Monthly Archives: September 2017

Returns

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baby birds

Returns

What good is a rock
if the people fall, if truth

remains but no one
hears the long grass

rattle, and words
burst into flame

and gas, and life
poisons itself with

greed and the deficit
of compassion.

No body exists to bury.
I am trying to return

to a place of open
mouths, of nests and

groves left standing
despite their value

to the market. Which
pocket do I empty,

what song do I leave
unsung. Tomorrow

always becomes
yesterday, and today

flakes away into chilled
ash, carried over

rooftops and clouds,
never to be seen again.

gargoyle

Ghazal of the Bullwhip

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Ghazal of the Bullwhip

Who hears braided tongues lashing the glare still?
The language of pain writhing through white air, still.

Or herding cattle you pop and crack above the horizon,
pastoral and flowing. But sharp, a sonic nightmare, still.

You ask how love blossoms through decades and more.
That look, a caress, the perfect words – all quite rare, still.

Oh to be a larks head knot, strengthening when used.
Delicious hitch, unmoved water, tight square, still.

I fall, you fall. We fall together in pleated silence.
The inevitable loop of the captive’s bright snare, still.

No gods today, but voices trickling through my skull:
Bob, Bob, they say. Not again. Even you should care. Still!

* * *

In response to a comment, Daniel Schnee dared/challenged me three days ago to write a poem about a bullwhip. To make it interesting I decided to combine his theme with my latest enthusiasm, the ghazal form.

Tuning the Beast

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Tuning the Beast

I prepare contingencies for all outcomes. No.
I’ve prepared for this: a body. A key. As if

that cloth draped a leg. Not a leg
but the representation of a limb.

Another fragment, brought forth and opened.
Not a limb, an arrow, perhaps, pointing to the sea.

An oar, brought inland and unrecognized
for its purpose, directed or aimless. No, not an oar.

A neck, polished, and a chamber, with strings.
Repetition, fixation. Position. Intent.

I pluck and strum, pick and stroke, maintaining
space, steel above wood, bending notes,

moving sound in time, purposefully, from
this place to that, the left hand, creating,

conversing. The right, reasoning, controlling,
burning its past to the present, allowing,

preventing, rendering beat, consistent
motion, shaping only this moment, this now.

“Tuning the Beast” was drafted during the August 2015 30-30 Challenge, thanks to Sunshine Jansen’s sponsorship. It subsequently appeared in The Blue Nib in September 2016.

 

 

The Logic of Tinai in Akam Poetry

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What little I know of Tamil poetry, I learned from Nazir and his blog. Here he discusses the concept of “tinai,” which resonates with me. So much to learn, so little time…

Classical Tamil Poetry

Image result for lord murugan in palani

Picture courtesy: http://www.palanimurugantemple.tnhrce.in

The Tolkappiam, in Porulatikaram, begins by identifying seven tinais out of which the middle five (“naduvan aintinai”) constitute the “world rimmed by the sea” (“padutirai vaiyam”) (Verse 1 and 2). These five tinais become known as kurinchi, mullai, palai, neidal and marutam. Then it goes on to make magisterial pronouncements designating the time and place as mutal, meaning first. The gods, the food, the animals, trees, birds, occupations, the musical instrument and melody, the flowers, the water source are the karu or things embryonic to the mutal. The human mood appropriate to each tinai is the uri. The tinai, identified by an emblematic flower and sharing certain specific geographic features, becomes a vehicle for the mutal, the karu and the uri. In other words, the tinai encapsulates the mutal, the karu and the uri. By doing so, it becomes a spatial, temporal, spiritual, gastronomic, biological, occupational and emotional…

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Laolao Pavilion (after Li Po)

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Another attempt at adapting Li Po. A note on Chinese-poems.com stated “at this time, the breaking of a willow twig was part of formal leave-taking.”

Laolao Pavilion (after Li Po)

Where do more hearts break under heaven?
This sad pavilion, where visitors part,
the spring wind whispers bitter goodbyes
and willow twigs never mend.

Transliteration from Chinese-poems.com:

Heaven below damage heart place
Laolao see off visitor pavilion
Spring wind know parting sorrow
Not send willow twig green.

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First posted here in June 2014.

Letter from Insomnia

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Letter from Insomnia

Accepting Li Po’s tragedy,
apocryphal or not,

we embrace her imperfect
reflection
rippling in the breeze,

but manage to surface.

I once thought I would name a child Luna
and she would glow at night

and like Hendrix, kiss the sky.
But that was whimsy

and only candles light this room
at this hour
on this particular day
in this year of the snake.

And what fool would reach for a stone orbiting at
1,023 meters per second?

There are clouds to consider, the stars
and the scattering rain

and of course wine
and the possibilities within each glass
and the drops therein.
We must discuss these matters

under her gaze, where smallness gathers.

* * *

This originally appeared in Middle Gray in October, 2013. It was written in response to a poem my friend Michael sent me, replying to this poem.

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Video: The Story of Zero

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Fellow numbers nerds: A great little video about zero! It also fits in quite nicely with my poem “With These Nine Figures,” which I posted last week.
https://robertokaji.com/2017/09/20/with-these-nine-figures-2/

Vox Populi

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This short animated video produced by the Royal Institution of Great Britain illustrates the history of the mathematical concept of zero.

Today, zero signifies an absence of value as well as being a number in its own right. But this dual role evolved gradually, and zero still doesn’t act like other numbers. Can you divide by zero, for example? With animation by Andrew Khosravani, Dr. Hannah Fry explains how zero came about, from its origins in ancient civilizations, through the resistance it faced from the Roman numeral system, to being the cornerstone of calculus.

Email subscribers may click on the title of this post to watch the video.

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A Word is Not a Home

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A Word is Not a Home

A word is not a home
but we set our tables

between its walls,
cook meals, annoy

friends, abuse ourselves.
Sometimes I misplace

one, and can’t find
my house, much less

the window’s desk
or the chair behind it.

But if I wait, something
always takes form in the fog,

an arm, a ribcage, a feathered
hope struggling to emerge.

Inept, I take comfort
in these apparitions,

accept their offerings,
lose myself in mystery,

find shelter there
in the hollowed curves.

Poem Nominated for Best of the Net

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My poem “When to Say Goodbye” has been submitted to the Best of the Net 2017 anthology by the editors of Oxidant Engine. I’m honored to be nominated alongside one of my favorite poets, Khaty Xiong.

Recording of “Self-Portrait with Umeboshi”

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Self-Portrait with Umeboshi

Our resemblance strengthens each day.

Reddened by sun and shiso,
seasoned with salt,

we preside, finding
comfort in failure. Or does
the subjugation of one’s flavor for another’s

define defeat? The bitter, the sour, the sweet
attract and repel

like lovers separated by distances
too subtle to see.
Filling space becomes the end.
What do you learn when you look through the glass?

Knowing my fate, I say fallen. I say earth.

 

Ah, simplicity! When I was a child my mother would occasionally serve rice balls in which a single mouth-puckering umeboshi rested at the center. These have long been a favorite, but I admit that umeboshi might be an acquired taste. Commonly called “pickled plums,” ume aren’t really plums but are more closely related to apricots. I cherish them.

“Self-Portrait with Umeboshi” first appeared in the Silver Birch Press Self-Portrait Series (August 2014), was included in the subsequent print anthology, Self-Portrait Poetry Collection, and also appears in my chapbook, If Your Matter Could Reform.

 

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Music: “Senbazuru” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/