The top quite gone Except for a sort of hinge Of skin, A flap like a hat, Dead white. Then that red plush.
Delmore Schwartz After a supper of roasted lamb and eggplant,!
She places the small gold cups just so on the Quaker lace. Scolding him, and blessing herself in Arabic, ,IDOther pours more thick coffee, her hand glitters with diamonds and platinum, gifts, my father insisted in the beginning she have, offered to her like Van Gogh's profusion of stars.
And her eyes darting into the camera like that. She quickly reminds everyone that he carried her pictures all over the world those seven years before they married. I was his girl even then, she says. When the house is empty mother sits alone in front of the T.
Father's already asleep in the small room off the kitchen, having given himself up to the next small loss, to King's Display where, in a shabby darkroom on West 45th Street he will turn out more prints, foot blowups of movie stars, heroes on the marquee, the crowds passing by.
And in the dark your words striking dead center, isolated, you said, I am my own community, we like everything we write. And when the young woman you loved wrecked your car, you offered gently- older women are best.
And later when I wrote of bleaching my hair blond, named every other mad impulse, you encouraged me and promised a reunion in December. Anything to bring it back, those hot August nights, roses and Glenlivet and the smell of lobster shells simmering in cognac. But Dean, fading immortality granted, coincidence gone forever, still we can live on air for a night.
Friends gathered, we'lllisten to your songs again, though half drunk you won't remember the words-we' II forgive your persistence, your off-handed confessions that keep us humble, and finally your falling asleep mid- line, cigarette in hand, burning. Then just the sound of your breathing will be music enough.
I look at my own arms; hand bone Connected to wrist bone; wrist bone Connected to arm bone, And remember skeletons I have seen, The precision of motionhow it is Just so I can make tools, even language: WCt heat antiflies while the sun settles Comfortable in the pines, Or: I row to shore and with the chak chak In the gunwhales I perform another Complex motion.
But what comes To mind, rather than flight Or even grace is dry bones, Angular connections, An equation of push and pull. I bind slick rope to its post, Wishing I could ftx my own lines Of thought as easily.
That which I praise Above understanding, must be pleaswe, Nonhern wind and water, evergreens And wide-spanned birds, and my words for themGesturing as if in convergence.
Rim of treesthick with steam-mist soothe suggest night, but the lake pewter in the nascent sun. She wakes, already he has woken. He moves towards her. A lazy Lazarus, plump, malodorous, he drags his dumb bundle over drought-brown ruts to browse on ferns, and fierce as butter he purrs to the birds: I don't understand the dark.
The sun makes me blink and the world a blur. There is a word for what I've heard the worms make with their long lips and turns, a curse I cannot learn: Does the rain make it worse?Three Uses of Chopsticks from Hilo Rains By Juliet S.
Kono (Lee) I.
Post on Jan views. Category: Documents. 1 download. Report. Download; DESCRIPTION. Cut Â Â What a thrill - My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone Except for a sort of hinge Of skin, A flap like a hat, Dead white. Then that red plush. draws a pair of long steel chopsticks from their case. She picks up the char-free bones left among the ashes: fragments of hip bones, pieces of skull, parts of teeth.
She drops them into an urn. She then ties a black cloth around the copper box, sticks flowers into the square knot, and folds her .
The clear concesus was that one of the thngs that makes goodpoetry really good is that it is susceptible to many different interpretations (from Hilo Rains by Juliet Kono Lee) Three uses of Chopsticks.
draws a pair of long steel chopsticks. from their case. She picks up. the char-free bones. left among the ashes: fragments of hip bones, pieces of skull, parts of teeth.
She drops them into an urn. She then ties a black cloth. around the copper box, sticks flowers into the .
Juliet S. Kono PEARLS I hung my face like a moon over the galvanized kitchen sink to watch mother clean the aholehole father caught while pole fishing offSuisan, a sampan dock, in Waiakea Village.
Painting has been the preferred form of artistic expression in Japan and Japanese artists have developed various styles along the years, including the sumi-e (ink wash painting) and ukiyo-e (a genre of woodblock prints and paintings) styles, which are well known across the world.