At Sunrise We Celebrate the Night’s Passage
And discuss not the darkness of crows, but the structure of phonemes
embedded in our names, the gratitude of old fences, of broken
circles and extinguished flame.
Two weeks ago he poured wine and declared himself Dog.
There are roosters, too, who cannot crow,
other speechless men, and lonely burros guarding brush piles.
What letters form silence? From what shapes do we draw this day?
Light filters through the cedars and minutes retract,
as the bull’s horns point first this way, then that, lowering themselves
through the millennia, becoming, finally, A as we know it.
With my tongue, I probe the space emptied of tooth.
Barbed wire was designed to repel, but when cut sometimes curls
and grabs, relinquishing its hold only by force or careful negotiation.
Symbols represent these distinct units of sound.
My name is two houses surrounding an eye.
Yours consists of teeth, the bull, an arm, the ox goad.
Originally published in Prime Number Magazine, one of my favorite online literary journals, in 2013:
Barbed wire retains its shape after healing of your arm. it is not the same material and it should be all the more able to give not to take, for it is of aluminium and not steel and your arm is of Steel, My friend, with writing hand that makes you all the more superior to the rest. Cheers!
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Thank you. A good pair of wire cutters helps, too. 🙂
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Very thought provoking piece.
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Thank you, Olga.
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Beautiful!
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Thank you!
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Oddly enough, I was just thinking about phonemes an hour ago, but inside my head it came out as phone memes.
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Perhaps you should turn off your autocorrect. 🙂
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My brain needs an autocorrect function.
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My default is auto-mistake.
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Reblogged this on Praying for Eyebrowz and commented:
Robertokaji.com will never disappoint.
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Thanks for reblogging!
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My pleasure!
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I’d encourage anyone to go back, and then re-read this poem out loud, listening to yourself carefully. Don’t rush it. It’s quite powerful.
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Thanks, FD. I believe that poetry should be read aloud. If it doesn’t sound right, it’s not right. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. 🙂
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Excellent advice! Back in junior high, I kept a journal of self-pitying poetry driven by an unrequited love. This tome of sadness had the portentous name, “The Blue Binder”. If you’re wondering, that’s because it was a blue binder.
After requiting a different love, this binder sat neglected in my parents’ basement. One day when I was in college, the basement flooded. My parents gave me a box of what they could salvage. To include The Blue Binder.
Came home from a night at the bars to find my roommates reading aloud from it, laughing so hard they were wheezing.
I could have saved myself two years of ribbing by reading that stuff out loud some time over the intervening decade. Then burning it!
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I hope that I have destroyed all of those!
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I think I’ll have to read this when I don’t have ‘flu’…brain ain’t working!
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Ouch, Cheryl. Best wishes for a speedy recovery.
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Why did I not get a rooster who couldn’t crow? 🙂
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This particular rooster croaked. An interesting sound.
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And then there was the one who crowed between midnight and 3 a.m.
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A beautiful piece. I caught my attention and drew me into the descriptions. Very lovely. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you for reading it (and for your kind words).
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Anytime. Your poetry is beautiful.
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I love this piece.
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Thank you, Mara.
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Hi Robert, I don’t know how I missed your evocative poem, it’s rich in symbolism. I held my breath as I read it. Very satisfying to read such finely crafted words.
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Thank you for your generous comments, Talia!
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Pingback: Excerpt Tuesday – At Sunrise We Celebrate the Night’s Passage – Okaji | Illustrated Poetry
masterful. i sit in the orange-gold light and remember beginning to end.
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Thanks very much.
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Reblogged this on Slavomir Almajan's Blog and commented:
Very profound! I am very happy to share this. Somehow my questions resonate with the author’s. I guess, Robert, you and I share the same language of silence that sometimes bursts in poems like “At Sunrise We Celebrate the Night’s Passage”. Thank you!
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Thanks for reblogging. I don’t know why, but it seems to be an uncommon language.
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What seems to be an uncommon language? You lost me here…
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The language of silence…
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Oh, that! Yes, it is a language indeed and very uncommon, too… That’s where the poem happens then it succumbs in mere words.
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This is probably o
My favorite of your work (that I’ve read). It’s wonderful and full of thick imagery. Thank you for sharing
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Thanks, Christina. It was published alongside two companion pieces in Prime Number Magazine a couple of years ago. I’m fond of all three.
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