Painting images with words
Feb. 24th, 2004 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kohakuNow to my poems.
I like the way form restricts me, and I like the way poetry demands to be economic. I like that I have to be very sure of which words I'll use. Poetry is harder to write for me, but much more fulfilling somehow. And it's harder to share, to be honest. Most of my poems are unfinished work. I like to go back and change things. While I picked poems for this compilation, I had to resist and re-write some of them. Especially "Yellow".
But here they are: unfinished, raw.
From: Home
Home is a compilation I wrote during summer. Some poems are older ones that I re-wrote during that time.
Ladybugs
My stepfather's family stares at me
Their smiles frozen on their faces
Like I don't know the difference
Between hospitality and hostility
And there's always ladybugs
Around my table like I'm ten
Which I'm supposed to be
I have to play with their children later on
Serving cake my new aunt excuses herself:
"We expected a younger child," she says
looking at my mother accusingly
Who dared to get me at such an early age
I glare at them angrily
Everytime I take a bite of the cake
Which could have been anything really
I urge it down with lemonade
Their children are well behaved
And don't get dirty, they don't swear
They laugh at me saying "Shit"
Instead of "poop" but that's what it's called.
"I have a parakeet," I tell them
but they just look at me blankly
"It's a bird; a blue one." Two smiles.
It's scary how they resemble their parents.
I don't have fun like I'm supposed to
But they don't enjoy it either
My mother finally rescues me
Her smile means we're leaving
At the door my aunt takes hold of me
"What did you talk about?" she inquires
I'm tired and before I know it I answer.
"Ladybugs," I hear me say.
******************************************************************
Players Fate
In the receding daylight
They stand there
Watching silver globes traveling on rough ground
Their faces are locked
Onto the wooden ball
Eager to get within closest proximity
They're tense, I can see it
Over the distance
Is playing still fun I want to ask.
Yet I don't.
4 p.m.
She should be napping
on this summer's afternoon.
Her head droops from time to time,
heavy with dreams undreamt.
The corners of her eyes
are already full with sleep,
yet she reaches out, carefully,
to stroke her mother's hair.
Don't Feed the Sparrows
He hops towards you, a tiny ball of feathers,
so small, delicate.
He looks at you with round black eyes
waiting, judging.
When you reach out with your hand,
the sparrow retreats ever so slightly.
You cannot tame him with good manners;
he will only fly away.
Ever since last summer I envy them. They are
almost cheerful, so free.
Please don't feed the sparrows.
Don't make me fall in love with you.
A Day at the Lake (June 26, 2003)
Mercury droplets
I lose my reflection
my gaze averts to things below
under the surface
the lake unites opposites
a sparkling mirror.
Sunburn
shows my greed
I shouldn't have listened
to whoever said
Too much of a good thing
was wonderful.
Only a Fool
Only a fool
would sit here and
whisper to himself.
Only a fool
would daydream on
a drunken afternoon
full of feathers,
sleepy bees and
whistling trees.
Only a fool
would smile at the sun
and be glad that he is
Only a fool.
Summer's Child
For Silme
I idly play
with a golden string of your hair
Letting the sun fall on it
Little reflections, like sunrise
on a summer's morning.
No wonder you love the sun
It is embedded in your skin
Inked between your shoulder blades
Yearning for its companion.
I lazily trace
the stars on your shoulder
Which forever remind me
of a Dylan Thomas poem
I haven't recited to you yet
And probably never will.
My finger moves fondly across
My own little secret
Kept by your skin.
**********************************************
Clouded
The air is heavy with sound.
Forgotten melodies among
Unspoken accusations hang below
The summer sky.
There is much I haven't said.
The old woman at the corner
Said it would rain
She saw the thunderstorm
Long before the clouds gathered
And whispered to the wind.
I turn my face to the depth above
And wait for the downpour.
***********************************************
Nan
I want to do something drastic
With my hair
Cut it all off, maybe
Shave it.
The shock it would give my mother.
My hands on the scissors
I remember my grandmother
Her silvery threads of hair
Being shorn off at hospital,
Like sheep's wool.
She had been able to sit on hers, but
It never grew back.
Short spikes instead of
Mercury waves accompanied her
In her coffin.
My own short hair grew
Slowly, steadily
Ever since I realised
She could not grow hers anymore.
***********************************************
From: Scottish Summer
Allof the poems from this compilation were written in Glasgow or Edinburgh.
Tune Your Pipes and March
Pipes and battle drums
Echo over George Square
Answered by another marching band
Playing a different song.
Tune your pipes
And march
This August's day
Sir Walter Scott
Is looking down from high above
Never minding the tandrum at his feet
But the seagull on his head.
Tune you pipes
And march
Towards Glasgow Green
A Tartan caleidoscope
See the colours swirl
Black and blue and red and yellow
Perked by the midday sun.
Pipe your tunes
And march
This summer's day
Drums a-drumming
Can you tell the tune?
I can't but my heart
Knows the beat all along.
Tune your pipes
And march.
*******************************
Revealed
I swear I didn't look on purpose
A young man
Jumping over one of the wooden rails
On George Square
One hand gripped tight
His legs flying
An adidas sports short
Under his kilt.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled I
I've never seen a cooler thing
Than a bagpiper
Wearing sunglasses.
Glasgow piping championships.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled II
A German couple
Asks me where the best shopping mile is.
I direct them to
Buchanan Street
Sauchiehall
Queen Street.
In English.
Incognito.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Glasgow University
Drinking ice-cold coke
From a real styrofoam cup
My nail carving spirals into it.
A finger dipped into a coolness
That melts on my tongue.
Glasgow discovered summer this year
Leaving me to sweat
And hide in museums.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Kelvingrove
"There is a certain affinity between painters and poets; a painting is indeed nothing other than a wordless poem."
~ Mc Lellan Galleries
Three years to refurbish Kelvingrove
Their relocated treasures now at McLellan
I look at wordless poems
Which can say more with just
A paintstroke
Than I can with
Larynx, lips, teeth, tongue
The pen my only hope.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Edinburgh
She presents herself to me
All fur-coat and no knickers
Two-faced, two-lived
As if she cannot decide
Which life is best.
I want to shake her ignorant people
Ignorant of her beauty
And tell them how lucky they are
That coffee can never be as
Important as this view
Out of the café's window
Edinburgh castle
Will still be there tomorrow
Still be there when
Another generation sits, sips, chats
But coffee grows cold.
I can't bring myself to care.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Long Distance
Your voice sounds metallic
There are clicks and clinks in it.
I wonder if you are speaking
Through a can, a pretended phone
Like a child.
The ocean that separates us
Somehow crept into the line.
I can hear the waves breaking and
My love buzzes.
Can you decipher my words?
Longing knows no language.
You do not need to
Reassemble my fractured speech.
I hang up, angry
At the cost and sad
Because your voice didn't sound
like your voice at all.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Lady Edinburgh
Edinburgh itself is not mad
She is patient.
She takes everyone that wants to see her,
Bids them in
Here's the parlour, the lounge is over there
Make yourself comfortable.
And they do.
Tourists never fail to ring her bell
Showing up on her doorstep,
Tired, dirty
Expecting glory of past times now
All wrapped up in tartan, aran wool
and pipes.
And Edinburgh, trying to be a lady,
Does all that.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Royal Mile
The Royal Mile is home
To the most common.
Stretching from Castle to Holyroot
Shops in Tartan
Wool Mills
All the cliches live here, door to door.
There might be a museum somewhere
But we have forgotten where it is.
The crooked streets devour things unlooked-for.
History, like the cobblestones,
Vanishes when dreaded on by several million feet.
See ye Jimmy hats
And Hong Kong Tartan.
I retreat to Arthur's seat.
The tourists are there too.
But the view is prettier.
The next one was discussed in my poetry workshop. I like it, but it's still work in progress somehow. I'm not satisfied with the last line of the second stanza. But here it is, flawed and all, because![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vegetariansushi asked very nicely and I couldn't say no.
Yellow
You set yourself apart
Being an artist rather than an actor
Painting images with words
Writing poetry with your old pentax
Claiming it made better pictures than you ever could.
Collages out of words, cloth, driftwood
show how you felt while drifting
I saw your son growing up
In awe with the Eiffel Tower
He was wearing nail polish in the next picture, proudly
Poet, Painter, Photographer
Political activist on press conferences
Speaking of a new Babylon
Not afraid, but with your head up high
Never silent about what should be said out aloud.
"Yellow" was the result of a creative writing assignment. The task was to write an hommage. Extra cookies to anyone who know who the person is I'm refering to. Easy peasy. I couldn't possibly be much clearer than that. :)
I like the way form restricts me, and I like the way poetry demands to be economic. I like that I have to be very sure of which words I'll use. Poetry is harder to write for me, but much more fulfilling somehow. And it's harder to share, to be honest. Most of my poems are unfinished work. I like to go back and change things. While I picked poems for this compilation, I had to resist and re-write some of them. Especially "Yellow".
But here they are: unfinished, raw.
From: Home
Home is a compilation I wrote during summer. Some poems are older ones that I re-wrote during that time.
Ladybugs
My stepfather's family stares at me
Their smiles frozen on their faces
Like I don't know the difference
Between hospitality and hostility
And there's always ladybugs
Around my table like I'm ten
Which I'm supposed to be
I have to play with their children later on
Serving cake my new aunt excuses herself:
"We expected a younger child," she says
looking at my mother accusingly
Who dared to get me at such an early age
I glare at them angrily
Everytime I take a bite of the cake
Which could have been anything really
I urge it down with lemonade
Their children are well behaved
And don't get dirty, they don't swear
They laugh at me saying "Shit"
Instead of "poop" but that's what it's called.
"I have a parakeet," I tell them
but they just look at me blankly
"It's a bird; a blue one." Two smiles.
It's scary how they resemble their parents.
I don't have fun like I'm supposed to
But they don't enjoy it either
My mother finally rescues me
Her smile means we're leaving
At the door my aunt takes hold of me
"What did you talk about?" she inquires
I'm tired and before I know it I answer.
"Ladybugs," I hear me say.
******************************************************************
Players Fate
In the receding daylight
They stand there
Watching silver globes traveling on rough ground
Their faces are locked
Onto the wooden ball
Eager to get within closest proximity
They're tense, I can see it
Over the distance
Is playing still fun I want to ask.
Yet I don't.
4 p.m.
She should be napping
on this summer's afternoon.
Her head droops from time to time,
heavy with dreams undreamt.
The corners of her eyes
are already full with sleep,
yet she reaches out, carefully,
to stroke her mother's hair.
Don't Feed the Sparrows
He hops towards you, a tiny ball of feathers,
so small, delicate.
He looks at you with round black eyes
waiting, judging.
When you reach out with your hand,
the sparrow retreats ever so slightly.
You cannot tame him with good manners;
he will only fly away.
Ever since last summer I envy them. They are
almost cheerful, so free.
Please don't feed the sparrows.
Don't make me fall in love with you.
A Day at the Lake (June 26, 2003)
Mercury droplets
I lose my reflection
my gaze averts to things below
under the surface
the lake unites opposites
a sparkling mirror.
Sunburn
shows my greed
I shouldn't have listened
to whoever said
Too much of a good thing
was wonderful.
Only a Fool
Only a fool
would sit here and
whisper to himself.
Only a fool
would daydream on
a drunken afternoon
full of feathers,
sleepy bees and
whistling trees.
Only a fool
would smile at the sun
and be glad that he is
Only a fool.
Summer's Child
For Silme
I idly play
with a golden string of your hair
Letting the sun fall on it
Little reflections, like sunrise
on a summer's morning.
No wonder you love the sun
It is embedded in your skin
Inked between your shoulder blades
Yearning for its companion.
I lazily trace
the stars on your shoulder
Which forever remind me
of a Dylan Thomas poem
I haven't recited to you yet
And probably never will.
My finger moves fondly across
My own little secret
Kept by your skin.
**********************************************
Clouded
The air is heavy with sound.
Forgotten melodies among
Unspoken accusations hang below
The summer sky.
There is much I haven't said.
The old woman at the corner
Said it would rain
She saw the thunderstorm
Long before the clouds gathered
And whispered to the wind.
I turn my face to the depth above
And wait for the downpour.
***********************************************
Nan
I want to do something drastic
With my hair
Cut it all off, maybe
Shave it.
The shock it would give my mother.
My hands on the scissors
I remember my grandmother
Her silvery threads of hair
Being shorn off at hospital,
Like sheep's wool.
She had been able to sit on hers, but
It never grew back.
Short spikes instead of
Mercury waves accompanied her
In her coffin.
My own short hair grew
Slowly, steadily
Ever since I realised
She could not grow hers anymore.
***********************************************
From: Scottish Summer
Allof the poems from this compilation were written in Glasgow or Edinburgh.
Tune Your Pipes and March
Pipes and battle drums
Echo over George Square
Answered by another marching band
Playing a different song.
Tune your pipes
And march
This August's day
Sir Walter Scott
Is looking down from high above
Never minding the tandrum at his feet
But the seagull on his head.
Tune you pipes
And march
Towards Glasgow Green
A Tartan caleidoscope
See the colours swirl
Black and blue and red and yellow
Perked by the midday sun.
Pipe your tunes
And march
This summer's day
Drums a-drumming
Can you tell the tune?
I can't but my heart
Knows the beat all along.
Tune your pipes
And march.
*******************************
Revealed
I swear I didn't look on purpose
A young man
Jumping over one of the wooden rails
On George Square
One hand gripped tight
His legs flying
An adidas sports short
Under his kilt.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled I
I've never seen a cooler thing
Than a bagpiper
Wearing sunglasses.
Glasgow piping championships.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Untitled II
A German couple
Asks me where the best shopping mile is.
I direct them to
Buchanan Street
Sauchiehall
Queen Street.
In English.
Incognito.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Glasgow University
Drinking ice-cold coke
From a real styrofoam cup
My nail carving spirals into it.
A finger dipped into a coolness
That melts on my tongue.
Glasgow discovered summer this year
Leaving me to sweat
And hide in museums.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Kelvingrove
"There is a certain affinity between painters and poets; a painting is indeed nothing other than a wordless poem."
~ Mc Lellan Galleries
Three years to refurbish Kelvingrove
Their relocated treasures now at McLellan
I look at wordless poems
Which can say more with just
A paintstroke
Than I can with
Larynx, lips, teeth, tongue
The pen my only hope.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Edinburgh
She presents herself to me
All fur-coat and no knickers
Two-faced, two-lived
As if she cannot decide
Which life is best.
I want to shake her ignorant people
Ignorant of her beauty
And tell them how lucky they are
That coffee can never be as
Important as this view
Out of the café's window
Edinburgh castle
Will still be there tomorrow
Still be there when
Another generation sits, sips, chats
But coffee grows cold.
I can't bring myself to care.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Long Distance
Your voice sounds metallic
There are clicks and clinks in it.
I wonder if you are speaking
Through a can, a pretended phone
Like a child.
The ocean that separates us
Somehow crept into the line.
I can hear the waves breaking and
My love buzzes.
Can you decipher my words?
Longing knows no language.
You do not need to
Reassemble my fractured speech.
I hang up, angry
At the cost and sad
Because your voice didn't sound
like your voice at all.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Lady Edinburgh
Edinburgh itself is not mad
She is patient.
She takes everyone that wants to see her,
Bids them in
Here's the parlour, the lounge is over there
Make yourself comfortable.
And they do.
Tourists never fail to ring her bell
Showing up on her doorstep,
Tired, dirty
Expecting glory of past times now
All wrapped up in tartan, aran wool
and pipes.
And Edinburgh, trying to be a lady,
Does all that.
*+~+*~+*~+*~+
Royal Mile
The Royal Mile is home
To the most common.
Stretching from Castle to Holyroot
Shops in Tartan
Wool Mills
All the cliches live here, door to door.
There might be a museum somewhere
But we have forgotten where it is.
The crooked streets devour things unlooked-for.
History, like the cobblestones,
Vanishes when dreaded on by several million feet.
See ye Jimmy hats
And Hong Kong Tartan.
I retreat to Arthur's seat.
The tourists are there too.
But the view is prettier.
The next one was discussed in my poetry workshop. I like it, but it's still work in progress somehow. I'm not satisfied with the last line of the second stanza. But here it is, flawed and all, because
vegetariansushi asked very nicely and I couldn't say no.Yellow
You set yourself apart
Being an artist rather than an actor
Painting images with words
Writing poetry with your old pentax
Claiming it made better pictures than you ever could.
Collages out of words, cloth, driftwood
show how you felt while drifting
I saw your son growing up
In awe with the Eiffel Tower
He was wearing nail polish in the next picture, proudly
Poet, Painter, Photographer
Political activist on press conferences
Speaking of a new Babylon
Not afraid, but with your head up high
Never silent about what should be said out aloud.
"Yellow" was the result of a creative writing assignment. The task was to write an hommage. Extra cookies to anyone who know who the person is I'm refering to. Easy peasy. I couldn't possibly be much clearer than that. :)
