Blesok no. 110, October-November, 2016
Poetry


Poetry

Chris Song



Kiwifruit*


       It is said macaques like to eat it
    because its animal-like fuzzy skin.
    The name sounds
    Like it came from a zoo in China.
    Isabelle crossed million oceans,
    from China to Oceania.
    Alexander took utmost care of it.
    Its name changed to Chinese gooseberry,
    And again, on the fruit market, took a new name,
    not willing to reveal itself.
    Dull white stabs through the golden jade fresh,
    bone necklace on the Aboriginal necks,
    black seeds scattered like graffiti,
    is it a totem or a taboo?
    Or it still remembers its cold nature,
    that regulates the flow of vital energy
    and removes blood stasis.
    Always fails to see itself clearly
    in the midst of contradiction.
    Sometimes the street is as dark as the dusky night sky,
    With occasional sounds by fish-balls and dumplings
    sellers,
    it’s still hiding in the fruit market.
    Rain falls on canvas quietly
    under the hazy light.
    It looks like golden petals opening in the dark.
    It dimly resembles the dining table at home
    oval is shape.

* Kiwifruit is indigenous to China and it is known as ‘macaque peach' in China.




Suicide Flower*


eyelids resist drowsiness
    sightless
    at night
    perhaps the dawn grows into a crow?
    Loss of speech plagues you
    you are devoted
    to Chicago’s mornings
    as you are
    to Texas’s void of nothingness
    you turn them into colors,
    art,
    craft,
    the words we call to mind
    you reject crows and ditches
    with scalpels, you gently cut open the night,
    peer into its wound, to see
    it blossom from the depths,
    a suicide flower,
    it’s your paintbrush
    that brings me to the roller coaster of colors
    running on the railway of words
    without safety belts

*"Suicide Flower” by Steven Schroeder 2013 oil on canvas 24x36 inches




Dragon


    (Reading Rilke)
    
    People who feed it with respect
    have never seen its real face.
    In the days when no emperor is there,
    they all think they are its heirs.
    
    Inexistence is, perhaps,
    far more fascinating in fact.
    Like a lonesome passerby,
    in a trance, white clouds in mind.
    
    Sometimes it entangles with lightning and thunders,
    embracing the black clouds together,
    like shoddy cotton that twists over and over.
    
    Sometimes it lets lightning and thunders
    strike their lineaments within an instant,
    as if to shed the burden of existence.
    
    One muffled thunder on a sunny day
    is enough to make a lonesome passerby stay.
    As he stops in his steps, in a trance,
    the dragon is fed.




Phantom Limb


  My finger draws across the poems
    sparkling fire,
    words burn through the lashes
    into my empty eyes,
    the train with your words passes through,
    would it connect your horizon and mine?
    Shadow —
    a sickle over the pages,
    hung never in the air,
    reaping all the ripe ink,
    in that confined office next door.
    Your name is a legend in that chamber,
    the invisible pen staggers swiftly,
    on the blank sheet —
    an empty chessboard.
    Your poems drill into the cold keyhole,
    searching for a new twig in this bareness —
    the absent hand
    still writing.




To Capture a Unicorn


    (Reading Umberto Eco)
  
    I heard
    someone telling me:
    to capture a unicorn,
    you’ll need to bring
    a virgin
    to a tree.
    When the unicorn senses
    the virgin’s scent,
    it’ll come over
    to penetrate
    its horn
    into her.
  
    I travelled to an orchard,
    found a virgin;
    led her to a tree
    and told her to sit
    with her legs slightly opened.
    She asked me how.
    Here, I showed her,
    touching her
    by accident.
  
    After that, I felt
    she’s no longer pure.
    She asked me, so how
    are we going
    to capture a unicorn now?
    I heard
    someone telling me:
    You
    are the unicorn.
  
    And then, I realized
    her thighs
    were around my back.
    Rein in her hands,
    she pulled my septum ring,
    jolting all the way,
    took me
    back to the orchard.




A Poem I Cannot Title


    I write about the living.
    I use the five senses to write
    pomegranate, sound of wind, scent of tea.
    Sometimes I ponder on things beyond the senses,
    love, boundaries,
    even things subverting the prevailing values.
    When bored, I pick up your anthology,
    thinking about death.
    Like a mouse in the corner at midnight,
    chipping away time,
    gnawing at your verses,
    exploring deeper and deeper
    as if tree roots are stretching,
    reaching for a title.
  
    A form of freedom is beyond the senses.
    The flipside is far beyond the reach of our sight.
    Are verses from heaven harder to understand?
    I am still alive, but you have long passed away.
    To me,
    nothing
    is stranger
    than translating your poems.
    And I write about the living.




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