I'm all for the date

February 29th :)

Life Sketches From Memory

Central Park in spring

Two boys playing soccer

exhilliarating voices kick in the air, the ball
moves smoothly, tireless and graceful

On a nearby bench, grandmother walks indigo ink

in long smooth lines across the paper

Out of all silhouettes

her eye purposefully catches

two. The art of choosing

is difficult 
only

for beginners

Evening

She walks her backyard garden

from behind the window

eyes move with effort
along the path

Each days ends, inevitably -
what a relief

to know this

it’s about time

to sleep

The Potomac River

disappears beneath 
blue horizons

Vacancy

Pair of brown shoes

hasn’t moved past the doorstep

for a year now. Near the glass door 
to the home-made
greenhouse, a bamboo chair

sits

stubbornly

An Interval

The kitten has fallen asleep in an armchair

out of half-opened window

dreams jump

like pond fish

Souvenirs

She’s been told

it doesn’t pay to travel

on one’s own, especially if one is

female; the world’s so

dangerous these days

packing

a slim suitcase
she turns

a deaf ear on the rubbish

soon          

new words will swirl around her

like spells, gestures will acquire

a novel meaning

each time
she learns to understand

anew

on the local market

remnants of glass cups

gain a second life 
in a pair

of hand-made earrings

from Abyssinia

she’ll wear them

at a dinner party
back in another time zone

Anticipation

his girlfriend’s on the way home

from a long trip

to her parents’

the young man

paints the walls magnoliac

the old room blooms

with a possible story

Words

Satsuma makes a name

for fruit, porcelain

and land topography

an avid student savours

dictionary entries

in a language class

In her hut in a village

on Satsuma Peninsula

an old woman eats tangerines

and drinks lukewarm tea
from a chipped cup

Motherhood

On the borderline

of night and day

words wake up a poet

with eyes closed, she gropes

for pen and paper

beside her bed

Haikus, a second draft

Passing

Two boys playing soccer

grandmother sketches

with indigo ink

A single leaf gone

bamboo chair

stays in garden

From her bedroom

woman looks at

Potomac River

Kitten asleep in armchair

the window closed

sunrays move on kitchen sill

Journeys

A girl wearing earrings

remnants of glass

glitter in the sun

Young man

paints green room

magnoliac

A letter comes

across the ocean

at tea time

In her hut

on Satsuma Peninsula

old woman eats tangerines

On the borderline

of night and day

a poet gropes for pen and paper

Family Stories

Part II

1.

Once upon a time there were two
homeless boats, one belonged
to me the other belonged
to my other sister, we were first
inseparable then things went
off track one day she said
I'm leaving
where are you heading she said
towards the ocean, I'll find
a bay I want to live
my way oh how I couldn't go
who'd meet
my parents' dream and need, the following day
she left and
I stayed


2.

I'm a collector of everybody's feelings
I consist of other people's expectations
I feel upset unless every single person in the room
feels fine
I find myself uneasy till I calm everyone
I can't find out my right to wander until I place
every guest in the right room

I'm restless waiting in case someone changes his
or her mind, I then willingly change
my own agenda to match those of all
around me, I'm so happy to appeace
and please, I feed others
on my life energy, how could I use it
to my own benefit if there are people
craving elsewhere

I'm not going my own way, I'm not going
anywhere, how could I rid you
of my precious presence

Yes, I will take a good
care of all of you, I'll pretend
I'm waiting my turn, my turn will
never come, I've known it
from the very start, I must have
agreed on this vicious circle

my advantage is
I'm placed in the centre

at the cyclon's core
it's forever quiet

I'm forever safe
in the cyclon's eye


3.

I am a daughter of a motherless mother
My mother walks along the streets
of a suddenly unfamiliar town
carrying a rag doll she sewed
for herself, her mother runs

the streets of her home town
to which she no longer lends
a recognition, on her way
she smashes the shop windows
she throws stones
on mannequins
wearing white night gowns

there's one placed in every window

she could pass for a ghost
if it weren't for the glass in pieces
on the pavement

my little mother presses
the rag doll to her flat chest
terror reflected in the button eyes
she'd sewn herself
onto the doll's face
so that she could
see