yay for storage bins and new shelves! JN brought an early February present in the form of a luxurious humidifier, something I never thought I would ever own, but which has mollified the winter harshness of heat and cold. V is coming for M's big day in a couple of weeks. Veddy happy at prospect of reuniting the Natural Hair Movement girls.

Operation apple pie was a moderate success. Next time I shall use less lemon/lime juice, or perhaps just half the portion, and not forget to press down the rim of the crust with an evenly spaced fork. With vanilla ice cream, however, the confection was what I wanted last quarter.

Wore little white boots today stamped with flowers, some of which have been painted over in cadmium red, white, fuchsia, and silver. G says I'm spinning my wheels in workshop, which is true. But my gods all overwrite.

a malediction and a prayer

(A slightly moldy souvenir from more salad days)

* * *

Exorcism IV

This madness comes and goes, a casual guest
in my roomy house, where the gales freely
skirt curtains and depress cardboard protests
from meandering Intellect who merely
concedes--nothing can be done, that the thirst
will not cease as the want for oranges
in winter does not wane for some who nurse,
even if given snappy cartes blanches
to the simple apple, noble melon.

How to rid of this difficult guest whose
name leaves me fevered as ears rent open,
whose absence lets in Sense and lesser truths?
Old ague, adieu: this heart has weak walls,
wearied of you who do not pay its tolls.


* * *

A Selfish Supplication (revised from a two year old draft)

I cannot take off
this seamless coat
to swim as is

I am not yet
a loaf risen to crust
a melon to loll off the vine

I am not straight
to stand
an arrow docked with purpose

Do not knick that nimble
strand between me and she, kin
cut by your own design.

Yes ashes fly and new souls
rush to surface to keep the world
moving through the great diorama

Of birth and burial. But she
was my first uttered word
says my heart the ancient hook.

Yes everything
is on loan: I have none
but the abstract things

she placed in me as certainly
as the constellations you
put to sea.

Yet, do not
vanish the beam
from navel to navel

arc. Or else we thirteen left
to winter in coarse linens, slunk
too low, will not know

That new lumniary
more Polaris than Polaris--
Not my mother. Anoint

another, tender of this garden,
and for what morsel it's worth,
I'll return your ancient hook.

sputters forth from the simple mind

Professor R's Japanese film series is showing "The Army", the great wars propaganda film par excellence, tonight. I shall squeeze that between some reading (more about polygamists and misers in Ming-Qing fiction, yay) and some more reading.
In a sudden seizure of domestic desires yesterday, I made a pot of plain rib soup (no daikon at Safeway, unfortunately), spinache with garlic and sesame oil, and marinaded a small village of portabella mushrooms for grilling tonight. Perhaps I shall reheat the rib soup and make it springy wit a leaf or two of Chinese cabbage.

lazy with pronouns today

Teaset complete: five mismatched, but harmonious darlings. Hour + in Japantown porcelain shop, very nearly knocking over delicates, but not quite. Total tally 80 doru +, but came home happy. Must be that collector's fever again. Went to B's get-together and very nearly danced by the plate of grapes and strawberries. Had a sip of tequila for the first time and it was quality stuff. I went home with a warm tongue slicked with the remembrance of limes.

Last night saw the best procrastination ever. JN came over for a quick supper (steamed egg with scallions over rice) and afterwards we hopped around my living room in semi-martial fashion. I was in my aqua hula t-shirt still pliable from wushu; JN was still in his do bok, funnily the same one I saw years ago with the low V and enviable snap. ***swoon***

I dream of commercials

I should stop drinking clean sencha on a sunken stomach. It makes me jittery, green jello-like. My eyes feel like white traffic lights. Has the lack of appetite returned or do I just need to get myself a car, but not just any vehicle for worship of the modern automobile--that cute, slightly burly around the shoulders Tacoma truck I've been throwing red beans at in Winter White (tm) or Lunar Silver (tm). Colour designers and name-givers, rock on.

What I WILL willfully do to cement my fate as a consumer this weekend is seek out an elegant tea-set with at least four cups so I can have people over. And not make the third guest suffer the usage of an unintentionally uninteresting vessel while the other lucky two get to sip their brews from sand- and stone-coloured Japanese owls. That's egalitarianism, in practicum.

Now I'm off to eat something so I can bounce around in wushu class. And think about that prayer and curse I have to write this weekend for workshop. O so many easy apostrophes shoot into mind!

New Onslaught

Pastoral:

The Territory

Uluru: from all sides, a giant. Its silence
a darker crawl than ordinary earth. Above the dim
blue rim, Venus observes. Those strict
cactus men. Were their mansioned shoulders
burnt after all, moss scarcely
more so than the serrated cirrus,
empty rings of heaven-—
Soberly beyond, a clean shot
through and through: the Moon.

How could I not be here, swaddled in a brown swag,
face chilled in night’s open casket? This moon has no memory
of firming the sands into this place,
of my small print.

In a bush to the right, a more constant
clarity: all snakes in this territory,
incensed, green-green, coiled or not, are mortal
& can render a Eurydice out of any body.


* * *

A Historical Incident:

An Origin of Theatre

I

Catherine the Great dragged her great dresses
around the young wooden deck as he, the favoured
Potempkin who’d spent her golden apples
on springtime whimsies, caught the staccato
of her wooden heel for signs of ennui
at the play of peasants’ cavorting
in the green fallow fields.


II An Origin of Tourism

—At least until the next day,
when the same peasants (at a stable rate
of imported grain) would arrive on an earlier convoy,
doff their new stiff hats and take to dancing,
rousing up their redressed horses, bartering
for borrowed goods propped up on shiny coppered
barrels, boistering with the expected Ukrainian
gestures.

Tired red boots kick up from under
the bright bucolic skirts. Unscripted
embroidery on their part may have occurred.
An imperceptible bow for the faceless
empress on a barge (whose name lettered
on the prow they could not fathom)
whose genuine Venetian fan was fluttered
above her silken ears during a springtime repose.


* * *

The Body:

Post facto Honorarium

You look like
the rest of them
Now, a cracked
plaster head
nodding
on a shelf
of retired Caesars


* * *

Three

Baoding the simple slaughterer,
so manifest in the Way, no longer
saw the mess of gristle & bone, fat & flesh
in heaving sacs, perspirant furs—-the ordered
universe was apparent to him amid the sangfroid
spray, in the unclouded quadrant of a calf’s eye.

I have sliced open the silver envelope of a fish
from tail to throat. Run toothpicks across the gelid spines.
Symmetry and translucence in both acts. I have caressed
the spoon-like curve of a cat skull. Noted placement
of the two eyes, finish of nose, pink mouth & pale incisors
that point to the chambered heart;

You wrote to us outside about life
in your practicing desert--alfalfa, rousing
the dead white men, how brown cows
are quartered into beef: “Incidentally,
most of you would make excellent
candidates for dicing.”


* * *

Persona:

Persona

The mask has held many tongues.
Some crudely, others with the slicker
intonations of a native singer.
Straight, expensive teeth.
Lips used to rouging. Eyes desiring
like any man. Brows and back stoic for the road,
cool lips and feet for the rewards of the road.

Complete, its pout touches food and drink
with reverence; its clerestories look clear
to this soul; its cheeks are where real
tears descend their quivering stair, where
my mother, after another homecoming,
kisses me goodnight.


* * *
Lines breaks a bit arbitrary and tardy, mostly due to silly Blogger's refusal to honor tab placements, untrimmed thoughts, and 14-line limit of assignment (which I've tried not to flout--not with full fans unfurrowed at ubiquitous moons anyway)...

And where are those glorious colours I used to be able to steep in these jottings and lend them an air of flair? Blogger has hidden them and refuses to acknowledge they ever existed: "EastAsia has always been at war with Eurasia".

Two from Basho

Other than his longing for Kyoto while in Kyoto (a cuckoo calls), this is my favorite one of the moment by Master Platain (we must not forget about the mussels ripped from their shells, the cricket cruel under Sanemori's helmet, or the indigo irises' blooming on the ribbon ties of sandals):

* * *

Cats making love
When it is over, hazy moonlight
in the bedroom

Lulu's Beagle Gallery

PS Went to Berkeley for half a day two weekends ago. Bounced around the Bowl and bought gigantic Korean crystal pears. Stocked up on Yamamotoyama organic teas, and chatted with fave checkout veteran who sees as many people as the Alexandrian turnstile--poor F! Sold $25 worth of books to Moe's and got new coffeetable tome on Chinese propaganda posters. Still no luck on the Tassjahara Bread Book. When it's meant to bring flour mystically back into my life, it will happen.

Two Afri-colas at R Video. W got promoted to manager! K looks ever the punk ballerina hostess. S showed me the ugly Hollywood button-downs of congested-heart-purple I railed about before. Apparently, he and nutty E get a new one every month. That's taking care of employees' most ardent wants... Took JN on tour of said cinephile's dreamland and we sat inside the kids' play rocket for a bit. SO upset to see Brian the Dog's portrait defiled. What bored, unimaginative wankers draw onto unsuspecting cartoon heroes! Perhaps they ran out of ideas so they left Underdog and Snoopy alone. I shudder to think it was out of any decency or respect for oppressed animated actioneers and Woodstock.

It is true: there is no crossing of the same river twice or sitting in quite the same shade--the Jordan has become a rivulet to the west of its former self; three willow trees stood on the wrong side of the Gorge and were swept into it with the rest of the bank.

Alternate Verse to the Philosopher's Song

Mojito
ergo sum!

Road to Monterey

Hard cherry branches
cup the afternoon.

In Steinbeck country,
the toppling tree
on the lower green
or the wayward shadow?
Both black.

new hokku: somewhere I have not traveled

Haiku: Arising from Stillness


The mind loses it-
Self in the mirror at times
When the well is black


My light is thirsty
After sleeping into night.
The tea too dark now.


Slow hand stung by sleep
Swings a kettle. Rain needles
The pines, a steep thread.


At home, bread and broth
are warm; I want to walk on
stones more stone in storm.


Is this how Nature
would see herself if She could
stay, a toothless muse?


The blind poem comes to
clip the wick that never seems
to grey or shorten.


I too can put on
that thatched hat lovely with holes,
Rub my eyes with rouge.


Not all cold is kept
Out by memory of fire.
Some clamp on the skin,

never speak again.
I must shake them out; my palm
cloak sheds hairs instead.


I must shake them out.
Sleep is an insomniac.
My pillow is beat.


Where is the moon? No
Answer’s also an answer.
The rain, too, stopped dead.


An inn in the in-
terior is taking guests,
The wind bell insists.


One breath before light,
I hitched up what’s hoarse and heart,
slung days over my back.


Toss that leaky hat!
I was plied an inky night
uphill. Heartless heart!


I could not bear it,
but leaned the loveliness next
to an old man’s staff.


Hills shorten. Days add
on. Coaxing the same tea leaves
has a monkish charm.

(but)

This crossroad should have
a teashop with a banner
(for the wind to lift).

There is no need for
A well here: the lake reserves
the sweet of the sea.


No mirrors either.
Mountains rise certainly each
morning behind me.


I have made an inn out
of the found, pasted the
moon on a lantern.



Miscellaneous Ones


Three AM. The storm
storms on. Night becomes louder.
My poor bicycle!


The fountain offers
Still, though its rushes on stone
Are hushed by the rain


The fountain offers
Still, though its rush on stone sounds
smaller in the rain


A clean glass under
The sparkling tap. The teabag
Somersaults, seeps green.

After wushu

Winter bones rise up,
the body too terse. I laugh
that it hurts to laugh.

hokku

The fountain offers
still, though its rushes on stone
sound smaller in the rain

first fat plum in a dry season; 3 little ladies and one dog

Hmm. On Delta flight over Greenland from Amsterdam to Atlanta (or perhaps long-legged Atalanta), the hodge-podge TV programming (lemming eyes fixed on single flicker screen) included an episode of "Cheers". I never watched the show much, but this episode guest-starred Harry Anderson as a con-man in a con within a con (Mamet's bread and yakety yak butter) who first fries, chews on, and preserves Sam and Norm's shared backside bacon. I sat through the show pretty happy, happy as a pretty baby because I remember Harry from beloved "Night Court", that Eighties bronto responsible for my first professional pipe dream as a judge freshly risen honeybun-like from the flat-heeled thanklessness of a noble defense attourney. Then came the eye-peeling stints at Amnesty and brushing of badly crumpled-suit elbows of pro bono sapiens, popular images of law school survivors--and I decided to be a scribbler instead. It's much more practicum and less migraine peregrination...

* * *

G asked us to bring our favorite short poem (limit, ten lines) to class on Monday to illustrate how much can be done within a confined space. So far, the finalists (which aren't particularly sensual or lyrical, but are built on ideas):

* * *

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.


- Mark Strand

This wasn't strictly under ten lines, but each line is so short...

* * *

A Coat

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.

- William Butler Yeats

Catherine read this from a slim volume I'd brought from home at an evening program in Catalona. She has good taste.

* * *

The Bathtub

As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

- Ezra Pound

(Who didn't even know any Chinese when he "translated" the Tang and Song poems! What an alligator in a crocodile's skin!)
There is also a good one by Bukowski, but it's too long by line and not by syllable:


wearing the collar

I live with a lady and four cats
and some days we all get
along.

some days I have trouble with
one of the
cats.

other days I have trouble with
two of the
cats.

other days,
three.

some days I have trouble with
all four of the
cats

and the
lady:

ten eyes looking at me
as if I was a dog.

rabble babble

Back at school now. Time differences are terrible inconveniences. Hima na toki ni, dake netai desu... But at least, I've been getting up very early, eating breakfast everyday, and riding rather leisurely to class each morning. The supposed congregation of cats and dogs has been cancelled this afternoon and looks to turn into a clear day bright enough for surfing (should I actually live anywhere with a sea warm and gentle enough :).

I was reading my new materials on passion in late imperial literature quite happily when an adenoidal conversation between two distinctly unbashful girls at the next table drove me out of the previously pleasantly humming cafe and into the sunshine. The air was glorious. The Pink Panther has recovered very well from his back tyre surgery yesterday and rides more smoothly than ever. Though there was some drama regarding uncooperative drippy weather under which I dutifully pushed the poor thing (not really once sitting down on the way from home to school) to the bikeshop, everything went well. Several traditional bike rides with Far this time in Holland has reminded me how comfortable PP is, especially in the positioning of the handlebars. They are perfectly ergonomically angled whereas my old sky-blue mountain bike has much flatter, less organically inclined angles that hurt the little dip between thumb and forefinger, the site of innumerous paper cuts.

Got into poetry writing workshop by some miracle. There is a silly lottery system based on seniority and paper proclamation of creative writing as a minor here (vis a vis college's more meritocratic writing sample submissions), but I suppose I was meant to take this class. G is a hilarious instructor. I just am not sure whether I could produce poetry on deman--everything smacks of indulgent prose recently...

Might head to Berkeley this weekend to pick up a mysterious, if erroneously addressed package from the powers that be in the publishing house in New York. I wonder what it could be. The guy who called me up from my old address is sure it's a book, but I want to wait till I get there to find out. Also a chance for a change of scenery though I hope the more malicious crazy men on Telegraph will leave me alone. But Reel popcorn (of pure safflower oil and premium kettle corn origin) will be renumeration enough. Perhaps. Afri-Cola, how I have missed your sweet, cold kiss!

marginalia

It's my last night at home. I feel as if my light is the only one on this side of the river Maas. The waters are black and there is no moon. I love my family. My heart aches.