Most of these poems were written during fall 2023 for the class 21W.771, taught by Prof. Erica Funkhouser. The painting on the cover is L’Estaque by Paul Cézanne.
Vertigo
From dizzying heights, the earth we once knew
drifted into a sea of whispers.
Not snow-capped peaks, nor treacherous straits
could stop us anymore.
We flew over the town in half-light.
Soft shadows scaled the low walls. The place
where every road began. The air was brisk,
the foam sparkled rose-gold, the moon
pale and crystalline. Were we no longer
just a burning memory?
And with a gasp I was wide awake, flailing fists
where my majestic wings had been. Soaring so high
I could not see the ground. So I cried and cried— and then,
into the thick haze, began my faithful falling—
6 Tankas
One
Outside, an instant
passed, and I woke up ashore.
If I were Vincent
which shade of pastel blue can
reveal the sky’s secret door?
Two
When your meteor crashed
Into my world,
These long-extinct forms
Came back to life
As flames licked and undid
Glacial epochs of time.
Three
After the downpour, cats emerged from underground abodes,
along with bottles of amber promises
ready to be reborn.
Four
A day’s false start
Starts with yesterday’s
Hangover, a wet wool carpet hangs above
Train tracks, drawing smoke
from faraway chimneys.
Five
afternoon— skipped class,
sitting by the black marble
and white oak trees, you
watched the warm sunlight reflect
and dance on three thousand lives.
Six
The wind scatters
in the evening bells.
The azure dome
recedes into the heaven.
My mother and father
walking, hand in hand.
Ode
To my mother
Earth has undergone
ten revolutions, and I still
rip off page after page
from my notebook, till I’ve drained
all its soul, futile ink
seeped into imperfections, its powers
dissolved. And every
abrasive, intimate
note, roots and fibers crumpled,
lacerated,
is tender reminder
of your hysteria
and my defeat,
and that awful
relic— unbearable scar on your abdomen
like a hallowed parasite
I left you with. A pain so vivid
and tidal, neither of us
had asked for, but a glimpse of the prelude
and the
epilogue. And in between
I was the only miracle
that tried to be. And I tried
not to be you, I have
tried so, so very hard
to be good to me. And in the end
our distance saved us from our mutual
altruisms.
And last time
I called, you said you found peace,
and I think I found mine,
too, and I’m glad
we both did. You had so often said:
One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
Interstellar
Stay. Take a picture of that polaroid
Before the color fades, even if you don’t know
Memory, like water, leaks from every broken vessel.
Tie up the loose ends. Say sorry, even if you don’t mean it,
Before you enter:
Smiling and finally feeling brave enough
To wave at those faces across the turnstile.
Aubade of the Insomniac
No sleep, not tonight. The hours before daybreak
Size you up with violet cat-eyes
And with a thud,
locked behind the insomniac’s bedroom door.
Half-past four, finding yourself
on streets which cannot remember where to end.
Cloaked specters linger at the corner:
“Memory! You have the key…”
In a former life, these stars were once
Embers spiraling into the sky.
You walk past the old playground.
“I never sleep, only dream,” says the insomniac.
You don’t know which way to go, only that you must go:
Elsewhere.
To that little hill where you discovered at five
Rocks shaped like dogs’ ears.
Shadows scuttle under the bamboos.
What waltzes across the grass is you.
The first season of the years.
Past the horizon, something stirred:
a flicker, at first, and suddenly the lights
Burst forth, all at once:
A Titan awakened from an ancient dream.
Deep inside the city of ice, its blood-red heart beats
on every window, its pulse filling cracks and crevices
of every room.
To the insomniac, dawn is liberation, salvation,
Deliverance, rebirth, nirvana. A chance to live again.
Inside your room, the alarm clock sings its aubade. No one came.
Death of the Poet
On the morning on which the poet dies,
The meadowlark does not stop her song.
The missile-heads will slit open the blue wound anew.
The young gods keep on making love.
No parade, or crusade, will put on display
The poet’s green, fatigued cadaver
as it had once wished. Indeed, it would look
much, much better in a blazing pyre.
But when, beyond the lagoons and beyond whispering pines,
His wandering soul knocks on Heaven’s lofty gates,
The keeper, recognizing his footsteps,
will greet him warmly and offer a place to stay:
And before dawn, he will have sailed away without a farewell
For the pink light which lined the horizon of his every waking dream…
From the New World
For you, it might just be a tiny dot.
A tiny red dot in tonight’s lustrous sky.
You pulled back the curtains:
You couldn’t wait for sunrise.
But it’s all wind and dust down here.
It creeps into every corner.
It creeps inside my bedroom.
It forms the soft defiance in every pillow.
The substance of every dream.
I wake up to the chirping of skylarks.
Sometimes it snows, but it doesn’t rain.
In August one could hear the cicadas.
I sing An die Freude to my bathroom mirror.
These machines are old, and I am dying.
I play the same record over and over.
Now the wind rises. Must we try to live?
I push my face against this distance
This great emptiness.
Word and song seems so pale.
And poetry so futile.
Oh, the mysteries of life!
Where did it begin? Where does it end?
You couldn’t wait for sunrise.
You pulled back the curtains:
A tiny red dot in tonight’s lustrous sky.
For you, it might just be a tiny dot.
Legend of the Knight
Translated from the original poem by Li Bai (701–762 AD)
A warrior from Zhao in a tasseled hat,
His fine blade gleaming like frost.
Silver saddle on a white horse,
He rides, swift as a meteor.
Every ten steps he kills another man.
He could go a thousand miles leaving no trace.
When it’s finished, he will be gone
Without leaving a name.
He came along to Lord Xin Ling
Laid his sword in front of his knees.
Feasting with Zhu Hai, and
Holding the glass high, toasted to Hou Ying.
After three cups, they made a pledge for life and death,
Those sacred mountains seemed so little in comparison.
All drunk with sight blurred and ears red,
Their spirits high in the pale rainbows.
Waving a golden hammer, Zhao was saved;
The city was in awe.
Their stories were told in the capital
For a thousand autumns to come.
Even in death, their chivalries are unparalleled
Among heroes of the land.
Who would rather sit beneath their bookshelves,
Spending their whole life on some magnum opus?