POEM
BunkerLOS ANGELES 10 July 2010 |
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i don’t know
if everything they told me
is true,
about statues carved in stone
that blinked in the chilean sun,
about grandfather’s deal
with the russians to save the family
as the communists came.
these are questions
i allowed myself to forget in ‘99
soon after
mother asked me what
she should do
about the tumor
in her stomach.
it is a monday
for all of us—
sons, fathers,
street sweepers,
to forgotten things
on the pavement,
a box of books,
most of them in tact,
on 7th street.
my parents only taught me
what was given them,
this ability to spill
inward,
to hold our blood
inside us
in bowls made
from hollowed trees
until the weight
of what survives us
gives us comfort.
my father—
and mother too—
wanted me to learn
to keep my eyes
on the ending,
to call death
by a familiar name,
giving me god
so i can embrace it.
how mother—
and father too—
held me until
i was able
to release these poems
that cannot
save us,
to whistle down
the street
on the intermittent yellow paint
in the center,
to the fire,
to skeletons of ancestors,
to the disappearing shadows
of a neighbor that stood thinking,
to the glory
of these things
we have not known.
it is monday,
but how can i speak
of the sky,
a blue that isn’t blue,
when we are
in the basement food court
of a koreatown mall,
eating spicy burnt rice
from stone bowls,
sitting in these end of days
in this bunker
beneath
the world we have fought
to love
as father keeps himself
from smiling at me,
a bunker that will
not hold forever
but long enough
for mother to drop seaweed
on my food
with her wooden chopsticks,
long enough for me
to protest.
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A fine poem, Chiwan. I especially liked the poignant close:
“a bunker that will
not hold forever
but long enough
for mother to drop seaweed
on my food
with her wooden chopsticks,
long enough for me
to protest.”
Such a beautiful poem, Chiwan. I feel honored to know you and work with you. Cheers.
This is really beautiful. I could almost hear it being read aloud as I silently sat here and read the words. That was kind of amazing.
thank you Gloria & Judy. glad you like it. it’s a relatively new piece that will be part of my next collection that revolves around aliens and the apocalypse.
and rich, much gratitude.
INCREDIBLE!
Chiwan, certain lines in here just *vibrate*.
“to call death
by a familiar name,
giving me god
so i can embrace it.”
and…
“this ability to spill
inward,
to hold our blood
inside us
in bowls made
from hollowed trees”
and…
“eating spicy burnt rice
from stone bowls,
sitting in these end of days
in this bunker
beneath
the world we have fought
to love”
You have a way, sir.
thank you sheree.
and no no, erika, it is you who have a way.
“my parents only taught me
what was given them,
this ability to spill
inward,
to hold our blood
inside us”
Without sharing your background, Chiwan, I can say this rang so true to me. As, I would hope, it would ring true to anyone.
We have so many goddamn good writers and poets around here. It’s an honour to be part of TNB. It really is.
thanks simon.
TNB indeed got some good writers.
i drink to it.
This is beautiful.
Well, the faster among the TNBers have already ratted out the lovely purple passages, so I’ll just come along and [aol]me too[/aol]. Very poignant poem. Welcome to TNB.
thanks zara and uche.
i’ll keep writing more and forcing mr. ferguson to post them.
Chiwan,
Bulls eye! Your laser vision has hit a nerve. In all the right places. Again.
I love your poem.
xo
Barbara