August 2015
I'm an old dog, a recently retired college professor who was born in Shanghai, China in 1949. My parents were Holocaust survivors and
refugees. I grew up in New York City and spent my teaching career in the Midwest - Wisconsin, and for the past 33 years, Minnesota. I've been fortunate to have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, including three in 2014. My recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
refugees. I grew up in New York City and spent my teaching career in the Midwest - Wisconsin, and for the past 33 years, Minnesota. I've been fortunate to have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, including three in 2014. My recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
|
Editor's Note: In an email to me, Steve wrote:
...I've been working on a series of Li Bo poems. According to what I've read recently, the preferred transliteration for the great Tang dynasty poet is "Li Bai" (he is also known as "Li Po"). I've chosen "Li Bo" so as to suggest the identification rather than insist on it. My character can be found in contemporary America, in the underworld, and in a timeless state of mind. |
Li Bo (701–762)
Li Bo Extinguishes the Fire
First a large canteen of water hissing
smoke and steam, then a shovel full
of dirt. Stir and stir. More water, more
dirt, and then he waits on a cool rock,
watches a green lizard warming its blood
in the morning sun. He breathes, feels
day rise in his veins, scent of cedar
and sticky ferns. Woodpeckers thrum,
breaking the near silence. Eyes closed,
his quiet mind follows the sound to a
hollow oak, trunk scored with holes.
Restless birds peck and flit. In the pit
beneath gray ash, an ember clings.
A ladybug crawls slowly along a forked
twig. Somehow the smothered fire burns.
Li Bo and the Almond Tree
He lies beneath its thin branches
watching white flowers explode
in a radiant mist. Though penniless,
and with a hole in his heart, he has
at least a thousand friends.
Some flutter past his face. Others
crawl gently along his bare arms.
Above, the sky has broken into blue
packets, quanta driving photons
through the stratosphere. Light
kisses his eyes, serotonin soaks
his brain. Lying in soft grass, he
imagines a home in the clouds
where all are rich and fat and full
of wine. Everyone sings. When
hunger strikes, arms reach into trees,
hands pluck the ripe and succulent
fruit. He smiles to himself, as
sorrow shrinks to a single point
without substance or weight. Cats
of all colors comb through cream
bowls, purring and licking their milky paws.
Li Bo and the Arms of Darkness
Li Bo wades into the sea, until
his thighs are ringed with foam.
A gull screeches through the air,
but it is much too early for children
and garbage and noise. Darkness
flakes from the sky like black paint
on a splintery door. He breathes
with the undertow, his heartbeat slows.
At home his mother rinses rice
in an old, scuffed pan. Her hands
fade and disappear. Across the sand
bar, green waves roar at gray rocks.
Li Bo has filled a bucket with shells.
He has returned from the land of the dead
where all are the same, owning nothing.
Only water’s skin, as it slowly pulls
an unbelieving shore back into arms
of darkness, where all things have their start.
©2015 Steve Klepetar