酷我-北美枫

i HEAR Calliope Humming?! co-authored with ericcoliu

Dedicated to Rodney L. Eisenbrand whose rodryu constantly surprise me and whose latest rodryu entitled Rodryu stirs my emotions and imagination

Notes:

1 As a form of poetry, rodryu is Eisenbrand-esque senryu. One of Rodney L. Eisenbrand’s personal quotes is as follows: I can't always follow the rules so sometimes I break, umm.

2 Below are the poem text of Rodnyu by Rodney L. Eisenbrand and an excerpt from his reply to the comments on his poem:

Poem Text of Rodnyu

To be born with size
not having to wish other
wise and need extends.

An Excerpt from His Reply:

“Thanks everyone for the read and kind words, this is the only thing I have written in awhile, I need to draw in my thoughts they seem to have scattered lately, I cannot gather together anything coherent enough that I’m able to put it on paper.“ (emphasis mine)

3 Thinking of Li Bai While Waiting for Calliope is presequel to i HEAR Calliope Humming?!:

You promised
you would come to see me.
Through the lonely night,
I waited beneath the blossoms,
wondering if they kept their beauty
even when it was dark.

Raising my cup,
I enticed the moon,
for her, with my shadow
would make a party of three –
the moon knew
you were away from me.

Having never waited,
a woman like you
could hardly know
how long a night can be.

P.S. Any opinions, comments and especially critiques on i HEAR Calliope Humming?! would be much appreciated!

We are Virginia Tech (Convocation Poem by Nikki Giovanni)

The following is a convocation poem entitled We are Virginia Tech, which was delivered by Nikki Giovanni on April 17, 2007 (Via Transcript of Nikki Giovanni's Convocation address):

We are Virginia Tech.

We are sad today, and we will be sad for quite a while. We are not moving on, we are embracing our mourning.

We are Virginia Tech.

We are strong enough to stand tall tearlessly, we are brave enough to bend to cry, and we are sad enough to know that we must laugh again.

We are Virginia Tech.

We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did nothing to deserve it, but neither does a child in Africa dying of AIDS, neither do the invisible children walking the night away to avoid being captured by the rogue army, neither does the baby elephant watching his community being devastated for ivory, neither does the Mexican child looking for fresh water, neither does the Appalachian infant killed in the middle of the night in his crib in the home his father built with his own hands being run over by a boulder because the land was destabilized. No one deserves a tragedy.

We are Virginia Tech.

The Hokie Nation embraces our own and reaches out with open heart and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. We are strong, and brave, and innocent, and unafraid. We are better than we think and not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imaginations and the possibilities. We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness.

We are the Hokies.

We will prevail.

We will prevail.

We will prevail.

We are Virginia Tech.

Watch Nikki Giovanni Recite her poem at the Virginia Tech Memorial Convocation

Notes:

1 Nikki Giovanni is an award-winning American poet and activist, and she is currently a Distinguished Professor of English at Virginia Tech. She once taught the Virginia Tech shooter Seung-Hui Cho in a poetry class and was offended by his “mean” behavior. On April 17, 2007, at the Virginia Tech Convocation commemorating the April 16 Virginia Tech massacre, she closed the ceremony with her poem, We are Virginia Tech.

After she finished reading her poem, the auditorium rose to its feet to applaud her, to applaud Virginia Tech, and the room was filled with "Let's Go, Hokies."

At that moment, a poet's words really opened the minds, bound the wounds and soothed the hearts.

As a lung cancer survivor, Giovanni’s poetry offers a guiding insight into human suffering, illness, and grief.

This poem is now the closing work in her new book entitled Bicycles.

2 Virginia Tech sponsors 18 sports and competes at the NCAA Division I level. Its sports teams are called the Hokies.

(The Winter of My Discontent has been published in the March Issue of Word Catalyst)

The Winter of My Discontent co-written by ericcoliu

I

cars in driveways
blanketed with blistery white --
snowfall

II

passing by each other
then disappearing --
footprints in the snow

III

steam rises from the kettle
as snow covers the swing set --
foggy windows

IV

TVs are off
blank faces still clutch remotes –
ice storm blackout

V

get to know snow
in both one’s mind and body --
buried

VI

meditating
while shovelling the driveway –
snow is just snow.

to be continued ...

Change I need (different from Obama’s Hope Commodity, short-short)

In the 1932 election, I voted for Franklin D. Roosevelt. Again, he got my vote in 1936, 1940, and 1944. After that, his name was no longer on the ballot, so I simply wrote his name down and voted for him anyway. My friends all thought I was nuts and lived in the long-gone past. But, in subsequent elections as I looked at the presidential candidates and their policy platforms, I saw no reason to give up my duty to vote responsibly. We are Americans and we want the best man, not a lesser good or evil man, as our President. Being a man of principle, I stood firm in my convictions and continued to vote for the best man.

Then in the 1960 election, my friends, this time including my talkative wife, eagerly appealed to my fear of where our country was headed. Their truly patriotic, not partisan, attitudes made me to think about whom was the best man this time and place. It was time to change, so I voted for John F. Kennedy for my president.

Of course, I was still a man of principle and never forgot my duty. I continued to pencil out the names on the ballot and kept voting for John F. Kennedy for my president. My friends, surely including my ex-wife, thought I was incurably nuts and snared by the haunting past. But, I still stood firm because of my sense of duty.

But now this year, 2008, they have been appealing to my fear of not only where our country is going to be headed, but also where my pension and house will be in the next few months, or maybe weeks. Our country is at a crossroads and we need change! Once again, I've been forced to rethink my choice for president. Doubtless, it is my duty!

Now, I’m on my way to the voting booth, and this time I’ll write in Martin Luther King and vote for him for my president. This is the change I need. I'm humming to myself along the way to the booth:

God Bless America,
Land that I love.
Stand beside her, and guide her
Thru the night with a light from above.
From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam
God bless America, My home sweet home.

Living for the moment (Contemporary Haibun)

Live one day at a time; each day has enough trouble of its own. Do not grieve over things past, for they are gone. Let bygones be bygones. Do not worry about things impending, for you have no control of them. Tomorrow will worry itself. Live for the present moment and make the most use of it.

Today, fully-lived, will make
every yesterday a memory of happiness
and each tomorrow a vision of hope.

At Night, by the Fire co-authored with ericcoliu (Cinquain)

Clocks ticked;
Time did not pass.
The sun rose, the sun set,
But the shadow remained unmoved.
Clocks ticks.

Passersby co-authored by ericcoliu

pass by
only to be replaced
pass, never return
pass, never join
goal-focused
walk down the street
pass by

Note:

This poem is inspired by my reading of the English Translation of Poteaux d’angle by Henri Michaux, a response to the main theme in his later work: its apprehension of a human affinity with cosmos.

Sevenling Sequence -- The Post-911 America: Seven Years Since

September 11, 2008 marked the seventh anniversary of 9/11. There were numerous memorial events in the New York City area, across the U.S.A., and even around the world to honour and remember the victims of September 11th and to come together as a supporting community of mankind.

In my view, one good thing coming out of 9/11 is that, generally speaking, Americans have been more willing to deal with their past(s) in all kinds of ways. Their responses to this national tragedy stimulated me to write a group of poems entitled The Post-911 America: Seven Years Since, a poem sequence which is based on my understanding of the American socio-religio-political contexts situated in the globalized war on terror, and which is written in the form of the sevenling. This sevenling sequence is written from differing points of view and perspectives from the Americans represented in the US media.

Preface by Christine

Give me your tired
your poor
your huddled masses

yearning to breathe freely
to live happily
to worship fearlessly

This is The Much Too Promised Land

Prologue by浴恩福

911
tears
no poetry

Seven years since
the dust has settled
the dead buried

This is our America(s)

I

I love three things alone:
doing my work, cutting my grass,
and renting DVDs at Blockbuster.

I despise all the PC talking heads,
And the two Americas rhetoric.
Get to work! Get a life!

I'm a proud American!

II

I only like three things:
drinking Bud, talking with Fox's Bill O’Reilly,
and dirt-track racing.

I detest Sam Walton but shop at his stores,
hate illegal aliens and yet forced to work with them.
Go back to where you came from! This is my country!

I’m a real American!

III:

I promise before God:
to reading the bible, to attend Sunday services,
and to pray at least three times a day.

I despise Godless atheists
And hedonistic pagans.
In god we trust! God Bless America!

I am a God-fearing American.

IV by ericcoliu

Unattended lawn.
A sullen man standing behind a makeshift counter.
Kids chasing after each other.

Brand new flat TVs, Nintendo video games, and Dell computers ...
Piles of rain-soaked This Old House magazines.
An exhausted woman amidst the haggling crowd.

In certain rituals we desire only what we cannot have.

Note:

This Old House, the companion magazine to a PBS home improvement and remodelling television show of the same title, “focuses on appreciation of craftsmanship and fine design, with the idea that the best value is derived from informed planning and the usage of premium materials and workmanship. Detailed information and photography provide an understanding of the equipment, materials and techniques needed to renovate a home, as well as how to communicate more effectively with architects, contractors, craftsmen, and designers.”

鹿柴，王維

空山不見人，但聞人語響。
返景入深林，復照青苔上。

English Translation

The Deer Enclosure

In the empty mountains,
There seems to be no one;
Yet, human echoes
Can be heard.

Returning sunlight
Enters the dark forest
And shines again
On green moss.

Alone in the Night co-authored with ericcoliu (Xiaoshi)

A blade of grass
bending in the breeze.
A small boat
floating on a calm lake.
The moon’s shadow
tossed about in the water.
A solitary crow
lost in the sky.

Just a Life: Damn Loneliness, An Echo to Fanfan's Year out and Year in

Loneliness –
A clock without hands.

Life –
A constant repetition.

Writing in the Sand: An Inspired Writer's Notes

ggggggggggggggggggggggggWriting a piece
ggggggggggggggggggggggggin the sand of the Internet …
gggggggggggggggggggggggga wave of clicks finishes it.

gggggggggggggggggggggggg-- paraphrasing the haiku by Stanford M. Forrester

The Supposition of the Act of Writing

At the core of the act of writing is the supposition that there is a certain unity to human experience. This means that when someone is telling something about his life story, he is talking about, to some degree, all of us. Every man has within himself the entire human condition.

Writing as an Social Act

Writing is an act of will and artistic expression, spending time on weaving the web of narratives. It is also a social act where the imagination of the reader meets that of the writer. Thus, in that sense, a piece of writing becomes like an agora, a marketplace of viewpoints brought by each of participants.

The Duality of the Writing Process

The writing process builds a double vision of the past and the present, the inside and the outside, and the envisioned and the experienced. It is a process of moving through two worlds at once, each hovering behind the other.

The Act of Writing

At times, the act of writing is like lying down on Freud's couch and lashing out what was well kept within. You explain it, impose some order upon it, and then lay it to rest

Autobiographic Writing

Autobiographic writing is a quest for one's inner standing. The life portrayed in an autobiography is not just something established but rather it is a process; it's not simply the narrative of a voyage but the voyage itself. Therefore, in the process of autobiographic writing, a sense of self has been transubstantiated

Narrativizing Life

Ending exists in art, but not in life -- short of our own breath. The moment the telling of a story is ended; it is immediately made unrealistic. By the same rationale, the moment a story begins; it is also unlike real life. Giving a narrative to any life event is basically a fantasy created by the human mind to rationalize the unfocused contingency of the real world.

Storytelling as a Process of Becoming Self

Storytelling is not a spectacle of the inner self striving to be let out, but an attempt of one's self to find identity in terms outside of oneself. The act of storytelling works dialogically -- not so much to claim that others recognize one's authenticity, but rather to fashion the recognitions for which one's story provides. To portray the inner self is possible only by portraying one's communion with another; in the interactions of one with another, the inner self can be revealed for others as well as for oneself. Stories, as in dialogues, do not present a self formed before the story is told; rather, in stories one becomes for the first time who he or she really is.

A Life Text

I compose my life out of the cracks in the wall of past memories and the dragon footprints of my future. The making of a life is similar to that of a text. I live by reading my own life stories; I read with imagination and a recollection of a life text: an inscription in the stone wall as well as an imagery infusing the maker with hope.

The writer

The writer is a man who is two: one observes, and the other acts. Mostly, the observer does nothing, but he is always there, a stranger to his surrounding world. And then, when it's absolutely necessary, he speaks out loudly through his writings.

The Writer's Work

The writer's work is to name the unnameable and to articulate the unspeakable; to point at frauds, take sides, start arguments, and stir up the world. And if rivers of blood flow from the cuts his writing inflicts, so be it for they will nourish him.

Lost

Rosy clouds in the sky,
Lone man by a lake;
Ripped shadow on the water,
Howling cries toward the clouds.

I, Alone: The Same Story and Two Endings co-written by ericcoliu

I came to Him, carrying wounded memories embedded in the flesh like splinters. I prayed to Him to help me take the sting out of my pain and push away the shards of my solitude.

I cried out to Him for hours, but no reply came. I gradually realized I was alone in the dark, and finally accepted that I was the one who would have to soothe the soul and calm the pain.

Alone in the dark, I was relieved, no longer re-living and re-telling "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

Commemorations are being held across the US today to mark the fortieth anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The civil rights leader and peace activist was gunned down April 4, 1968, at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. He was just thirty-nine years old.

Today, let's remember his wonderful life and help realize his dream. What follows is a poem written by Nordette Adams to commemorate Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Remembering A Life By Nordette Adams

I remember him in the misted vision of toddler years
and again in girlhood, the booming voice on TV,
someone grown-ups talked about, eyelids flapped wide.
Elders huddled ''round the screen enraptured,
in fear for him, in awe.

I remember him.
His words swept the land, singing our passion.
Dogs growled in streets. Men in sheets.
Police battering my people. (Water, a weapon.)
Yet my people would rejoice... And mourn.

I remember him, a fearsome warrior crying peace,
a man--blemished by clay, the stain of sin as
any other, calling on the Rock--
Death''s sickle on his coat tails,
yet he spied glory.

Shall we walk again and remember him,
not as the Madison Aveners do,
but in solitude and hope
with acts of courage and compassion,
with lives of greater scope
carving fresh paths of righteousness?

I remember.

Note:

Nordette Adams is a black woman, a mother, poet and contributing editor at Blogher.org