Thursday, November 30, 2023
When Inspiration Strikes
Loving the “I”
My Brothers
BY YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA
You came by woven reed boats
forced across angry water
driven by mighty winds.
Or a swift long skiff ferried you
here by twenty-four oarsmen,
twelve on each side, six front
& rear, powered by the rotation
of two shifts, all twenty-four
who tugged along dreamwork
on waves. They rowed around
sun & moon setting & rising,
inhale & exhale, all as one
song of the whole crew rotating,
pushing ahead until they saw
green land, their oars parting
blue rhythms of what’s to come
or being born on the other side
of the world. Yes, my brothers,
you of bittersweet herbs & chants
taken in sea breeze, what secrets
& taboos, myths, laws, & oaths
did you bring here? I believe it was
your laughing, thundering voices
in the drums. Where did you hide
those days of wild cats, serpents,
& plots? Did you arrive out of
nowhere, always here, stout
& tall, hewn of stone miles away,
but now rooted into green earth?
Mystery how you rose or sprung
up, somehow you became almost
another people, calling windswept
sea waves at your strong backs.
If you were always here, brothers,
you wouldn’t have danced feet
bloody under a full moon. No,
the charts were blue-black skies,
but not to worship hidden icons
before & beyond, & you cannot
Saturday, November 25, 2023
Afternoon Notes
BY WENDY XU
After Bei Dao
A squirrel alone with his thoughts
Spider’s geometry which you might avoid
by rotating your shoulder just so
None of this is meant to be of any consequence
A soreness three quarters up the leg
An engine is more than a mumbling
cutting with a wince into—
Nevermind
Rustling another green nut to the feast
is what matters now
Choosing the most simple
beautiful words
that won’t spoil on the half-day journey to meet you
A leg hair perks the wind
It stands up without shadow
without panic
without ambition
Unable to be judged by standards of human dignity
Thursday, November 23, 2023
From “Sleeping with Bashō”
BY DAVID TRINIDAD
at the yam festival
What a delicious life!
When I cut a sweet
potato in half, I get
the harvest moon.
stripped branches
What’s left after the wind
blows every blossom
off the dog cherry—
a tree of wagging tails.
surrender to the beauty of flowers
Be sure to wear
your flowered robe
when you come out
to view the blossoms.
family history
The bamboo sprout
cares nothing
about the stalk
that produced him.
wagging tongues
Every red leaf
rustling
with gossip.
lights out
Unhappily,
the new moon
has been sent upstairs
before her bedtime.
SAYŌNARA
Like wild geese,
we’ll only be separated
by clouds, my dear,
dear friend.
house call
How come the rich merchant
never sends a horse
to fetch the village poet?
seeing is believing
I found god
in plum blossoms,
not the great blank sky
beyond them.
Wednesday, November 22, 2023
Poem about My Right
Monday, November 20, 2023
Mixed-Up Sestina
BY JORDAN PÉREZ
For José
We have been shitting and pissing in the sealed buses through the night,
then out, and stadium lights click on. Rows of stands standing empty.
I think of the stories of ancient Rome: lions or dogs tearing apart
the faithful in arenas like these. Then here, my own shaking hands.
Some say we will be shot at midfield, but no one is sure.
One dancer can’t forget his training. Still in first position, this man.
Electric barbed wire makes a soft click sound through the night.
Some say it is turned off during the day, but no one is sure.
We are here to learn to be men, so we rip out the grass with our hands.
The man beside me, whose shoe is untied, cries to himself, “Apart
from God, nothing” again and again. I suddenly feel like a man
who has returned from a trip to find his entire town empty.
We are even given a new alphabet. M for Marxism. R for Raúl. Apart
from this, a test: Walk until the soldier believes you are not a gay man.
There is no rice. The boat has not come from China. The empty
dishes could be my own wife’s dishes, so delicate in my hands.
Some say the ungrateful are stabbed with their own forks, but no one is sure.
Beside me, a painter with blistering palms who once did fine work.
They cut the stubborn ones with bayonets. We continue killing the grass, man
after man kneeling. The victory still marked on the scoreboard sits empty.
Someone says the umpires were very unfair that day, but no one is sure.
Many have lost their shoes, and so steal others until no one can tell his apart
from anyone else’s. A lawyer tries to make a point by sitting on his hands.
After we hear him die I can no longer sleep through the night.
We are brought to uproot fields thick with marabú until our hands
are covered in blood and thorns. I wonder if the Jehovah’s Witness thinks man
should be grateful to suffer as Jesus did. Carnations sprout in an empty
patch, but nobody seems to notice. Even together we are apart.
Castro inspects our work. The chicken he brought for his supper squawks until night.
Someone says he will soon move to reduce numbers, but no one is sure.
We stop caring and sleep on the dormitory ground, curled man to man.
The limestone soil is empty. The cottontail’s eyes are empty.
I cannot stop shaking as I pull the root and its own earth apart.
I remember the time my father and I sang by the sea long into the night.
I remember the morning when a frog sunbathed in my cupped hands.
I think my daughters would still know me now, but I cannot be sure.
Wednesday, November 15, 2023
Matthew 6:28—Sonnets
Sunday, November 12, 2023
Walking with My Delaware Grandfather
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