Poem – Page 2 – Clara Hsu

A Special Day

Special because Dore offered his creamy oatmeal in the morning. Special because there was a stream of birthday wishes on Facebook. Special because Jack Foley took me to one of his favorite haunts (Binh Minh Quan) in Oakland for lunch and prepared a “Clara Box” filled with poetry books. Special because Vern brought flowers. Special because Lawrence and his girlfriend Corrine drove two hours (stuck in traffic) from the East Bay to have dinner with me. Special because Julia wrote a poem: a poem of memories, of laughter and tears, of growing pains and love. It’s the most beautiful poem that a mother can have.

Birthday. What a concept!

A Dose of Metaphors

When my nature poem is interpreted as a political poem, I was at first quite bewildered. Maybe the metaphors were too elliptical–sparse and ambiguous–leading the reader down a path that is the farthest thing from my intention. When at last I see my friend’s point of view, I quite agree with his logic. It proves that circumstantial evidence can convict the innocent.

Fair or not, whenever a poem is read it stands naked in the spotlight to be judged. It will be examined from different angles and the readers will carry away the pieces that suit them. But for this particular poem, I’m taking it back to the dressing room and giving it a different outfit.

When Li Po Meets Ezra Pound

The River Merchant's Wife — The River Merchant’s Wife by Mary Wallace

Stepping into Tranquil Resonance Studio, the hustle and bustle of Chinatown disappeared behind my back. Yellow walls, wood floor, traditional Chinese xuanzhi furniture, brush paintings, tea sets and a row of guqins (seven-stringed zithers) on the wall had the style of an old Chinese study.

David Wong, proprietor, listened to my reading of Li Po’s “Cho-Kan Hang”.

“I think the Fisherman’s Song would work well with this,” David said. He played the tune on the guqin and I read the poem again, first in Cantonese, then a translation in English by Ezra Pound with the title, “The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter”.

All thirty lines of “Cho-Kan Hang” were made up of five syllables. I found it binding and difficult to be expressive.

“In a ‘five syllabic finite poem’,” said David, ” expressiveness is to be derived only from the varied tone of each character.”

The fluid and irregular lines spoken by Ezra Pound’s river-merchant’s wife gave a definite contrast to Li Po’s wistful lady. Reading the poem one after the other, the character was fully realized—she might be confined within four walls, but her feelings knew no bound—by two poets centuries apart.

Three Good Things

Off to a wonderful start in the New Year: The Tower Journal has published eleven of my poems in their winter 2012 issue along with Jack Foley’s commentary on my work.

After nearly two and a half years living by himself, my 91 year old father finally agreed to, and will have a living companion in his house to “keep an eye ” on him.

At home, after a scrumptious potluck, Dore’s first orientation for the Tangents Turkey Music Tour collected ten definite participants.

Three good things happened in one day. We were blessed. We gave thanks. I washed the dishes with unusual enthusiasm.

The Year Begins…

The feeling of not having to do something can be surreal. Not having the children at home to take care of, not having a mate, not having a business to run, not having a regular caffeine fix…now, not having to write a poem a day!

No one made me. The incentive came from producing very few poems for almost three years while I was concentrating on writing the memoir. I am, at the heart, a poet; and it was frustrating not to be writing poems. Jannie Dresser’s Poem-a-Day online class gave participants opportunity to post their poems. It was almost like handing in homework, something that I was programmed to do very well since primary school.

365+ poems later, I feel like I’ve graduated. Through this year-long exercise I have discovered my own capacity and know that it is time to move onto something else. This “something” is quite intangible at this time, but it must have space to allow it to manifest. The moment of liberation is surreal, until the path shows itself.

Winter Beach

Dan Brady and I walked out to Ocean Beach. We had both written a poem after a good lunch at the Beachside Cafe. After climbing up a small dune we could see it was low tide. A stretch of sand was cleanly swept, smooth and glistening. Little white sand dollars here and there, most of them broken. Dan wanted to walk to the water’s edge, but the bottom of one of my boots was slashed and I didn’t want to risk it getting wet. We found a piece of wood on a rock, large enough for us to sit down.

Fresh air and quietude. Two crows stood nearby, pecking the sand. We read our poems to each other, surprised that we had a similar title that was inspired by an old Irish guy rambling next to us as we tried to write. A man walked by with his dog, picking up pieces of garbage in the sand. “You can do that after you retire,” I said to Dan. But he said he just wanted to sit on a beach chair and doze away. Oh…and also to build a bonfire.

The city and all its busyness behind us, there was peace in the moment.

Collect a Poet

To collect a poet, go to art openings. Stand among the artists and sooner or later a poet emerges. You’ll know them when they recite lines from their favorite poets and talk about readings that they have been to, even if that happened ten years ago.

Or go shopping in the Haight. There are poets everywhere. Some are performing (it’s their day job). Some go to the Goodwill for bargains. They block traffic on the street when they run into each other, rave about salons and people they know and the laborFest and what-not.

Poets like to be collected. They like to jump into the net with other poets. After all they are lovers of words. Bring a few home. See if you like them.

Who Bought My Book?

Clarion carries copies of “Mystique”, my book of poems. I’m always curious when I notice a copy is missing from the shelf. First thought: someone stole it (which has happened before). But when it is clear that there was a transaction, I always want to know about the customer.

Lu, the owner, told me one day: “This guy walked in looking for instruments but ended up buying your book.”

I pressed him. “Tell me more.”

“He kept saying ‘beautiful, beautiful’ and asked me who was the poet.”

“What did you say to him?”

Lu laughed. “How should I know how to describe a poet? I told him she’s downstairs teaching piano.”

“Who was this man, then?” I imagined the man leafing through the pages of my book. Which poems did he read? Which ones did he like?

“He said he’s Italian… how should I describe an Italian?” He scratched his head, “eh, a funny guy.”

Poem Monster

It comes out of nowhere and grows big and bad and soon you run out of space on the page and it keeps spilling and morphing and shaping into something unrecognizable. That’s when you know you’ve created a poem monster. It wants to speak its own language and uses its unique hand writing and it likes to scribble. I have never given birth to one until today and it looks kind of cute in all its rawness. It doesn’t resemble me, at least I don’t think I resemble it but I might be wrong.

What’s IT talking about? At the moment that is not quite important. Sometimes we just like to look at things even if we don’t understand them. I think that’s OK. I have seen other people’s poem monsters and know that they belong to a tribe that doesn’t belong. Just not mainstream, you know, but they don’t hurt anyone, and always wait so patiently for someone to pick them up and give them a weigh on the hands.

Statistically speaking if you keep writing poems you are bound to create some poem monsters. That’s when you know you’ve stepped through a threshold into the unknown and it is WONDERful!

Foley’s Books Review

Many years ago at a workshop I was asked to describe who I am. I thought it was easy, as I had considered myself a musician and a lover of music. But when I wrote the word “music” down it just wasn’t right. There was no excitement or energy in my claim. Genuinely puzzled, I stayed up all night, thinking; and when I could barely open my eyes one word slipped into my mind: “adventure”. Then, another: “unpredictable”. These words aroused in me a strange kind of exhilaration and I realized who I am was not what I do and love, but my nature.

I met Jack Foley at John Rhodes’ SF Poetry TV show. When he showed an interest in my work we quickly became friends. Jack with his inexhaustible knowledge guided me into the jungle of possibilities to explore the self, the mind and its multiplicity.

As I write this, yesterday has turned into today. I want to remember this date: November 18, 2011. It was significant in my poetic journey because Jack has written a commentary about my book of short stories (Babouche Impromptu) and some recent poems. It was posted on Alsop Review. I have re-posted the piece on this blog under “Reviews”. It is the first significant commentary of my work written by a critic who understands where I’m coming from, and leaves the door open to where I’m going.

Photo by Koichiro Yamauchi.