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Showing posts from November, 2009
FEBRUARY, 1983

Snow spattering on your mouth;
it’s February and you birthed me.

Many ice petals dropped to the floor
and you lost your tranquility in 1983.

Hanged man, please grow
wild and luminous. Please kill my child.

How many times have you recited it
in twenty seven years?

When I burnt your grand piano? When I married
a foreigner who you’ve never met?

Blue needles cling to your sagged breasts
but you still remember the day

in a cold hospital. My father stroked
your back to lift your pain.

You know—
I am almost your age when you had me.

Gazing on mute green plants,
I wander from room to room and sit

by the window with my hand
extended. A cat softly

jumps onto my thighs;
the weight of its curled

body. The heart beating sound
a spring storm makes.
Writing Carrier

So I had a couple of job interviews in Boston and understood that companies were looking for creative, brilliant, cooperative (in a Japanese way), and extremely hard working graduates. My resume looks like one of their resumes— higher education, bilingual, and experiences in many countries— but then interviewers would ask, “Publications in poetry?”

They smiled at me and I asked myself, Do I really want to research, analyze, finance, and calculate and all the business works for ten years?

No, I do not want to do that, I answered. Then, I addressed my sitting audience, “Thank you for having an interview with me.”

Because of this economic situation, it was extremely difficult to get an interview appointment with companies, so I was lucky to meet interviewers altogether. But I was not the right person to work for those companies, even with copy writing or editing jobs.

Then my mother said, “You are not realistic in your life. Look at your sister. She is only twenty five…
I am visiting Boston for job interviews; however, my spirit is loitering at Harvard Book Store and Grolier Poetry Book shop. There are used books everywhere in Boston.

Inside of Grolier Poetry Book Shop
So far, I purchased these books.
Cat, bows from my bridal shower, and new camera from Kelli.
"At a Station" is accepted by Potomac Review.

***

AT A STATION

I forgot my umbrella in a subway
because Kappa asked me for a cup of coffee.

Water boiled in a saucer on his head.
He crossed

his green legs and said,
tell me why you hate awaking—

I closed the bestiary and left the train.
On the ground, it’s

drizzling; drizzles of crystalline gravel,
blue gravel, a moonlit ejaculate. I want

water with ice;
ice from the North Pole. A polar bear kills

a seal on a sheet of ice. Its blood merges
blue into blue in the ocean. A blind

woman plays the harpsichord. A few
pence chime in a tin can. I was once

sixteen years old; nothing;
nothing but miraculous blue.
MISERY
By Rin Ishigaki
Translated by Naoko Fujimoto

When I complain,
my father says,
“Please be patient;
I’ll leave soon;”
as if he is a disposable Post-It note.

His words are not consoling;
they are a threat; .....I tell him
and I become angry.

Last year, my grandfather died and
his remains stay on one tatami-mat,
so this small room looks enormous.

I cried and attended his funeral;
my family and his extended family said,
“You are relived from this burden.”
That is consolation for me and
that is their kindest farewell
to him who loved me more than anybody else.

One year later,
my paraplegic father and
sick stepmother sleep beside each other
begging,
“We’ll leave very soon. Be patient, please.”

This disconsolate memory
becomes the past, leaving my living father behind,
I cannot escape
from this memory.


*Ishigaki, Rin. Ishigaki Rin Shisyuu. Tokyo: Shicyousya, 1981.

***
貧乏
石垣 りん 作

私がぐちをこぼすと
「がまんしておくれ
じきに私は片づくから」と
父はいうのだ
まるで一寸した用事のように。

それはなぐさめではない
脅迫だ  と
私はおこるのだが、

去年祖父が死んで
残ったものはたたみ一畳の広さ、
それがこの狭い家に非常に有効だった。

私は泣きな…