Poetry

from the grief at the center of your dream

Posted on by Nokyoung Xayasane

I like to frequent poets.org and plagiarist.com for my daily dose of poetry, which is unusual for me since I don’t like reading in non-book form, but online sources are varied and readily accessible.

I came across this next poem after hitting the random poem link on plagiarist.com. Its use of repetition has a powerful hypnotic effect. Sometimes, writers feel like they need to use different synonyms to show their rich vocabulary, and I’ve been told, You’ve already used this word in the preceding lines. However, the trance-like quality of the poem calls for it. It’s a poem that cradles and soothes.

Variation on the Word Sleep, Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

This too shall pass

Posted on by Nokyoung Xayasane

At this time, two years ago, I was in a lot of pain. A friend invited me to a spoken word event. I had never listened to spoken word before, but she was really excited to hear one of the judges, Carlos Andrés Gómez, so I went.

The experience is difficult to describe. It’s like describing colour to someone who’s never seen before. I felt alive. It was impossible for me to sleep that night, and the next day, I decided I needed to talk to him.

At the time, I was transitioning from my position as Poetry Editor to Assistant Editor at an online student literary magazine. The interview became one of the last podcasts for the magazine.

After hearing all the talented spoken word artists, I realized that there are things in this world that are far greater than my personal dramas, and that one day, this too shall pass.

I think of you often, friend, and fondly

Posted on by Nokyoung Xayasane

I remember the first time I heard this poem. It was two years ago in my Creative Writing class, and from the United States of Poetry video cassette. I don’t believe it was a DVD or anything, since my prof was technological disinclined.

It was the first time I was exposed to spoken poetry. It primed me a few months later for my first real experience of spoken word, which I’ll talk about in a later post. I was drawn to this poem because it so clearly articulated the confusion that I was going through. It said everything I was unable to say.

I Am on My Way to Oklahoma to Bury the Man I Nearly Left My Husband For,
Sandra Cisneros

Your name doesn’t matter.
I loved you.
We loved.
The years

I waited
by the river for your pickup
truck to find me. Footprints
scattered in the yellow sand.
Husband, mother
in law, kids wondering
where I’d gone.

You wouldn’t
the years I begged. Would
the years I wouldn’t. Only
one of us had sense at a time.

I won’t see you again.
I guess life presents you
choices and you choose. Smarter
over the years. Oh smarter.
The sensible thing smarting
over the years, the sensible
thing to excess, I guess.

My life deed I have
done to artistic extreme I
drag you with me. Must wake
early. Ride north tomorrow.
Send you off. Are you fine?
I think of you often, friend,
and fondly.

Breathing so unhindered

Posted on by Nokyoung Xayasane

Last year, my friend visited South Africa and brought me back a book of poetry by Lindiwe Mabuza. I was immediately lost in its pages. This is the second poem in the collection.

Each Heavy Heart-beat, Lindiwe Mabuza

Each heavy heart-beat pulses still
Each heart of loaded centuries
Long buried
In the safe beds
Of these waters
Each heart-beat yet
Is living witness
To the freshness
Of our newfound
World

Each pregnant hill truthfully
Undulates before our eyes
Heaves
In languages
Fecund in shades
Of green truths
So that now for the first time
In our brief moments
The very horizon
No longer lures
As it once did, as it did yesterday –
Is no more elusive
For all now know
That we chose
We chased
Not in vain
For we have now tasted a victory
That nourishes our dreams
So all our tomorrows
Triumph
For our victory
Is the child
Of minds that master their own lives
Achieving what is divinely possible
Is our child
Yet our brawn
Yes our vision
Our brain
Now breathing free
You can touch it
Breathing so unhindered
In this place
Where all nature and beauty
Are stark naked
But like this river
Our nakedness hides
Deeper regions

Come now
See
This wonder close
Where our very breath
Meets
Those lofty blues
For us to see – for you
How contours
That were once
Very distant
Have been brought down
To levels that all may know
On our shores

Come
Hold our breath
Help us cross this river’s
Steady unstoppable flow
For we have swum
In its currents
Emerged
Warm
All over all the world
For there too
My freedom was won

Come
Hold tight here this hand
It belongs to other dreams
That seemed forlorn
Yesterday

So much of pipe-dream
For sceptics
When so many patriots
Lost
Their youth
Their innocence
Their blood
Their life
Though not their spine
Chasing these dreams
We now hold
Across continents

Where are they today?
The cynics?
The detraction?
The nihilists?
The naysayers?
The prophets of doom?
Where are they?

It is time
For our merry-go-round
All around us
Thoughts breed new life
Geraniums
Suddenly
Pop here
There red, there white faces
From every window
Or balcony
All boldly saying
Let the world celebrate
Let’s go round and around
For we too are free
To merrily-go-around.

August 1995

Mabuza, Lindiwe. Footprints and Fingerprints. South Africa: Picador Africa, 2008.

I want to live another thousand years

Posted on by Nokyoung Xayasane

Recently, I applied to teach English in Indonesia, and now I’m thinking about interning in Africa–Malawi or Ghana, to be specific. Here is one of my favourite poems from Indonesia:

Me, Chairil Anwar

When my time comes
No one’s going to cry for me,
And you won’t, either

The hell with all those tears!

I’m a wild beast
Driven out of the herd

Bullets may pierce my skin
But I’ll keep coming,

Carrying forward my wounds and my pain
Attacking
Attacking
Until suffering disappears

And I won’t give a damn

I want to live another thousand years

(translated by Burton Raffel)

Anwar, Chairil. “Me.” The Poetry of Our World: An International Anthology of Contemporary Poetry. Ed. Jeffrey Paine et al. New York: HarperCollins, 2000. 427.