Friday, February 17, 2012


Silent Muse
I have been accumulating potential posts in draft form, from the Original "Animal Farm", through full versions of Elmer Rice's 1930's "Street Scene", and "The Borrowers" in various incarnations from book to the newest movie slated to open today--that book review of an E.L Doctorow slim volume I've had on hold for months--inspirational pieces on Human Rights Worldwide--Irish Ghost Estates that illustrate real estate's popped bubble--political humor and serious discussion of current issues from the intelligent son of a former nun and Franciscan friar--my own doodles, photographs and word wanders--and a multitude of other topics of interest, perhaps only to me.

But I've decided to post only this wonderful poem by the "Poet Laureate" of Brooklyn, N.Y. because it struck me so powerfully when I read it Friday.  It silences my ambiguity for one more day.
by Tina Chang

I was locked into a single seed, my future fathoming.
I was matter underwater and a sheer hoping,
when I latched to earth, a first withered bloom.
A sonic wonder, I sang about the future.
I was master of the oxen pulling me toward dawn,
an existence first in death, a state of stillness
before beginning, a middle earth of rain.
I wore many masks until the right one fit.
Then the storm passed and I was wakened by water.


I had stolen through the back door, eyed
two loaves of bread. In the life before this one,
I had seen the window, a greater reflection,
yeast in the tin rising fast. My wanting grew.
How does desire trump that? Perhaps desire
is what we know best when the heart
is listless but listening. I memorized my history
which was nothing short of gleaming disasters
repeated, just for me.


I fell into a patch of green which was earth's matter
and fell some more. I am a boy and found myself
between war and my own luck, startled myself
in goodness and in haste, made a fire and got to cooking.
Man: the most tender and incessant beast.
A flawed danger but no less beautiful. A prairie
where I walk for the first time, where I am the theory
of origin: my brain barks in the heat, my legs buckle
in the initial step, then a slow certainty, an engine
of progress. My ankles turn clockwise in the soil,
loosening root and worm, shaking free
from the tangle and what held me there.

Mambo Sun

I was never burned by anything that could touch me
and I sat in the imagined throne with spoonsful of red sugar
tasting the years ahead of me, wondering of the origin
of my mother. I think she is flame and quick step, glee
and ignition. I saw her hands once in a flash flood
pulling me awake, several claps and then I came alive
rising through the underbrush and cadence rumble,
then I breathed and found god's bone, cracked in pieces
in my throat and my own voice fused to answer back.


re-posted from Poets.Org without permission, because I am passionate to share it, abandoning my center favored format for the space of the poem in order to be true to it's form, and here is the link to information about her from the source 
+ NYT article about her


Judy Martin said...

Absolutely lovely.
Made my day to read this. Thanks.

Ms. ∆×∆p×≥h/4π said...

It just seemed so right for this new moon day.

deanna7trees said...

powerful words.