The Sun in the Stream +

One of my favorite instrumental pieces is a song called "The Sun in the Stream" by Enya. I'd recommend listening to it while reading the following poem. There's a Youtube video that plays it along with pretty pictures (but you don't need to look at the pictures, just read the poem)

The Sun in the Stream

The Sun In The Stream

- Inspired by a song of the same title by Enya

A reflection at rest between the leaning oaks,
the heavy day slides from the cradle of branches
into my hands
when I take water to drink.

I let it wash over me and back to its course.
Just like sleep reaches us at the end
of a race, so too I am caught
with warmth
grown from my fingers,

the roots feel from the weight on my shoulders
to the weakness in my heels,
to wrap around my heart.

Truly sunset is like my mother’s arms around me.

The door of night swings on gentle hinges.
Shadows pass through; I sit and watch them go by.
The lines in my eyes are like untrodden paths,
all choices I left behind.

I remember: my father and I rode airplanes across the sky;
shooting stars evaded me like fireflies.
my siblings and I swam across the lake
leaving trails of ripples I could never calm.

And here, letting the sun drift downstream,
I let go for a moment;
the leaves fall from before me
until the current carries them into the fire.

Ashes of memory mix with the horizon;
the darkness swirls with the deep red,
like hundreds of pomegranate seeds,
but I recognize the taste of each one
the tart, the sweet, the bitter;

I would swallow it all
if only it would glow within me through the night.

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I think it could still use more; perhaps some more and perhaps better concrete images? Anyway, I'm also reposting my previous poem about the tennis ball in the dryer, with some changes.

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The Tennis Ball in the Dryer

It was the unruly heart of my home;
an inconsistent beat shaking
dreams out my left ear
where they joined the clutter
of closed books.

Late into that night
the nervous
rhythm
echoed like the coming and going
of loud footsteps,
or banging on the door,
keeping me awake.

The games we played as kids resounded inside
that rotating drum,
while the clothes continued the battle
back and forth
over who would win
beneath the dry heat.

My mother once told me a ball is good for beating
the fluff in pillows, the down in quilts,
like a fist,
but I wasn’t so practical;
I found it in the woods,
leftover from a dog’s mouth,
and decided to wash away
the smell of sweat and anger.

We had no history;
it had no purpose,

merely something to toss around.

Yet even now when I come home weary,
heart holding the moon like a muted candle,
I bounce against the wall my ball of memories
and hear it return on the other side of silence.

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Hopefully you enjoy them! I won't post for a while since I'll be busy working for the next 7 weeks, but hopefully I'll have more to post at that time!

The Tennis Ball in the Dryer

The Tennis Ball in the Dryer
It was the failing heart of my home;
an inconsistent beat shaking
dreams out my left ear
where they joined the clutter
of closed books.

Only for one late night
the nervous
rhythm
of coming and going like loud footsteps,
or banging on the door,
kept me awake.

All the games we played as kids sounded within
that rotating drum,
as the clothes continued to battle back and forth for control
over who would win
beneath the heat of that dry sun.

My mother once told me it’s good for beating the fluff
in pillows and quilts, so nothing bunches up,
but in truth, I found the ball in the woods,
leftover from a dog’s mouth,
and decided to keep it, wash it.

We had no history or connection;
it had no use or purpose,

merely something to toss around.

Yet even now when I come home weary,
heart holding the moon like a wistful candle,
I bounce against the wall my ball of memories
and hear it return within the silence.

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Some days I just feel like writing poetry. So it was tonight. So I started with an image and a feeling and took it where it went. The tough thing is making sure that all the connected images are consistant and do work within the poem, which I'm hoping I managed to do, but I'm not sure; I didn't give myself much time to mull over this one; I wrote it, then came back to it after an hour and made some changes. Even as I write this blog I'm still making changes, which may mean I'm posting this too early, but really all I want are for people to tell me what works and what doesn't, to put a star next to the lines they like and x-marks next to the ones they don't or something to show me how to improve. Some of the keys to a good poem in my mind are strong opening and closing lines. Originally (until a moment ago as I was writing this blog) the last line was

"and I hear it on the other side of silence."

But then I got to thinking that maybe the idea of a sound on "the other side of silence" is a cliché image or an overused image, or perhaps just an image that didn't really fit, that I'd only put it there because I'd heard it for the first time recently at the beginning of a book. So while I was thinking that, I changed the last line to what it is now and I think I actually like it more. And then (while I was writing this) I changed

"I bounce against the wall another ball of memories"
to
"I bounce against the wall my ball of memories"

What do you think? About the last minute changes I've made or the poem in general?
Either way, hope you enjoy it. Have a wonderful night!

To Take Your Place

To Take Your Place

Your room sucks me in: a vacuum, grasping my body
like a scared child.

I see a bed to sleep in, shoes to walk in, and drawers to open,
all lit by the blue glow of the alarm clock
blinking on the floor.

When you left, all this remained untouched, tidy, anxious
for your return:

the unruffled bed, lines of shoes, and folded clothes
(as if obedience could make people
stay).

And I, standing in the midst of it, broke my heart,
split myself in two to take
your place.

I could wear your white hat to hide from the sun, your polo shirt
to protect my heart.

Your work pants are covered in the dirt of trying to build
a life for yourself,

away from the endless hallway in our apartment,
the locked doors, the cluttered corners,

where my books lie half open beside my winter jacket
and other skins I shed.

If I could put all of this on, what would it be?
An armor? A disguise? A mockery?

I am not older than the clothes given me
nor stronger than the wall I lean on.

I am heavier for trying to hold you in my mirror.

Too bad, I can never cast your shadow,
taller than myself
and more whole than either of us.

Too bad, your voice won’t form in my throat;
it’s stuck deeper, within veins of memories
unable to bleed.

Japanese Style

Again, I'm posting some old poetry of mine that fits well. I try to go back over old poetry every now and again to revise and also to remember the feeling I once felt. This way, I don't lose the experience.


Nagasaki Peace Park

Nothing I wear is clean
and there’s a traveler’s load on my back
of the shoes, clothes, and masks I must carry.
Here, too, I thought to bear the weight of peace,
to be handed the sky, the one that fell long ago.
I imagined my own weakness beside perfect statues,
or that my reflection might stir the still waters.

But here, instead, schoolchildren listen,
while shade stretches out beside the benches.
Sitting there, even I am allowed to rest and feel light.
You see, there are wings here to lift us;
two golden cranes perch beside the statues
and the spray from the wing-shaped fountain drifts
into my beating chest.

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Crosswalk

A dull drum signals,
like a heart, shocked and breathing,
the passage of roads.

A cluster of red hearts cross,
whose heartbeats mimic footsteps.

Strewn red leaves crumble,
autumn being left bare-branched,
beneath the slack steps.

Call it freedom or chaos.
but green light opens all paths.

Though spring melts old snow
to birth supple and green leaves,
it also melts snow.

Something pure is left broken
as the center stage empties.

Was someone untouched?
Most were strangers, yet eyes roamed
and hands swayed in time.

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Peach Tree Sky

“I buy a peach at the fruit store.”
“I eat a peach, therefore I am happy.”

I practiced these simple sentences,
trying to learn the Japanese structure.
But some things are easier seen than spoken.

Coming home on a foreign subway train,
we emerged from the ground
like earthworms after rain
under the departing clouds.

To the south, beyond the rice fields,
webbed strands of mist clung to the mountains:
children crying to their fathers
at the end of a one more day.

A stranger beside me was crying too,
though I knew neither language nor custom to comfort him.
I looked away into the west to find my sunset:
a peach tree sky I wished he could see.

Gray clouds shaped the thin branches,
while the sun became the day’s fruit.

Who knew? This peach cannot be bought,
but it can be found in unexpected places.