Where do you go
when
You disappear?
I have a hunch
(and want to ask)
but suspect, maybe
Possibly too intimate to inquire, maybe
And anyhow,
do not know
how to begin
A phone number? (Would you even pick up?) A postcard address?
Oh and – do you even remember me? Anyhow
Tag Archives: poem
Poetry transcription: “finding home”
{transcription from an “field notes” notebook while in bed… stashed here so I don’t misplace}
Finding home
No longer daunted
By subterfuge
Payola schemes or even
Assassinations by a religious stooge
Still enamored by overbites
Pretty lies feathered caps
and quicksilver mines
Confused by burning coals
to alchemize
cartoon currencies
in a triangular ruse
I don’t need a course
To tell me to be happy
I already know what wealthy means
Have you a garden, a pen and Wood stove?
The answer to the biggest question is:
“to love, and to be loved”
The pathway to go there is: kindness, tolerance, empathy, intrepidness, weakness is strength
All this is to say:
Cynicism avoided, reality reinvented, consensus subverted, admiration for the usual
Savor the regular days, notice the magnificence in nonchalance & common place.
Get down on your knees!
To look closely
The tactility of grass
The softness of sand
The circles and cycles
The shards of pottery
The ants smaller than the other ants
The lichen, the moss the dirt
The rivulets
The worm holes to everywhere else
Will lead you back to exactly here.
Observations: poem, post box, bus stop, IV
walked to post office as rain fell imagining Van and Vic in April & May writing new endings by crafting beginnings with new cast of darlings {mailed 4 packets of printed matter} 2 "forged" passports 4 x postcards with dozens of stamps 1 portrait of young sailor now a fire
Two observations outside of the doctors office yesterday / yes, can help me to locate myself when my head is spinning after injections
Continue reading Observations: poem, post box, bus stop, IVAside: scrambling, not trying and laying flat (existential crisis off the bat)
Started the year (or whatever) in a series of fogs, trying not to scramble to “get going” again.
Good news is: I guess I got the first existential crisis of the year out of the way… Don’t worry, there will be more to come :)
Sorta not-trying to mop up a couple loose ends before the “end of the month” without making yet another list or overwhelming myself with obligations or expectations of perfection (just saying out loud).
PS Sorry/not sorry i haven’t replied to your email/message/_____/thing. I’d say i was trying but redundant (and I’m trying not to try so hard), obviously.
{hiding a poem here where no one will notice}
Fresh out of defiant slogans
Too exhausted to scowl
Done with rhetoric and angst
Given up on raised fists
Just my eyebrows for now
I stroll but slowly
Not on hamster wheels
Languid towards oblivion
Lay flat, do little
Let the system squander and powers collapse
among
Hubris, greed bah!
“I’ll take apathy to go”
With a side of indifference
Poem: Arc my Tongue to Spark
Arc my tongue
Across the 9 volt transistor
To check the spark
Of the over-clocked resistor
Coat hanger antenna wire
To steal shortwave secrets
Bounding off cloudy atmosphere
Compressing continents and time
Learn both codes of phonetic alphabets
Able Baker / Alpha Bravo
Double tap of triggers and tripwires
No confirmations forthcoming
According to the single use
crossword sheet
Connections misplaced, handlers abandoned
No one being run from a park bench
With yesterday’s newspaper folded twice
Dead dropped next to the silver rock
Add the excuses of uncaught trains
Unloose tails, uncoded contraband, dispatches never to be delivered
Despite deliberate intentions
Left for an unsuspecting future operator
Poetry: Reading “Alchemists Confer with Hypnotists” for Muriel’s at Word Vancouver (but from Japan)
I’m reading at this unique & enchanting poetry event. Online & in person in Vancouver as part of 2022 Muriel’s Journey Poetry prize at Word Vancouver..
- Canada/USA: Sept 17, Saturday, 4-5PM Pacific (7-9PM Eastern)
- Japan: Sept 18, Sunday, 8-9AM
Tickets are free but you gotta register >> Free tix here: https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/word-vancouver-2022-festival-tickets-395743488427
I’m reading “Alchemists Confer with Hypnotists” / A poem which came out of my long healing ramble.
Update: you can also purchase a book “Fire from the Heart: Winners of the 2022 Muriel’s Journey Poetry Prize” (from Azm below or better from your fave bookstores to order from Ingram) featuring the poems of the various award winners, including me.
PS when you buy your copy, let me know and I’ll send you a postcard to say thanks & you can use as a book plate/bookmark.
Please join me and other compelling poets for free hugs & magic. My heart would be so bright knowing you were at the other end of the screen.
Senryu / assorted, (rather silly, some not)
Senryu are meant to be (the more formal, serene and seasonal)Haiku’s sillier cousin and in fact pre-date haiku as a form.
Imagine Japanese folks, centuries ago, I’m getting themselves around the heart with short humorous anecdote and having a good laugh.
Either way, here’s a wee cycle i uncovered in a forgotten shoebox, shared here for your possible bewilderment and amusement.
Written, 2003-4, Olympia, WA (likely)
“Spam – ku”
40 million dollars
again and again
offered from Nigeria
But she told me she’d meet me
At the Thai restaurant
downtown!
I already told you
I love you ~
Can I hang up now?
The dog and I
Shared a dinner
Of tortilla chips and beer
Thinking of Amsterdam,
I slip
on rainy cobblestones
Driving the old, old highway
through Central park
Avoiding all the birds
Museum / Exhibit: Hokusai, print master / Nagano, Japan, 2019 (w/ minor notes)
Blurb: On our meandering adventure of a honeymoon in May-June 2019, we travelled by many means of convenience including a wide variety of trains, rental cars, occasional coach buses and what not. See the whole Shinkonryoko Scrapbook for a mixed-media ephemera overview and a list of places visited for the curious.
Primary aims were to visit friends, stay at all manner of accommodations and see loads of museums, especially, spontaneous, small-ish and quirky if possible.
As such, in the town of Obuse, Nagano-ken, we made a stop at a museum for the famous print block artist, Hokusai. His name may not be as recognizable as his work (yup, that big wave from the “37 views of Mt Fuji” series) the museum (current exhibit anyhow) didn’t really pack in the well-know pieces but rather focused on his work making soerta pre-cursors to manga comics with endless “clip art” doodles, characters and life shape studies.
The museum wasn’t “photo friendly” (that’s fine) but including a few atmospheric snaps to recall that “yes, we went here”. As usual loaded up at the gift shop (so many postcards and books!). Pardons for underwhelming post (we did get tasty dessert afterwards nearby)
Hokusai-kan museum (map): https://goo.gl/maps/cSDGgaN4j2Q4WHpFA
Tip: apparently there is a discount if you are rocking traditional Japanese kimono or jinbei, great!
Continue reading Museum / Exhibit: Hokusai, print master / Nagano, Japan, 2019 (w/ minor notes)Musing: fires, volcanos, axe handles & cycle of children
March 13, 2022: I went to sleep last night – first night without a fire in the stove for some time – on tatami mats reading “Danger on Peaks”, dedicated to Carole, woke up as my Ryoko took little Ichiro to school, recalling Gary writing about being a 63-year-old stepdad taking a 10-year-old to school in the carpool, and thinking of myself at 10 years old on 95th Ave. in Surrey, getting ready for church the Sunday morning when Mt St Helens erupted, remembering the feeling of the unusual rumble (was not an 18 wheeler), and thinking of Gary coming down the mountain as a 13-year-old to learn that Japan was bombed and “nothing will grow there for 70 years“ and how Hiroshima is just down the road from me, indeed wonderful noodles, activists & parks.
Poured fresh French Press coffee, and picked up my robot and read Wang Ping’s remarkable recounting moments with the axe handle, with the boy-now-man (about my vintage) who the axe handle was created with, with the poet (who had been just up the road in Kyoto, probably pass through here at some point), together throwing hatchets into a stump, then into a barn (no food allowed to prevent pests, like my kura), pulling out Ezra Pound and Han Shan, pages falling open to the exact place, and marveling at the un-coincidence of it all. Such treasure.
It’s all about the cycles as Gary said to Lew. Or was that vice versa?
Also, Ichiro – a year and a half old – loves no toy more than the brush and scoop to clean the woodstove & darling Ryoko now has the skill to light the store with a single match with help from my special arts and crafts made from egg cartons, soy paraffin and sawdust learned from my mother, her ashes on the altar.
Hail the fire queens, axe carvers, and pantry mice!
Axe Handles BY ©1983 GARY SNYDER One afternoon the last week in April Showing Kai how to throw a hatchet One-half turn and it sticks in a stump. He recalls the hatchet-head Without a handle, in the shop And go gets it, and wants it for his own. A broken-off axe handle behind the door Is long enough for a hatchet, We cut it to length and take it With the hatchet head And working hatchet, to the wood block. There I begin to shape the old handle With the hatchet, and the phrase First learned from Ezra Pound Rings in my ears! "When making an axe handle the pattern is not far off." And I say this to Kai "Look: We'll shape the handle By checking the handle Of the axe we cut with—" And he sees. And I hear it again: It's in Lu Ji's Wên Fu, fourth century A.D. "Essay on Literature"-—in the Preface: "In making the handle Of an axe By cutting wood with an axe The model is indeed near at hand." My teacher Shih-hsiang Chen Translated that and taught it years ago And I see: Pound was an axe, Chen was an axe, I am an axe And my son a handle, soon To be shaping again, model And tool, craft of culture, How we go on.
“Alchemists” poetry accolade from Muriel’s Journey
Poetry Accolade of sorts: Pleased to be on the prize list for a very interesting poetry initiative with roots in Vancouver’s downtown eastside.
I was selected as the “random” prize which i suppose isn’t flowered with prestige but that’s not the reason i write and share poetry anyhow. Thanks to Muriel’s Journey 2021 And Beyond (FB) for including me.
My poem “Alchemists Confer with Hypnotists” (below) comes from my fcked up #MECFS medical journey of conundrums and unintended reinvention which took me around the world seeking ways to re-create neural pathways and myself as an existing sentient creature. The poem will be included in a chapbook and reading at some juncture.
Anyhow, congratulations to those acknowledged, those who write, submit, deal with illness and also to the memory of namesake Muriel and the organizers of the campaign, especially Isabella J Mori.
{The prize booty is stashed in a Canadian bank account for Ichiro for when the opportunity comes for him to visit his ancestral homeland of sorts.}
Poetry is everything, distilled.
A note about Muriel:
“Muriel was a social justice activist, poet, and spoken word artist of Indigenous heritage from the Gitxsan nation’s Owl Clan who spent a lot of time in the Downtown Eastside. In her work, she always explored new ways of expressing herself, always talked and wrote about what’s urgent and important. Her energy was like fireworks, and her hugs legendary.”
Alchemists Confer with Hypnotists Varying days of bliss and malaise I'm busy these days chasing dubbies away When the ache nears the break comes and light becomes a haze your soul is so faded, no hiding, so worn The alchemists confer and deny the hypnotists’ clinical opinions. Retorting, “He simply needs more magnesium injected directly into his bones” The past-life regression of painters and pirates offered no evidence only barroom stories when posted up envisioning a distant yourself Generate kinetic watts from my broken soul, frantic heart and coiled brain anxiety - I've plenty to power all of Iowa - roller rinks and all Please won't you deplete me save me from me and help me tell me, to sleep? And you’ll insist on my compliance, fading into ease.
note: dubbies is a Jamaican word for ghosts
Update from Muriel’s Journey selection committee:
Thanks for posting this. The randomness is important. Judging poetry (or anything literature) has an element of personal taste and is, therefore, biased. When we first receive poems, Kyle Hawke and I pre”judge” them so that our judges don’t have to Wade through too many poems. Then we present the three judges with about 30 poems. This year the judges were Heidi Greco , WJ Kehewin , and Gilles Cyrenne . All the poems are judged blind – nobody knows the names of the authors. By introducing a random price we give the chance to someone who might have otherwise fallen through the cracks. So far, by chance, all the random prizes went to poets who were already in the preselection.