Tuesday, April 30, 2013

LAST POEM for Tupelo Press's 30/30 Project


Day 30: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month) 
AT THE BAR

“Tell me how you write thirty poems,” 
a pirate says. 

He opens up a cold 
beer and hands it to me.

I say that it is easy 
like a serpentine dragon 

flying though a keyhole. Perhaps, 
it is more like a goldfish, lost in orange 

juice when I accidently drink it.

Either metaphor does not 
get through to the God damned pirate. 

I meet Queen Elizabeth in California too. She rules 
every green golf course 

and teaches me how to own it. Her tired 
poets are clogged in the beautiful fountains.

“You don’t want” 

adorns the kites reflected in the water. 

In her sparkling purse, I find 
a picture of Dachau on April 29, 1945. 

All the survivors waive at the sun 
faded sky that 

I want twenty seven minutes 

before the first day of May.

I scream, “!”


NOTE*** I received the following requested words for my last poem. (Death of a poetry session, Sun fades, Tired poet, Pirates, Kites, Fish, Orange juice, Beer, How you came to rule the world, Elizabeth, Serpantine Dragon, and Dachau)


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Monday, April 29, 2013

1 DAY LEFT!


Day 29: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month) 

STILL LIFE

I want your eyes.

Above the moors,

a sudden crack
cuts through a cloud

after a drizzle.

A herd of deer

rests around flaming
ginkgo leaves

on an upright piano.

Your finger plays
with the cold stain on the notebook.

A lead pencil drops.

Your loose shoe lace
tangles like your poem.

I still have an obedient

heart to write one last word.






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Sunday, April 28, 2013

2 DAYS LEFT!!

Day 28: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)

The Condition of 1992

The best bread I ever had was seventeen years ago.
My grandfather drove a red
scooter and stole from an alley;
expired crusts for pigeons in Tokugawa park.
My parents still own
an apartment near that park. Dew softened
sakura-leaves,
I used to press the white petals in a zoography book
between the pages on tufted puffin.
I read about the bird in the evening, 1992.
Then my grandfather had a stroke.
My sister and I ate McDonald’s using ten dollars each,
worried about the sleeping pigeons. No crusts.
We sat on our parent’s bed. The moth wings
scattered where tufted puffin lives.


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Saturday, April 27, 2013

3 DAYS LEFT!!!


Day 27: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)

RHAPSODY IN SPRING  

I lay under the piano when the eighty-eight’s revolutions 
reverberate in my skull and spine. Tomorrow morning, 
I may not be here, for example. Just like a ghost falls into a 
grass-colored bedspread and tosses my heart away 
from my ribs. I close my eyes to remember how to create 
millions of words. Fingers trill the keys like an avalanche. 
From the window, I see hail bulleting the soil.  


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Friday, April 26, 2013

4 DAYS LEFT!!!!


Day 26: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)

THE DRUNK

I want to kill your cat
...............(and make a purse from the fur)

It sleeps on your lap
...............(and you snore like a pig with empty bottles)

A shoestring noose around its neck

Murder is not a solution
...............(and I shovel gravel outside at the garden) 

on my ordinary Thursday  



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Thursday, April 25, 2013

5 DAYS LEFT!!!

Day 25: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


GLASS CEILING


The yellow thistles 

creep up the land and bloom. I lose 
my shoes at a sandpit and wear shorts.

No regrets to die today.

The spangled ice 

falls at night. I collect 
shooting meteors by riding a bicycle.

I am too 
young to be a poet. I want 

to be a ghost hunter.

Could I live three more days or thirty years?

A deer decays 

on the spring snow. I open 

a refrigerator, take out bologna, 
and drop tomatos on the kitchen floor.

Binoculars are sold 

at the edge of universe. I find 
a rabbit in the whiteout.  

Time ticks. I cannot 
open the spaghetti jar.  
  
Boiling water splashes 

on my eyes.  



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Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Day 24: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


UNTITLED

When there is no 
poem in a starless night,

I search for a water lily. I follow 
the long radish roots into a deep

pond. No light. No life, 

but I hear my heart beating. 

I want to breathe one more time.

Then the water beads 

rise against gravity to the lighthouse. 
Plumes of iridescent 

dust fall onto my legs. I stand 

and watch first the moon, 
and then the earth slowly 

disappear into the dark matter. 
Everything is like crushed 

green eggshells in my hand.

After the small particles 
smolder, another 

cosmic explosion swirls.

I celebrate 

being a part of it.



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Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Remember!!! 7 Days Left

As a part of my 30 poems / 30 days project by Tupelo Press, I am organizing a raffle. A total of four winners will receive gifts from me in May.

I am super appreciative of the people that are emotionally supporting me every day and who have generously donated to the project. After the project is done, I would like to design "Thank You" postcards with all doners' names. I am still brain-storming on the design; however, you won't be disappointed.

When people donate, they will receive my original "Thank You" postcard. And the four selected top people will receive the winning gifts.    



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(When you donate, please kindly put my name)

Day 23: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


HALF

There is my half heart. 

I find it 

in my mother’s womb. It doesn’t 
permeate through the placenta.

That is why I’m not falling in love.

When I peel white paint from the iron 
balustrade at your lake house, you entangle 
sanded sheets in a net of stars 

and write a poem.

Am I dying without knowing my naked 

body under the moonlight?


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Monday, April 22, 2013

Day 22: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


Clean the Closet on Non-Working Day

“Is it so stupid typing barcode numbers?” 
I said when I vacuumed. 

I want to play Debussy 
in the city hall of an emerald city, 

but my 220 lb butt is filled with filtered 
office water; though I try not to snack 

on the peanuts at my desk. I toss 
torn black stockings. Fifteen

jeans are on a shelf and I cannot 
fit in them. I am extremely jealous 

of the sinking woman who drowned 
after she sang a love song. She was opera-fat but 

beautiful in the winter lake. Yet, 

I have not recognized her loneliness 
and vexation of not being a wife. 

“Still vacuuming?” you looked into the closet. 



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Sunday, April 21, 2013

Day 21: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)

ON THE BED

Your head is sunken
into the white pillow cases. I put
my chin on your shoulder and ask,
“Did Virginia Woolf sleep like this?”
Your warm socks are curled
up on the carpet. It is snowing powder
outside and young sprouts
shrivel and yellow at the edge.
“Probably not,” you say. I stroke
your backbone with my forefinger.
Your shoulders are cold and
pale under the weight of unemployment years.



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Saturday, April 20, 2013

Thank You Gifts from Naoko!

As a part of my 30 poems / 30 days project by Tupelo Press, I am organizing a raffle. A total of four winners will receive gifts from me in May. 


I am super appreciative of the people that are emotionally supporting me every day and who have generously donated to the project. After the project is done, I would like to design "Thank You" postcards with all doners' names. I am still brain-storming on the design; however, you won't be disappointed.

When people donate, they will receive my original "Thank You" postcard. And the four selected top people will receive the winning gifts.    




**Please Support and Donate*** 
(When you donate, please kindly put my name)

Visually Experimental Poem Part 3




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Friday, April 19, 2013

Only 11 Days Left!!

Thank you very much for your donation. My goal is $250 and I've almost reached my goal!! Your kind donation will be great help to support Tupelo Press and poetry society. 





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Day 19: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


MUGWORT’S LEAVES 

I talked to my grandfather 
three days before his death.

He asked, “Are you still itchy?”

My skin has just 
never stayed on my cheeks,

my whole life 
it has been dry.

He used to pick a mugwort’s leaves 
and boil them to make lotion.

I hated the green-brown 
liquid on my body. Sometimes 

he cut aloe leaves 
open for their soft insides.

The white veins were sticky on my fingers.  

“It may cure your skin when you marry,” 
and he gave me ice-cream 

before we played hide & seek. I curled up 
in the closet. It smelled of fur coats. 

I touched them with my wet 
hands. They repelled 

water like geese cut through snow 
while flying in the February 

sky. I rubbed my cheeks 
against the fur. Pieces of my skin 

flaked off. I scraped them 

until my nails 
split, until he found me.



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Thursday, April 18, 2013

Day 18: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)

JAPANESE APRICOT WINE

My mother makes Japanese 
apricot wine every April.

She places the bottles in a dark 
corner of the kitchen cabinet. On a plain 

table, a handful of fruits are piled. She puts 
daffodils in a vase, but her room is always 

gray at the hospice. After I brush her long 
hair, she says, “They taste good this year.”

Tonight, when cosmic dust falls 

into Jupiter, I open her last bottle. The sweet 
smell spreads in the room like a cloudy 

green nebula. I pray that stars 
upon stars scatter in her breasts 

and vaporize those overflowing cells…
  
The half eaten apricot is 

brown. 

She leaves it behind.



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Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Day 17: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)

GREEN STURGEON

after the tsunami on 3/11/2011 

Again, blue dusk 

fills my broken house. A sleek 
sturgeon is still dead in my backyard.

“Let’s remove it and build a new house,” I say.

I always wanted long 
hemp curtains. I am looking through them, 

waiting for my sister. Her 

cancer is spreading to her bones 
and brains. She is not 

yet in the drawer in the hospital. I cut off 

the fins and tail. The spine is hard, 
but the skin is like a gigantic rubber 

doll. Once I got it from the summer 
festival. When I squeezed it, 

my fingers were dyed 

dark blue.

I touched my sister’s cheeks. We run miles 
and miles along the seashore 

screaming an old nameless song.

Seagulls fly above me 
when the spine drops on the sand.

The sturgeon’s abdomen is white, 
but it slowly turns into muddy red.



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Monday, April 15, 2013

Are You Reading My Poems?

Thank you very much for donating me last week! Please kindly help me to reach my goal, $250. My current total is $115. Do you like my poems? If so, please donate!

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Visually Experimental Poem

Day 15: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)







Sunday, April 14, 2013

Day 14: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


UNNATURAL VIOLENCE

My father had never slapped anything.

Even he did not kill a long-legged 
wasp carrying spring 

dirt from the field. He poked it 
with a flyswatter and said, 
“Please leave, Mr. Bee…” 

My mother said, 
“Kill it now,” 

and brought insecticide.

We used to live on the fifteenth 
floor,  but we occasionally had wasps. 

My sister and I dropped 
things like dolls, colored pencils, 

and gumballs over the balcony. 

Sometimes these things 
stayed in one piece. 

When we could not find 
the doll’s left arm, we climbed up 

a fence in the dark quadrangle. 

There was a small wreath. 

We looked up at the building 
and saw a narrow 

square of gray sky.  

My sister asked, 
“Did someone jump?”

We quickly recited a Buddist sutra and ran.






Thursday, April 11, 2013

Day 11: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)

MY GRANDFATHER’S PORTRAIT


When the doors were closed,
the power was cut off.

My grandfather built that house.

When he left China
he smuggled fifty pounds of sugar.

Two bags were tied around his arms
and legs with his torn passport

and his mother’s broken glasses.

He wrapped the sugar in tiny little bits
and sold it in the black market.

He waited for a land owner standing
in a burnt field for seventy three days.

The owner said, “Cash only.”

After the war,

my grandfather used to sell linens
downstairs. But the office smelled like

calligraphy ink and cigarettes.

The iron stairs were by a street
lined with poplar trees. He did not listen to the radio

or records, but his feet tapped
rhythms like ceramic

marionettes in his dark room.