Day Seven, Tupelo Press 30/30 Project

Throop

Hello Nurse, by Ron Throop. Acrylic on canvas, 18 x 24.

My poem “The Neurotic Dreams September in April” has now been posted among the day seven offerings of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project (9 poets have agreed to write 30 poems apiece in 30 days, to raise funds for Tupelo Press, a non-profit literary publisher). Many thanks to writer/artist Ron Throop, who provided the title. Please note: if you like the poem, I’m responsible. If you dislike it, Ron is to blame. 🙂  If you haven’t yet read Ron’s writing, or enjoyed his painting, I implore you to visit his blog.

The Neurotic Dreams September in April

Already I have become the beginning of a partial ghost, sleeping the summer
sleep in winter, choosing night over breakfast and the ritual of dousing lights.
This much I know: the moon returns each month, and tonight you lie awake…

To see the rest of the poem, click here

Tomorrow’s poem is titled “Bent,” thanks to the generosity of my good friend Stephanie Kaufman. I have sponsors for Sunday and Monday, but next week is mostly open. Conjure up a title (be creative, be weird, be gentle, be poetic), donate $10 to Tupelo Press, let me know what the title is, and I’ll write the poem. The  sponsored poems thus far have been a blast to write, and the titles have led me to poems I’d not otherwise have written. If you’re so inclined, please visit the 30/30 blog at: Donate to Tupelo. Scroll down to “Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?” and select my name, “Robert Okaji,” from the pull down so that Tupelo knows to credit the donation to me. And please let me know as soon as possible what your title is.

For information on other sponsorships and incentives, click here.

Thank you for your support! Only 23 poems to go!

Day Six, Tupelo Press 30/30 Project

glacier

My poem “Your Armpits Smell Like Heaven” has now been posted among the day six offerings of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project (9 poets have agreed to write 30 poems apiece in 30 days, to raise funds for Tupelo Press, a non-profit literary publisher). Many thanks to
Plain Jane of Family Rules: Reflections by Plain Jane, who is giving Ron Evans a run for the money for “worst 30-30 title ever.”

Your Armpits Smell Like Heaven

But your breath could melt a glacier at three
miles, she says, and then we might consider
the dirt under your nails, the way you slur…

To see the rest of the poem, click here

Tomorrow’s poem is titled “The Neurotic Dreams September in April,” thanks to the generosity of Ron Throop of Tam and Friends. I have sponsors for Saturday and Sunday, but could use one for Monday. Conjure up a title (be creative, be weird, be gentle, be poetic), donate $10 to Tupelo Press, let me know what the title is, and I’ll write the poem. The  sponsored poems thus far have been a blast to write, and the titles have led me to poems I’d not otherwise have written. Believe me, I’ve never before written about armpits! If you’re so inclined, please visit the 30/30 blog at: Donate to Tupelo. Scroll down to “Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?” and select my name, “Robert Okaji,” from the pull down so that Tupelo knows to credit the donation to me. And please let me know as soon as possible what your title is.

For information on sponsorships (and my other incentives), click here.

Thank you for your support! Only 24 poems to go!

Day Five, Tupelo Press 30/30 Project

morgue

My poem “What We Say When We Say Nothing” has now been posted among the day five offerings of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project (9 poets have agreed to write 30 poems apiece in 30 days, to raise funds for Tupelo Press, a non-profit literary publisher).

What We Say When We Say Nothing

The rain has died and everything follows:
black, white – the law’s supposition. Their bodies

glisten only in memory. One says look at me from the steel…

Tomorrow’s poem is titled “Your Armpits Smell Like Heaven,” thanks to the generosity of Plain Jane of Family Rules: Reflections by Plain Jane, who is giving Ron Evans a run for the money in the “worst 30-30 title ever” competition. I have sponsors for Friday and Saturday, but could use one for Sunday. Conjure up a title (be creative, be weird, be gentle, be poetic), donate $10 to Tupelo Press, let me know what the title is, and I’ll write the poem. The  sponsored poems thus far have been a blast to write, and the titles have led me to poems I’d not otherwise have written. If you’re so inclined, please visit the 30/30 blog at: Donate to Tupelo. Scroll down to “Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?” and select my name, “Robert Okaji,” from the pull down so that Tupelo knows to credit the donation to me. And please let me know as soon as possible what your title is.

For information on sponsorships (and my other incentives), click here.

Thank you for your support! Only 25 poems to go!

Day Four, Tupelo Press 30/30 Project

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My poem “Scarecrow Sees” has now been posted among the day four offerings of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project (9 poets have agreed to write 30 poems apiece in 30 days, to raise funds for Tupelo Press, a non-profit literary publisher).

Scarecrow Sees

Da Vinci maintained that sight relies on the eye’s
central line, yet the threads that hold my
ocular buttons in place weave through four
holes and terminate in a knot…

To see the rest of the poem, click here

I have a sponsor for Thursday’s poem, but could use one for Friday’s. Conjure up a title (be creative, be weird, be gentle, be poetic), donate $10 to Tupelo Press, let me know what the title is, and I’ll write the poem. The two sponsored poems thus far have been a blast to write, and the titles led me to poems I’d not otherwise have written. If you’re so inclined, please visit the 30/30 blog at: Donate to Tupelo. Scroll down to “Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?” and select my name, “Robert Okaji,” from the pull down so that Tupelo knows to credit the donation to me. And please let me know as soon as possible what your title is.

For information on sponsorships (and my other incentives), click here.

Thank you for your support! Only 26 poems to go!

Day Three, Tupelo Press 30/30 Project

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My poem “Calvin Coolidge – Live or Memorex?” has now been posted among the third day’s offerings of the Tupelo Press 30/30 Project (8 poets have agreed to write 30 poems apiece in 30 days, to raise funds for Tupelo Press, a non-profit literary publisher). Many thanks to my good friend Ron Evans, for sponsoring and providing the worst title in the history of the 30/30 project.

Calvin Coolidge — Live or Memorex?

They say the wind in Alvarado bypasses closed doors, slips through
book-laden walls and plate glass and into your dreams where it circles
and accumulates, whirling, whirling, steadily gaining force…

To see the rest of the poem, click here

As of this posting, I’ve no sponsor for tomorrow’s poem, and, alas, no one else to blame for its possible unworthiness. But if you’d like to compete with Ron for worst title ever (or if you simply wish to be kind) please visit the 30/30 blog at: Donate to Tupelo. Scroll down to “Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?” and select my name, “Robert Okaji,” from the pull down so that Tupelo knows to credit the donation to me. And please let me know as soon as possible what your title is.

For information on sponsorships (and other incentives), click here.

Thank you for your support! Only 27 poems to go!

Day One, Tupelo Press 30/30

My poem, “Scarecrow Remembers,” has now been posted among the first day’s offerings of Tupelo Press 30/30 poems:

Scarecrow Remembers

I recall nothing before my eyes captured
the horizon and the looped whorl of night’s
afterglow, the first crow-plumes

To see the rest of the poem, click here

Tomorrow’s poem will be titled “Stuck,” thanks to Curtis Bausse of Mayotte, who donated $10 for the right (privilege, curse?) to provide a title to an unwritten poem.

Friends in the UK, Australia, Spain, France and the U.S., will you not meet the challenge? India, Canada, Mexico, Turkey? Japan? New Zealand?

If you choose to sponsor me, please visit the 30/30 blog at: https://www.tupelopress.org/donate.php. Scroll down to “Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?” and select my name, “Robert Okaji,” from the pull down so that Tupelo knows to credit the donation to me. And please let me know as soon as possible what your title is.

For complete details on sponsorships, click here.

Thank you for your support! Only 29 poems to go!

Still Hands (Cento)

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Still Hands (Cento)

I let it burn, rooted as it is. Now
nothing else keeps my eyes

in the cloud – get close to a star,
and there you are, in the sun.

What about all the little stones,
sitting alone in the moonlight?

Silence complicates despair.
I have believed so long in the magic

of names and poems,
and I know that you would take

the still hands to dryness and
loose rocks, where the light

re-immerses itself. It’s not the story
I want. We cannot live on that.

Credits:
Sharon Wevill, Julia de Burgos, Francis Ponge, Mary Oliver,
Alberto de Lacerda, Robert Hass, HD, Jacques Dupin, Francesca Abbate, George Oppen.

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Threes

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Threes

Difficulties arrive in waves,
lending weight to the theory of threes,

the plunging fund, a failed engagement, the self’s
doubt, all combined to inflict the particular

misery of the ongoing, the continued, inelegant fate
that declares us human. Look,

she says, the hummingbird flits from leaf to
flower, its wings beating 58 times a second,

a fact not to be trifled with, for what may we duplicate,
contemplate, even, at that pace?

Say the hedge gets clipped, the ring whirs off the finger
and back to the jeweler, and all you know for certain

is that you don’t know. There is no why, no how. No
way. Or life’s reel unwinds and plays only in

reverse. Where do you stop and splice it, forming new,
uncharted worries? And what about that damned

bird, buzzing around your head in territorial fury? Yes,
yes, I know. These things are not my concern. Not really.

But they arrive in unending repetition, one after
the other, in clumps of three – lovely, lonely,

triple-threaded lines of vicissitude lapping at our ankles,
saying nothing, saying everything, saying it used to be so easy.

Originally published in Eclectica in July 2014.

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I Have Misplaced Entire Languages

ships

I Have Misplaced Entire Languages

Neither this tongue nor that still dwells in my house.
The hole of remembrance constricts, leaving behind only debris.

As a child I mixed three languages in family discourse.

Now only one is comprehensible, and I abuse it daily.

The woman in the blue dress stands alone on the pier, weeping.
A pidgin is a simplified language developed between groups with no

common tongue. Sounds form easily, but meanings struggle.

My father is shipped to Korea without warning.

Some words insert epenthetic consonants to separate vowels. Years
later we arrive in Italy and my mother starts receding.

A fourth language emerges.

This morning I asked, “Ame?” “Yes,” she said, “but just drizzling.”

Some families share no common language and must forge without.
We have used pain, pane and pan without reference to etymology.

Having abandoned the familiar, she chose another, never accepting the loss.

These forms we can’t articulate, these memories we have not traced.

This originally appeared in April 2014 as part of Boston Review‘s National Poetry Month Celebration.

bread

Variations on a Theme

darkedinburgh_shadow

Variations on a Theme

1. The Long Night

We envy the shadow its attributes, its willingness to subside,
but what of its flesh?

I lay in the field and wept.

Think of the fragrance, the moist leaves
enveloping the still

warm body. In retrospect, I realize that I should never have left, that air
returns to voided space despite all attempts to disavow

light, that wind and rain and soil alike filter through the chest’s
cavity, that stones may bear one’s touch in perpetuity.

At nineteen, death had gifted nothing to my world.
At twenty, little else remained.

So close, so lovely.

2. The Loneliness of Shadows

Light collapsing around a point. The two-headed flower.

In my dreams, no one speaks.

Not the thing itself, the bud bursting forth, petals ablaze with color,
but rather change: the process reinforced.

Sleep seldom shows such kindness.

Or its fruit, redolent of sun and rain, withdrawn and shriveled,
and finally, ingested.

Yesterday I woke damp but unafraid.

3. Alchemy

Stones never talk, but they rise from the earth, appearing as if by invitation.

The way silence lines an unfilled
grave, which is to say as below

so above, an infinite murmur open to the night.
And other notions: transpiration.

Waste.
Sublimation. Calcination and burning.

At times I have withdrawn
like water from the air’s

body, fearful yet reckless in the act.
That evening the moon flickered and the shadows lay at our feet,

and all the words we never framed,
the bitters our tongues could not know, the wasted

music and abandoned caresses, those words,
sighed into the ground, leaving you adrift, alone.

But how else might one transform darkness to light?
Or the reverse.

huey_ef

This originally appeared in Boston Poetry Magazine in April, 2014.