In Taiwan

Everyone quotes poets and philosophers

with ease: Li Po, Confucius, Lao Tzu, Lao Zi.

We burned paper houses, paper Mercedes

assuring ancestral comforts in heaven.

Why Comedians Make Excellent Poets (but rarely vice-versa)

I am not a funny poet. If I am, it's usually unintentional. :) But I love to laugh and I love certain poetry, so in thinking about poets I most admire folks like Tony Hoagland and Matt Cook come to mind. Not just because they wield words wryly and thoughtfully, but because they're also damn funny--and truthful--and not afraid to say it like it is. To do so and still leave an impression on readers long after the poem has been read is the mark of true genius. 


Truth is, I find poetic inspiration from comedians more so than contemporary poets, though I like to pretend I am both. But really, just think about it for a moment: everything that makes a good joke makes a good poem; most of what makes a good comedian makes a good poet. Look at Stephen Colbert, for example, and the ways his humor mixes with tongue-in-cheek but nonetheless relevant complexities of human language and human nature, particularly during  "The Word" segment of his show. Hey, thanks to Colbert, "truthiness" is now an official part of the American lexicon. Next up? Wikiality or Absinthethinence? What about Americon Dream or Blackwashing? C'mon Webster, whadya say?

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
The Word - Truthiness
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Skate Expectations

l a n g u a g e | o f | h a n d s

Once in India we stood on the edge of a grave 

and looked down at the bones inside. I could not tell

the women from the men or which hands killed;
marveling at the identical stillness; their pelvises

opened the same, like prayer books lacking words.

h a n s e l | c a n c e l s | t h e r a p y | s e s s i o n | w i t h | g r e t e l

Pt. canceled session w/sister via letter.

No interest in rescheduling. Follow up

Calls on 10/10 and 10/15 unsuccessful;

Billed ins. for missed appt. Current pt.

Status unknown. –Dr. X.

d e a r | f a t h e r

I know you wanted to be scattered like seeds 

across water; dust and ashes and one final sunset. 

Story goes that Mama, stuck inside her grief,

decided to shellac the body, covering it 

with kisses and glaze: a homemade varnish

to seal your soul inside. No one knows 

what to do with such information.

a u b a d e

I wake up to my face mopping up the sunlight. 

It’s bright. The bed is cold, his side especially. 

t r u e | b u g s

In water and on land

I take my beating

trays to capture you;

a simple wish:

I want to hold you

prisoner inside

i m a g o | i m a g i n e s

You know I want you
to heal my childhood
wounds. Instead I am

shedding skin and
asking you for sex
then happiness, in that

order of indulgences.

s i r e n

I became a criminal when I fell in love.
Before that I was a waitress.


I didn't want to go to Chicago with you.
I wanted to marry you, I wanted
Your wife to suffer.


I wanted her life to be like a play
In which all the parts are sad parts.

w h a t | r e m a i n s

This is an updated version of my poem 
"What Remains," originally published 
in tinfoildresses poetry journal, sp 09.

Mid-November melts like the edges of spring,

calling back the wasted days we lost together:

specks of dust caught in the Santa Ana winds.

Apologies*

Clockwise
From the Left
To the Believer

With bonus items
Such as free
(incidental)
Revisionist
History
Of teeth.

More teeth are available

My Father's Murder: an erasure poem

My father
killed the year
before I was
born. Mother lived--
crooked and paid off
with a set diamond
filled with rocks, changing
older people into children
(or at least it seemed)
Especially to my dad,
who was at work
on Euthanasia
and retirement:
an idea given to him
by a large sunporch
constantly distracted
by tiny screens.

Between the Blades

Rural Wisconsin crime is on the rise in Dodge County
Three drunken townies (indebted to Hank’s Bar from liquored bets)
Arrested Friday for stealing farm implements from
Good folk who'd never steal so much
As a penny (Coveting another man’s wife is
A story for another time). My old neighbor Alan
George had his hay mower
Stolen while circling crops along Old Township Road.
Sturtevant police found it two days later--
Battered and tattered and cold to the touch
In a field two counties over, playing cards stuffed
Between the blades.
_

911

white ribbons on blue
the sky is falling; meanwhile
the other shoe drops.
_

Passing Gesture

After William Stafford

When driving I like ambled cozy roadways
In weather give me sun glazed with ice
Melancholy and young antics amuse me
In choosing I don't care to think twice.
Uncomfortable in both center and country
For colors I prefer blues and greens
Personalities laced with anger upset me
In bodies show me hulking not lean.

(wish) bones

draft 1

Once in India I stood on the edge of a grave
and looked down at the bones inside. I could not tell
the women from the men or which hands killed.
Looking up in faith and back down again I marveled
at their identical stillness—their pelvises all opened up
the same, like prayer books lacking words. Anger still lingers on

hands stagnancy puffing up rivers of veins no longer
running beneath bruised and cracking skin. The language of hands
another current flowing along vast rivers of words. Christians (like you?)
imagine God with hands but I am not so sure about this.
Even monkeys are taught to speak with their hands.
Babies discover their hands when they are six weeks old.

Two for Two

-For Rachel and Amy

I.
For the first time in my life
I was not scared. I was a shining
face dripping with sweaty pride
when she broke me--bruised flesh tearing open.
She entered the world sideways. Doctors
call it breech, but it was just her way of doing things
needing one last look before saying goodbye.

Even Now

Note: My poem is a sestina. They're tricky little buggers to write!

Naked, she reads his bruised skin like Braille, leaving
nothing to chance. A baby bird in her hand, fallen.
Knowing there is nothing to do but stay. Lightly
he left her without knowing it was so. Still, the sun rose.
Winter thawed, and the bluebirds flew back to nest. Even
the postman returned each week with another undeliverable letter.

Returned to sender, letter upon letter--
rejected more times than she can remember. He leaves
unopened secrets between them. We’re even
now, she writes, tucked inside quilted flowers, chewed pencil falling
unnoticed, still swollen with love. Nothing but a fat pink rose
drooping in the ochre light.

She leans down and wraps her mouth lightly
around the lead. The deep folds of night sky let her
know what she cannot, unbidden strength rising
through the ether of the attic’s purple eaves.
No words remain unwritten. And though stars fall
and turn their back on her, she still calls it even.

The wind sighs. Clouds billow, and shadows appear (even
regret makes her lucid). She faces the window, rising. Light
graying with dawn, her blue eyes brighten. The fresh air fells
all wounds, invisible and not. Healed, she traces a letter
with her fingertip (slips the others between her legs), left
hand making a trail with his name. Her hips still rise

Without permission. Dry skin rubs wet skin, a rising
cry from inside her hits the air sharp and sad. Even
coming alone he empties her body of desire. Leaves
her mouth aflame (takes a drag) a glowing ash of light.
Still, it is over (she prays for the last time). He’ll let her
go, (scattering seed, ash). How quickly darkness falls.

The hour is late. All that remains is the rise and fall
of breath. She comes to and discovers even the risen
still cleave to the sheets in despair. Another letter
burns to ash, hidden secrets gathering power. Even
if this is all there is, she knows it’s enough--lightly
holding the smoldering reliquary, only smoke and cinders left

To burn without a flame (embers falling, lovers leaving)
Still she rises with thumb-shut eyes as early shafts of light
Drop upon her like blessings (or cherished letters, opened even!).
                                                                                                 _                                                                                               

bird by bird

Bird

by

Bird

* * *

Before her

birds are rising--  

the early break of

light a blink away. She

opens the front door, heart

still crowded with longing as

the house breaths out  his smell.

Believing he’s a cardinal atop her

Evergreen she rues the birds clearly

saying loud things in whistles she can

no longer understand. In the doorway she

stands eyeing his blotch of brilliant red on a

dark green stain. Alone she enters the soft pink

belly of home, gradually curls up embracing

the departing moon outside the glassy

pane. The birds in huddled bundles

wait for it, silent songbirds ‘til

the moment of beginning

Gray unweaving from

the stars, unfurling

light across the

low horizon.

She greets

herself

arriving

with her

cross

arms,

held

in

defiant

surrender.

Against her

hands a new

dawn turns her

spread pale fingers

into feathers made of

wax. She sees herself in

his eyes, suddenly backed

over the bed, panties discarded.

Slips her hand between her legs,

quickly coming to think she hears him

say her name again, soft like grass swishing

at water’s edge. She knows better than to imagine

that way. But the cardinal speaks to her in language

she mistakes as her own memories of her

favored breast (left) hungry in

his mouth-- passion flowing

in waves like hands

that pull forever

towards the

shore.

Crafting a Ghazal For A Poetess

I'm writing my first ghazal (ghuzzle). The ghazal is one of the trickier forms. It's a form I'm increasingly interested in as a poet and reader.

Here are basic terms we need to know for ghazals:

• sher = a couplet

• matla= the opening couplet

• makhta = the closing or "signature" couplet

• beher = the meter (and length) of the couplets

• radif = the refrain of the ghazal. This is a word or phrase repeated in each couplet's second line and in both lines of the opening couplet.
  

• quafia = the rhyming word(s) used right before the refrain in each couplet's second line and right before the refrain in both lines of the opening couplet.
  

Okay, here's my basic understanding of essential elements:

• Ghazals (pronounced “ghuzzle”) are an ancient form of poetry and typically contain 5-12 couplets.
• Ghazals originated with 6th century pre-Islamic Arabic verse.
  
• Ghazals are intense; this is no lighthearted poem.
  
• Focus on separation and unattainable or unrequited love.
  
• Ghazals typically express the pain of loss/separation and the beauty of love in spite of that pain.
• Ghazals (written by Rumi, Hafiz, etc.) are a type of Oriental lyric poetry, at times erotic.
  
• No enjambment across the couplets allowed in a strict ghazal;
• Each couplet (or sher) must be a complete thought and sentence or two standing alone but working with the topic.
• Each couplet stands alone as a miniature poem within the poem.
  
• Each couplet a “poetic glance” with its own content and meaning.
• Each couplet (or sher) must share the same length and meter(or beher)throughout the entire poem.
  
• Ghazals are known for their DISunion (shers loosely associated).
• Since the "radif" repeats it negates the need for a rhyme scheme
• The sound of the "radif" echoes its orgin as a sung poem where audiences repeated the refrain along with the poet.
• The first couplet sets the tone, theme, meter, rhyme,refrain
  
• ONLY the opening couplet uses the refrain(radif) and rhyme (quafia) in both lines.

Notice this opening couplet
from Annie Finch's poem*,
"Ghazal For A Poetess":

• The first two lines (or “matla”) set the refrain (or “radif”)
• and the rhyme (“quafia”), which comes before the refrain (radif), which can be one word or a phrase, as below.
  

The corners of the frontispiece yellow from their darker edges.

Aching eyes lift in tremolo from their darker edges.

• Hereafter, the rhyme and refrain appear only in each couplet's secondline.

Moonlit your blood in the jasmine blooming gardens;

Bodies still glide in tableau from their darker edges.

• Note how the quafia (tableau/yellow/tremelo) place immediately before the radif or refrain (from their darker edges).

Your "hungry soul" laps at the page with its "burning, burning":

your moans send out an echo from their darker edges.

• The final (signature) couplet (or makhta) below signals the end of the poem AND the final line usually contains the author's name cleverly hidden within it.

Your nights spread quiet over "parched and dreary" sand.

A Finch fills them til they glow from their darker edges.

This is the premise and basic form and design of the ghazal, but it takes a lot of practice to write one well. Be gentle on me as I learn how to craft one. If anyone would like to share a ghazal they or someone else wrote, please do in the comments section or email me. If interested in publishing your previously unpublished ghazal,I'd encourage you to submit your poem(s to 42opus. Join the madness!



*Read Annie Finch's ghazal in its entirety here.