I have been writing down some poems I encounter in my journal. They were too long or "unquotable" for my Quotidien Quotes zine, but this blog would be a perfect place to archive some of them.
I don't think I was much of poetry lover until I did my undergraduate away from home. I missed reading in Korean so much that I read so much poetry. Even then, I think it was less about taking in the words and more about dealing with homesickness while fashioning elitism. But I took a translation workshop, actually started thinking about how to rewrite these beautiful, funny, evocative words, and that made me appreciate poetry even more.
Ideally, I would also memorize more poems. I tried for a few days in December, but it never turned into a habit. A future endeavor.
Apologies for any typo. I'm retyping them from my handwritten journal, just because I want to live the words again, because I'm extra like that.
Oranges
In the grocery store parking lot I found
the first orange, thrashed flat by wheel after wheel
of the regional bus that ran from there to the men's shelter
outside the city limits. I had two red mesh sacks
of oranges dangling secretely from my hand.
The fruit's mealy organ, smeared from portico
to speed bump, was not mine, I knew it was not mine,
but somehow I needed to convince myself
that I had not thrown it on the ground.
The next thumb-gouged on the floor
of a rest stop bathroom. The next, on a curb,
untouched. Its bureaucratic interior, its secret hallways.
Halved in the dry leaves beside the bike path.
Floating on the river. In the ATM vestibule, boldly mimicking
the CCTV's blank ball. I thought about my complicity
all the time or not at all. My role in America's joyless abundance.
When the death toll was 15,000, in December, a woman set herself on fire
outside the Israeli consulate in Atlanta. More than 120 people
have self-immolated in the last 20 years. For the right of fathers,
for the climate, for veterans, for the memories of comfort women,
Abdullah Öcalan, the Udmurt language, water and electricity. Tibet.
Because I did not know what to do with my true responsibility
I found it senseless, weverywhere. Beneate the stone lions
flanking the Language Arts building, like a dank egg.
Perfuming blackly on my classroom's windowsill.
Blazing, shattered, sweet. As soon as I started to look for them
the oranges disappeared.
Coda
As soon as the poem was finished, Aaron Bushnell lit himself on fire.
How did I know the poem was finished?
I did not, as other poets often claim, put my head down
on the table and weep.He shouted "Free Palestine"
until fire ate all the air. The poem was finished because the world
which had given birth to the poem has ended
— H. R. Webster
logischer himmel
bin aufgewacht
gab keinen neuen tag
bin aufgestanden
gab keinen boden
habe mich angezogen
gab keine kleider
bin fortgegangen
gab keinen gott
— Barbara Peveling
Einsicht
Wir schwiegen
wieder einmal
über Gott und die Welt
Gott können wir
sowieso nicht ändern
— Axel Kutsch
Forgotten Home
My feelings are too loud for words
And too shy for the world.
Read the light and have a dream
In your hidden garden.
No need for words.
The words are but shadows
Of stories never said,
Shining from distant kingdoms,
Reminding you of a forgotten home.
Light rays will tell you the story.
There is another alphabet
Whispering from every leaf,
Singing from every river,
Shimmering from every sky.
— Dejan Stojanovic