Genealogy Dream
To recall but not recall: family, the swift curve
of evolution’s arc. One moment your knuckles
scrape the earth’s surface, and the next you’re
pinpointing mortar fire by satellite phone. Or,
having plowed the field by hand, you fertilize
with human dung (no swords in this hovel),
only to wake into a dream of high rises and
coffee served steaming by a blushing ingenue
who morphs into an uncle, killed in China
on the wrong side of the war, leaving his
sister still mired in grief six decades later
under the Texas sun. On this end of memory’s
ocean, we know poverty and its engendered
disrespect, neighbors’ children warned not
to play with you, for fear that the family’s
lack of nickels would rub off and contaminate,
that your belly’s empty shadow might spread
down the unpaved streets and envelop even
those who don’t need to share a single egg
for dinner. Years later the son will celebrate
his tenth year by suffering the indignity of
a bloody nose and a visit to the principal’s
office, a gift of the sixth grader who would
never again employ “Nip” to disparage
someone, at least not without looking over
his shoulder in fear of small fists and quiet
rage. Which half measures harder? In one
hand, steel. In the other, water. I pour green
tea on rice and recall days I’ve never lived.
“Genealogy Dream” was first published in August 2018 in Issue 4 of Lost River literary magazine. Many thanks to editor Leigh Cheak for taking this piece.
Powerful imagery!
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Thanks very much, Lorrie.
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😁
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wow. powerful!
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Thanks, Nancie. Much appreciated.
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What a gift it is for your fellow humans that the uncanny capacity for compassion your magnificent genetic vessel contains doesn’t want for poetic expression!
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My genetic vessel shows much wear, but it is definitely mine,
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Powerful and moving …a window into another time, place, life…
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Those times! Those places!
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Indeed …You made them come to life.
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This is superb, I loved it when first published and still do!
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Thanks very much! I’m glad it’s held up.
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😃
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Whew! Powerful. Not sure how to get at the other words. Just whew!
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Thank you, C. I hope this finds you well.
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Dreams and memory mingle to create fascinating scenes … at time difficult to know which category the scene belongs to … “a blushing ingenue … morphs into an uncle, killed in China” … good example.
Curious about the image – your parents? The image is beautiful. Dream worthy.
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Dreams and memory are a powerful mixture. Yes, those are my parents, in 1952 or ‘53, I’d guess. One of my favorites.
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This one is a personal favorite of mine. Your fearlessness in making literary beauty out of personal pain is powerful…
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Thanks, Daniel. Poetry comes from everywhere and everything. I seem to have little control over what seeps out. All I do is shape it. Indeed, I’ve learned that trying to control it doesn’t work for me.
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Plus, I am always intrigued by the dark glamour of your mother’s face. How heavy her constant negotiations with the world must have weighed on her soul: her Japanese-ness being considered wicked, her American-ness denied, her beauty called ugliness, her children hated by many for just being (little bright misceginations running around in short pants).
Though this is just the imagining of a fan of your work, it really feels sometimes like whatever trauma(s) your mother bravely waded through, some of it got encoded into her DNA which was passed along to you, trauma which is in a sense cleansed, excised, or released (?) via your poetry, the lost prophet who brings The Healing Word…
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My mother’s legacy is haunted, with much mystery imbedded. And yes, some of her trauma has passed on to me, though perhaps not directly. I feel it more as an empathetic direct observer would have.
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Stories as poetry – or vice versa. Love it
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Thanks very much, Karen.
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Painted with a powerful brush.
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Thank you very much, Michelle.
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I’d say your powerful words are a myriad of dreams Robert, there are so many vivid images…..
“only to wake into a dream of high rises and
coffee served steaming by a blushing ingenue
who morphs into an uncle, killed in China
on the wrong side of the war, leaving his
sister still mired in grief six decades later
under the Texas sun.”
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Most dreams drift off, never to be remembered. But some stay with me…
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I have a habit of jotting pieces of my dreams down during the night..
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I’ve tried that, but then I can’t translate what I’ve written. Ha.
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