jeannette-chin - Hello Poetry

if it were all chrysanthemums and no sting, all landscapes and no crumbling, all minerals and no sediment, all revolution and no debris. It would be great if reality were not reality, it would be great if life were not life. It would be great if there was an idea machine that could sift truth from lie. To press a button and get an answer and never ever have to wonder. But for now we bathe in freckled light. Zap, spark, corona, thunder and then the aftermath, the morning as indistinct as wet clay. Tears watered the beginning and in the beginning there were brilliant colors, and in the beginning there was all events prior, and in the beginning something amassed much bigger than great.

0

Aug 23, 2015

Aug 23, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC

It would be great

if it were all chrysanthemums and no sting, all landscapes and no crumbling, all minerals and no sediment, all revolution and no debris. It would be great if reality were not reality, it would be great if life were not life. It would be great if there was an idea machine that could sift truth from lie. To press a button and get an answer and never ever have to wonder. But for now we bathe in freckled light. Zap, spark, corona, thunder and then the aftermath, the morning as indistinct as wet clay. Tears watered the beginning and in the beginning there were brilliant colors, and in the beginning there was all events prior, and in the beginning something amassed much bigger than great.

35

are the first among us in early spring to notice the flowers, taking notes and comparing posture. they look strangers in the eye like no other, as though the least amount of recognition were the most familiar. they sweep lonely men off their feet, just one encounter and the lonely men in turn go searching for the trail they've left through this city, in crowded alleys, in libraries, in the park at dusk, in a statues rust, at a trafficless intersection. everywhere there are traces of their presence, like a dustbowl in its aftermath, if only the dust were silver and the violent winds intruded on the stillness to hold up shelter against the oceans of desert. i met the loneliest of them all, the postulate that nature offered was now her ex-lover and recovery would be backtracking. lonely women are the last to be pitied, and lonely women were not always lonely. you must have experienced the kind of love that is unbridled to experience that kind of lonely. Lonely women will be lonely until they die, so that by the time lovers wake up together she will have already offered herself to the soil so that by the time they take their first step out of the bed she will have already become minerals.

0

Jun 24, 2013

Jun 24, 2013 at 7:35 AM UTC

the lonely women

are the first among us in early spring to notice the flowers, taking notes and comparing posture. they look strangers in the eye like no other, as though the least amount of recognition were the most familiar. they sweep lonely men off their feet, just one encounter and the lonely men in turn go searching for the trail they've left through this city, in crowded alleys, in libraries, in the park at dusk, in a statues rust, at a trafficless intersection. everywhere there are traces of their presence, like a dustbowl in its aftermath, if only the dust were silver and the violent winds intruded on the stillness to hold up shelter against the oceans of desert. i met the loneliest of them all, the postulate that nature offered was now her ex-lover and recovery would be backtracking. lonely women are the last to be pitied, and lonely women were not always lonely. you must have experienced the kind of love that is unbridled to experience that kind of lonely. Lonely women will be lonely until they die, so that by the time lovers wake up together she will have already offered herself to the soil so that by the time they take their first step out of the bed she will have already become minerals.

37

All this time I had thought it was rock versus air and then came the day we exchanged names, because there was no other way because all those others we adored were no less than infinite and you cannot trap sunlight in your hands. Our communion was instinct, a song from the deepest cave and our love is like the friction of bowstring against violin, there as long as green vines continue to crawl up bricks. There as long as the cynics ignore the saws of radiant light that cut through the fault lines of their enemies skin. Our love is the final resort of metaphors, the place they go to rest in peace, the farmers overalls. You greet me without a smile, at your front door, paint chipped, hair that tells the story of your difficult day and I remind myself that means and ends are both offspring and kin. We met like they all do, second glances, eyes wearing the best kind of suspicion, an exchange of names, insidious and innocent. Today I encountered the most holy of holies, all cloaked in ordinariness, sawdust, flowers, and paper clips, and our love is like any other, making us feel as though that we are the last to witness it .

0

Jun 4, 2013

Jun 4, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC

untitled

All this time I had thought it was rock versus air and then came the day we exchanged names, because there was no other way because all those others we adored were no less than infinite and you cannot trap sunlight in your hands. Our communion was instinct, a song from the deepest cave and our love is like the friction of bowstring against violin, there as long as green vines continue to crawl up bricks. There as long as the cynics ignore the saws of radiant light that cut through the fault lines of their enemies skin. Our love is the final resort of metaphors, the place they go to rest in peace, the farmers overalls. You greet me without a smile, at your front door, paint chipped, hair that tells the story of your difficult day and I remind myself that means and ends are both offspring and kin. We met like they all do, second glances, eyes wearing the best kind of suspicion, an exchange of names, insidious and innocent. Today I encountered the most holy of holies, all cloaked in ordinariness, sawdust, flowers, and paper clips, and our love is like any other, making us feel as though that we are the last to witness it .

40

as the seconds sparked and the minutes glowed brighter and brighter until time finally burned on the blue horizon. facing each other the blind-folded Now and the dumb Hereafter.

0

Oct 7, 2012

Oct 7, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC

the lovers kissed

as the seconds sparked and the minutes glowed brighter and brighter until time finally burned on the blue horizon. facing each other the blind-folded Now and the dumb Hereafter.

8

I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know.

0

Feb 19, 2012

Feb 19, 2012 at 10:06 AM UTC

I don't know

I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know.

5

"I have gotten from there to here" Its a simple tautology, chant it  either/or an uncertain accomplishment.  From there to there to there until there became here.  This too is fairly obvious, but still, it seems so strange,  how many times must you be reminded  that you are too ill-equipped  to string the sequence.   And what about those weak suspicions  that reappear from time to time, the ones you are  quick to disregard out of the fear that you may be a lunatic.   What if they were correct, what if a moment were nothing more than a brown package of stimulus. They came to you, one after the other and you what could you do but follow them, like crumbs in a trail that lead you further away from home and into this carnival. Where people who sing lullabies out loud carry pistols and globs of color are merging in all directions. Wedged in between "there to here" and "here to there", the laws of tenses never made this much of a difference. Babies know this all too well.  That's why they're the last  ones we turn to for wisdom.   But should they ever decide  to permanently stop crying.   You'll know what they mean by their silence.

0

Nov 11, 2011

Nov 11, 2011 at 5:20 PM UTC

"there to here"

"I have gotten from there to here" Its a simple tautology, chant it  either/or an uncertain accomplishment.  From there to there to there until there became here.  This too is fairly obvious, but still, it seems so strange,  how many times must you be reminded  that you are too ill-equipped  to string the sequence.   And what about those weak suspicions  that reappear from time to time, the ones you are  quick to disregard out of the fear that you may be a lunatic.   What if they were correct, what if a moment were nothing more than a brown package of stimulus. They came to you, one after the other and you what could you do but follow them, like crumbs in a trail that lead you further away from home and into this carnival. Where people who sing lullabies out loud carry pistols and globs of color are merging in all directions. Wedged in between "there to here" and "here to there", the laws of tenses never made this much of a difference. Babies know this all too well.  That's why they're the last  ones we turn to for wisdom.   But should they ever decide  to permanently stop crying.   You'll know what they mean by their silence.

34

I stood upside down on the watery side of the sea line and looked at the world I was standing on, the stars blew out and re-appeared like the people walking past the cafe bench. The guy with the newsboy cap, made his rounds around the city, a white-out inscription on brick caught his attention: “You anticipated this time in another place.” The daughter of the woman behind the flower stand draws chalked fish completed with succeeding circles to indicate bubbles, bubbles on the asphalt. She was right: I had learned to breathe underwater and as a litmus test I turned my eyes to the single tree on the island. It shivered like seaweed. I went up to the stand and purchased the ugliest peony, the one with petals that were chiseled like frozen waves. I gave the lady my last quarter and as I turned around I saw the face of the guy with the newsboy cap, only this time it was infinitely larger, peeking over the horizon like the sun when it first rises. And then, a hand coming up, from under, fingers tapping from the other side, taps reverberating through sky, as though there was inside and outside and this whole time I was in an aquarium.

0

Sep 15, 2011

Sep 15, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC

Aquarium

I stood upside down on the watery side of the sea line and looked at the world I was standing on, the stars blew out and re-appeared like the people walking past the cafe bench. The guy with the newsboy cap, made his rounds around the city, a white-out inscription on brick caught his attention: “You anticipated this time in another place.” The daughter of the woman behind the flower stand draws chalked fish completed with succeeding circles to indicate bubbles, bubbles on the asphalt. She was right: I had learned to breathe underwater and as a litmus test I turned my eyes to the single tree on the island. It shivered like seaweed. I went up to the stand and purchased the ugliest peony, the one with petals that were chiseled like frozen waves. I gave the lady my last quarter and as I turned around I saw the face of the guy with the newsboy cap, only this time it was infinitely larger, peeking over the horizon like the sun when it first rises. And then, a hand coming up, from under, fingers tapping from the other side, taps reverberating through sky, as though there was inside and outside and this whole time I was in an aquarium.

34

I believe in predestination like a hard cover book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe in imagination unfettered like the wheels of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting everything like the teething puppy chewing all the furniture. I believe in arrangements like the photographer with no camera. I believe in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts into fine powder because of a little tension in between your fingers. I believe in relevance like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe in economy like Curiosity who found her way home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier. I believe in complacency like the larkspur in love with a promiscuous hummingbird. I believe in delusion like the saxophone player who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall from the subway station.

0

Aug 5, 2011

Aug 5, 2011 at 9:53 PM UTC

What I Believe

I believe in predestination like a hard cover book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe in imagination unfettered like the wheels of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting everything like the teething puppy chewing all the furniture. I believe in arrangements like the photographer with no camera. I believe in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts into fine powder because of a little tension in between your fingers. I believe in relevance like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe in economy like Curiosity who found her way home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier. I believe in complacency like the larkspur in love with a promiscuous hummingbird. I believe in delusion like the saxophone player who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall from the subway station.

19

We catch the sunset while eating breakfast: ignoring mothers, ignoring landlords, skinning our knees and skipping supper, using the kitchen with some improvisation, forgetting to stir the pasta, blotting bacon with coffee filters, flinging linguini on the walls and the ceilings (for if cooked it will cling but if raw it will fall). “Is that pasta on the wall?” “Is it purple?” Outside a boy in a dress shirt and a girl in a paisley skirt walked past the window, holding hands and clutching palm Sunday leaves. Then the strand of linguini began to detach itself from the ceiling, like a break dancer, with flimsy limbs, and when it dropped it fell through the air like an Olympic diver, twirling and curling with two ends clung to one another and then unfolding underwater.

0

Aug 5, 2011

Aug 5, 2011 at 1:01 AM UTC

playing house

We catch the sunset while eating breakfast: ignoring mothers, ignoring landlords, skinning our knees and skipping supper, using the kitchen with some improvisation, forgetting to stir the pasta, blotting bacon with coffee filters, flinging linguini on the walls and the ceilings (for if cooked it will cling but if raw it will fall). “Is that pasta on the wall?” “Is it purple?” Outside a boy in a dress shirt and a girl in a paisley skirt walked past the window, holding hands and clutching palm Sunday leaves. Then the strand of linguini began to detach itself from the ceiling, like a break dancer, with flimsy limbs, and when it dropped it fell through the air like an Olympic diver, twirling and curling with two ends clung to one another and then unfolding underwater.

34

After the rain, vapor rose from the valley, from where I stood I saw a panorama of mountain peaks robed in low clouds and bands of dusk's signalling shadows. Mist rose from the basin and then parted into shapeless white arrays that continued to move, continued to patrol the hollows, the range, at an unhurried pace and a timeless question came to me: Which came first the mountain or the mist? Suddenly the scene slowly disappeared, began to erase itself, from the furthest peak to the trees below my feet. Suddenly I realized what was happening: an immense bundle of white film heading to where I was. I closed my eyes as it swallowed me. Who knows how much time had passed when I opened my eyes to a blank sheet. I'd never been in the belly of a cloud: there was nothing to see. But the taste of cold-minty air; the muffled sounds of insects crying reminded me that I was still on earth, stationed in a location; free to imagine anything. So I pictured one of those Chinese paintings, thick calligraphy: the story of a girl who was clouded on ground and grounded in clouds; the brush strokes depicted valleys shredding at her feet, dissolving into vaporous streaks and then forming mountains behind mountains behind mountains, behind the place where I was wedged in between, a place where nothing was the same as Infinity.

0

Aug 1, 2011

Aug 1, 2011 at 1:25 AM UTC

Untitled

After the rain, vapor rose from the valley, from where I stood I saw a panorama of mountain peaks robed in low clouds and bands of dusk's signalling shadows. Mist rose from the basin and then parted into shapeless white arrays that continued to move, continued to patrol the hollows, the range, at an unhurried pace and a timeless question came to me: Which came first the mountain or the mist? Suddenly the scene slowly disappeared, began to erase itself, from the furthest peak to the trees below my feet. Suddenly I realized what was happening: an immense bundle of white film heading to where I was. I closed my eyes as it swallowed me. Who knows how much time had passed when I opened my eyes to a blank sheet. I'd never been in the belly of a cloud: there was nothing to see. But the taste of cold-minty air; the muffled sounds of insects crying reminded me that I was still on earth, stationed in a location; free to imagine anything. So I pictured one of those Chinese paintings, thick calligraphy: the story of a girl who was clouded on ground and grounded in clouds; the brush strokes depicted valleys shredding at her feet, dissolving into vaporous streaks and then forming mountains behind mountains behind mountains, behind the place where I was wedged in between, a place where nothing was the same as Infinity.

55