Poem – Page 3 – Clara Hsu

Urfa

Urfa, located in south-eastern Turkey, smells of grilled lamb. It is in the air. Men fanning endless chacoal grills on the streets and placing skewers of cubed meat, liver and heart on the fire. I taste sheep in my lentil soup, rice, and the selections of entree at the locantas. I taste sheep in my saliva.

Dore and I watched the owner of an eatery cut up a carcass as we waited for our lunch. His skilled hand massages a long spine, exposing unwanted tendons and cutting them off.

At an open air eatery, four young Kurds who shared my table insisted on paying for my kebap sandwich. I had nothing to give back in return and decided to write a poem for them. One of the men, Abdul Kadir, read my poem out loud: …the world is a small place/when the heart is big. An older man who worked at the eatery smiled and nodded his head. Poets are welcome in Urfa.

Into The Universe

At the Poetry Salon last night some of us read poems with Halloween theme. It was also Ezra Pound’s birthday. Al Averbach recited a short poem by Pound. Then Steve Mackin read John Keats, whose birthday was today. For poets, we look out into the universe to find these masters. They are our guiding lights. A visual poem came to me and this is what I “saw”:

* keats * * * *joyce * *

* * stein * * * * * basho **

* * * * * * duncan * * parker * *

crane ** * * * * li po* ****

*mcclure * *cummings * Apollinaire

* * * * browning * * *

* *** * * ** smart* *pound * * *

* ** *eliot* * * *** * *yeats ** *

* * * * * ** * *** ** * *

h a n d h o l d i n g h a n d

Taking Joyce Out

It was raining, and the popular Java Beach Cafe had a line running out the door. Dan Brady and I had passed another cafe about a block away that looked pleasant and empty and decided to try it. Can’t remember the name of it now—something like Beach Cafe—with southern food like fried chicken and waffle; and a cotton candy machine. We found a nice corner in front of a shelf full of books and I took out Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. Dan and I would use the book to jump start some poetic exercises.

Three women came over and sat at the table next to us. As I read a passage from the book, Dan began to write. I noticed at one point the women had stopped talking. They were attracted by the obscurity of my recitation as I navigated precariously from word to word, sounding out long running syllables, short exclamations, pausing at combinations that befuddled the mind. After two pages of reading I stopped. Then it was Dan’s turn to read while I wrote. At the end of his reading we read to each other what we had written and laughed at the strangeness of our “poems” that seemed to vibrate with a raw energy.

“Excuse me.” One of the women leaned over. “We have been watching you reading and writing. It seems like you are playing a most wonderful game.”

We talked about Finnegans Wake, how its obscurity helped us not to get stuck on the narrative but listen to the words and sounds and that propelled us to write down what we heard.

“Would you like to try?” I proposed.

They laughingly declined. “But you’d be sure we’ll be talking about you for days to come.”

Angel At The Sidewalk

Dore and I don’t like to make plans when we travel. As a result we get stuck sometimes in foreign places without a place to stay. In the fall of 2006 we were on our way to Ayder, a mountain resort, but needed to change bus at Pazar, a seaside town in the Black Sea region of Turkey. The connecting bus never came, and we were stuck standing at the bus stop watching an approaching storm.

A group of men gathered around us but none of them spoke English. A couple of them ran away and came back with someone who did. He explained to us that the nearest hotel was quite far and we needed to find a taxi to go there. As we hesitated a young Kurd stepped forward. The man who spoke English told us this man, Fuat was offering his home to us.

“Yes. Thank you.” I said immediately, and we followed Fuat and his friend up the hill to a big apartment complex. Fuat lived on the 8th floor. There was no elevator.

Bustling activities ensued as soon as we entered Fuat’s apartment. His mother started making rice. His wife showed us their newborn twin babies. His friend went back down to the market to buy milk and cheese and bread. With a mixture of English, Turkish and Arabic and lots of hand gestures we managed to communicate through the evening.

Fuat showed us a little room with two beds. I listened to the babies during the night and the gentle creaking sound of the wood cradles.

“I have to give something in return.” I told Dore in the morning. I had nothing meaningful to give, so I wrote a poem for Fuat.

I read it to Fuat after a hearty breakfast. He took the poem with a big smile. The window panes were wet with rain. The storm had arrived and we were on our way.

Sound of a Poem

“I like the sound of my poems.” Owen Dunkle told me at Sacred Grounds. I think we all like the sound of our poems and the sound of our own voice, otherwise we won’t be signing up for open mikes. Beyond sharing what we have written, it is important to “sound them out”, as HD Moe likes to say. It’s a sure way to find out if a poem has rhythm and flow. Some poets even edit their poems while they are reading on stage.

The ability to read well, I think, is an important tool for a poet. One night at Sacred Grounds, Bill Mercer decided to recite Yeats’ The Song of Wandering Aengus. His recital brought the house down. At the break I saw Fiona, the owner of the cafe. She stopped me and asked what Bill was reading.

“I didn’t understand the words, but I felt his emotion rushed at me. So powerful that I had to listen.” Fiona put her hand over her heart. She is an immigrant from Hong Kong and speaks limited English. But I know she gets the poem.

Poems On Leaves

I found a big bowl of leaves soaking in water next to the fireplace at Carlos Ramirez’s home. Some were brown with hints of red, some yellow green; the leaves were collected from the magnolia trees in his Mission neighborhood. The fall colors and clean water added a playful and soothing element in the living room, a reflection of the poet’s personality.

“I write poems on the leaves after I wash and dry them.” Carlos told me with twinkle in his eyes. He showed me the finished product, stacked together loosely and wrapped in a plastic bag.

“They are mostly haikus. Some are just thoughts. I use a brush tip pen.” His childlike smile spread over his great white beard.

We read them, leaf by leaf.

Poems On Walls

AngelIslandImmigrationStation-3 — Click to read more about the Immigration Station

It was a bright sunny day in 2003 when my cousin Ronald and I took the ferry to Angel Island. Ronald was visiting from Flint, Michigan, and was curious about my newfound passion in poetry. I told him what I know about the Immigration Station on Angel Island, that between 1910-1940, many Chinese immigrants were detained on the island while their papers were being processed. Squalid conditions, humiliation, anxiety of deportation and hopelessness led to sickness and suicides. Desperate for an outlet, the detainees carved poems on the walls.

A short hike from the ferry dock led us to the Immigration Station. The lush vegetation, blue sky and bird songs were the making of paradise. I could not imagine suffering in such a pristine setting. We entered the living quarters. The floorboard and the walls seemed to be made of paper. Just things now, photos, information, artifacts…they did not stir me as I had expected to be stirred. And then I saw the poems on the walls. Most of them barely legible. But there they were, emerged from layers of old paint, reaching out, warning, reminding, retelling the inhuman treatment from one people to another. After three-quater of a century these words still carried a haunting vibration in the absence of their authors.

Ronald and I were quiet on our way back. Despite the gorgeous day, our hearts were heavy.

Surrealism and the Art of Performance

Coming into writing late in life with no background makes it difficult for me to appreciate different poetic expressions. Surrealistic poetry is especially daunting. Friends suggest visualizing the imagery, but my mind can’t react quickly enough and I sink under the deluge of words. Ask the surrealists and they’ll say their poems are whatever you want them to be. I walk away feeling a little silly. Questioning artists for meaning of their work is like asking about the ingredients and nutrition facts in a cookie. It doesn’t help me in appreciating the nuance of the product.

For one thing, the mind—that stubborn, controlling, egotistical blob—does not want to let go of preconditioned bias. But recently I found a way to trick it. Instead of listening to the words, I listen to the rhythm and sound of the poem. The music in these poetry is the catalyst that allows me to immerse in them with awe and wonder. I am held afloat by their juxtaposition. I ride their waves until they bring me ashore. It’s all in the performance, and they often leave me breathless.

Personal Trainer: Li Po

My stepmother, a spunky woman, lived well into her late eighties. During the last years of her life she complained about her weakened memory and was concerned that she would lose her mind before her body. “Read poetry.” I suggested. “Memorize them. They’ll make your brain ache.” Strangely, her ability to read and write English was diminishing with time, even though she had lived and worked in San Francisco for over half a century. “Read Chinese poems then. The 300 Tang Poems is a good start.” She went to East Wind Books and found a very nice annotated edition.

In Hong Kong where I grew up we were taught to memorize famous poems and prose. It was a terrifying process where a student would be picked to stand up in a class of fifty and recite. I have forgotten all of these passages now, except for one.

2001. I was accepted into the Squaw Valley Writers Workshop. During a traditional dinner at the residence of Oakley Hall (founder), we were asked to recite a poem not of our own. As we went around in a circle I was near panic. And then this little tiny poem slipped into my mind: Li Po’s Night Thoughts, the first poem I learned as a child. I recited it in Cantonese. It was an emotional recitation as I reached back in time and touched the root that was my heritage.

Here’s my translation of the poem:

Night Thought by Li Po

Moonlight casts on bed/ bemused as ground frost/ head tilt to bright moon/ bow to homeward thoughts.

My stepmother passed away two years ago. I kept her book of 300 Tang poems. It was bulked up with paper clips she had placed on the pages she liked.