My first poem from Japan
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
I have officially finished narrowing down the poems for the first manuscript, so this is literally the first poem in a new chapter of my writing and life, hopefully a lot more will come. Let's see how rusty I got
Translating Silence
When you spend your life bowing,
you begin to find solace in the dirt.
And cherry blossoms become clouds,
when the petals crash to the ground,
a white typhoon that colors in the concrete
A man named Kobi sweeps leaves
From a gasoline station’s tarmac
When his brush moves over one that won’t move
He bends down and picks it up with his hands
He has been sweeping the love from his life
For fourty years, smiling at passersby
With his tar stained teeth
When the area of his watch, is lulled back
Into black slumber by the bristles
He sits on a stool and waits
For a passing truck, or a meandering breeze
Satisfied at the lowest levels, he’s become
A life voyeur, his mind an attic
for storing memory, until one day it spills
in waterfalls of dust onto the leaves,
The break lights knead their way through
Screams, the obscenities fold the air
like a baker’s calloused hands making bread,
the ambulance siren is coming or going, at a
distance I can only tell they’re moving,
I reach into my glove compartment, and pull
Out my passport, wondering in a culture
of gift giving, how to placate a widow
Translating Silence
When you spend your life bowing,
you begin to find solace in the dirt.
And cherry blossoms become clouds,
when the petals crash to the ground,
a white typhoon that colors in the concrete
A man named Kobi sweeps leaves
From a gasoline station’s tarmac
When his brush moves over one that won’t move
He bends down and picks it up with his hands
He has been sweeping the love from his life
For fourty years, smiling at passersby
With his tar stained teeth
When the area of his watch, is lulled back
Into black slumber by the bristles
He sits on a stool and waits
For a passing truck, or a meandering breeze
Satisfied at the lowest levels, he’s become
A life voyeur, his mind an attic
for storing memory, until one day it spills
in waterfalls of dust onto the leaves,
The break lights knead their way through
Screams, the obscenities fold the air
like a baker’s calloused hands making bread,
the ambulance siren is coming or going, at a
distance I can only tell they’re moving,
I reach into my glove compartment, and pull
Out my passport, wondering in a culture
of gift giving, how to placate a widow
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The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
And I won't make the same mistakes
(Because I know)
Because I know how much time that wastes
(And function)
Function is the key
Thanks for the kind words all.
A lonely man asks grandmothers for advice,
He listens to Gertrude in the ceiling,
she tells him to be a doctor.
When the floorboards respond
Anna tells him to get married.
Soon,
and bring lots of grandchildren to his mother.
When he asks his glass of whiskey,
the watery voice of the dead
is his father’s, and no advice comes;
just a sound, a sigh, like the last heave
before leaping off the high dive.
He gathers his keys, his shoes, and jacket and hat,
before lurching into the quiet dusk.
This is where the dead live, in the space between
the sun and the stars, an empty horizon in both
directions.
After a short walk, he wants food
and he wants cigarettes,
He thinks he wants to practice law,
and find a wife, but he settles for a beer
to bring his mind a little closer
to his advisors.
As the sun’s coils retreat, the voices
settle into passing cars, and the melodic chirp
of crosswalk signals. He sits outside
near a row of bicycles, fallen one over another,
and takes out his pen, and a notebook.
He spends a few minutes watching the ink
cover the paper, he draws circles, and ears,
and noses, and finally mouths. He looks at
The dark lines and thinks,
this is where the dead live. In the small space
between the pen and the paper, between the
dark ink, and the white page.
He closes his eyes, and writes questions.
Not knowing what he’s asking, but with hope
that there will be answers. He turns the page
and the pen continues on its course until
he fills the entire notebook.
When he opens his eyes, the stars
have begun their blue erosion,
the sun’s reconnaissance of the day.
He flips through the book, and sees pictures
of Gertrude and Anna, their eyes black,
their faces smile without the use of mouths.
Over and over, are pictures,
Until the final page, where a single line
Is written twenty times,
“All we do is watch.”
All we do is watch,
was scrawled in two distinct styles of writing.
When he stands up, he wants another beer,
Turning to go back to the store, he sees a woman,
strolling down the road with a small child.
She stops in front of him, exhausted, heaving
a vast sigh into the air, she sits down,
and they begin talking, she is a doctor,
freshly divorced, with an adorable little girl.
At that moment the traffic has drained
into the bedroom, the chirps
of cross walks stop, and he looks into her
face, and sees a smile, though her mouth
remains sealed into a line. To himself, he thinks,
this,
is where the dead live.
You've certainly not lost a thing, ETE, not at all.
And that first verse of "Translating Silence" was so gorgeous!!! Glorious!
Thank you for sharing!
"Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me
So I can say this is the way I use to be" -- John Mayer
I wanna hear those lyrics...
www.myspace.com/lastgeneration56
Ah, thankyou darling, above all I try to take a snapshot of a character at a breaking point, the time where decisions can no longer be put off, and the moment that grabs your breath and forces an answer. That I think is where humanity lives, oddly enough the piece is called where the dead live. Thanks as always for the uphill nudge to the ego.
Yes, I'm teaching English over here, the job is a cakewalk though, I'm enjoying myself immensely, thanks for the comments
That duly noted, I'd like to take a stab at a critique, here.
Translating Silence
When you spend your life bowing,
you begin to find solace in the dirt.
And cherry blossoms become clouds,
when the petals crash to the ground,
a white typhoon that colors in the concrete
the words "crash" and "typhoon" are rather violent things to be combined with solace, cherry blossom clouds, and petals. it's like you're trying to paint a Monet with a blow torch. and, i wonder why you're doing that. i'm just reading this with my heart. and it's all soft and stuff, and then... ouch... not soft. it kind of forebodes that perhaps this man Kobi, is not at all at peace ~ but has no clue... or something.... and I see that's what you're going for, but you are taking this gentle tack, and then forgetting that stride with the slip of a violent image.
A man named Kobi sweeps leaves
From a gasoline station’s tarmac
When his brush moves over one that won’t move
He bends down and picks it up with his hands
He has been sweeping the love from his life
For fourty years, smiling at passersby
With his tar stained teeth
When the area of his watch, is lulled back
Into black slumber by the bristles
He sits on a stool and waits
For a passing truck, or a meandering breeze
here, you have changed from a dirt ground, and a concrete ground, to an asphalt ground. from sweeping love from Kobi's life, to Kobi smiling at passersby. it's too flippity floppity, and I am confused about how I am supposed to feel. i would avoid using "tarmac" and "tar" in the same stanza, too, unless it was one of those word-play things... and. this poetic moment... this asphalt going back to sleep once it is swept clean is, in my opinion, a whole world to be explored. a poem all by itself, if you will. there is a shifting of focus from the very broad: Kobi sitting on a stool; to the very narrow: bristles on tarmac. I see the bristles, and I see a man sitting on a stool ~ and I'm a bit dizzy from going in and out like that
Satisfied at the lowest levels, he’s become
A life voyeur, his mind an attic
for storing memory, until one day it spills
in waterfalls of dust onto the leaves,
The break lights knead their way through
Screams, the obscenities fold the air
And now he is satisfied? how can he be satisfied? He's been sweeping the same spot (and his love from his life) for forty years! I mean, I do infer what you are saying (I think)... that Kobi is content with his life's lot ~ but then there's traffic and screaming obscenities. There should be some sort of disclaimer, like "despite the screams, despite the obscenities... something to explain to us that these things break past him, rather than on him.
I think also, that using "knead" in this stanza, and then a baker in the next is probably not a good thing. I am not sure where the whole bread thing comes in. It's here, but as a reader, I don't know why.
like a baker’s calloused hands making bread,
the ambulance siren is coming or going, at a
distance I can only tell they’re moving,
I reach into my glove compartment, and pull
Out my passport, wondering in a culture
of gift giving, how to placate a widow
All I can guess, is that you were sitting there watching all of this in your car, and that somewhere nearby, you saw someone making bread? And you can tell the calloused hands are moving, and that an ambulance is moving? A sight perception joined to an audio one? I'm just really confused now. And... where's the widow?
I don't wanna say scrap the piece, because I'd really like to know what's happening at this gas station. I think you should maybe re-do it like prose, tell the story, and then pare it down into poetry, if a poem is what you want out of the experience. I am fascinated that you are there, and I want to read it through your eyes... so, show me. Oh, and i hope you don't think i'm a total bizzette for spitting it like that, ev... you are totally welcome to come rip my stuff anytime you like, coolio? Good god, I know it needs it sometimes.
much love,
rachel
You mad'am are a Godsend. Thankyou. You will see it re-tooled when I get a chance, it's almost impossible not to be vague at this point, but there's a lot in there that's unspoken about Japanese culture and I need a lot more explanation for some of it.
(pppstt.... have you been to the record store yet?
www.myspace.com/lastgeneration56
What do you want darling, I know a little second hand shop with a bunch of vinyl's but I haven't found a record store yet
Radiohead... some Modest Mouse... some LeTigre ~ something like that. Portishead, Tricky, Massive Attack, Chemical Brothers, freekin.... Arctic Monkeys... anything cool and totally NOT FOR SALE over here (I do have "com lag" from Radiohead... it's a Japan-Only recording ~ so not that one.)
but no vinyl... I don't have the technology
many many thanks and heaping buckets of cash for your troubles, m'love
you're a peach
No vinyl?!?! No vinyl?!?! What the hell's the point. You can download that stuff from Itunes cheaper than me sending cd's. I'm very disappointed now. Go to a salvation Army and go buy a record player for 15 bucks and we'll talk
where the hell am i going to put a record player?
On top of your TV, under the bed, in your stove, I don't care, just get one.
http://www.everything2.com/index.pl?node_id=1842471