Lake Mono

The pale azure of the water and the milky blue of the skies
on the open palm of the mountains, frowning blue,
unfolding into the fading lilac of the unattainable horizon,
amidst tall sharp blades of yellowish grass
and the whitest of sands drowning footsteps and memory,
surrounded by the pines with bright slender trunks
humming their praises to the wind.
The snow lions on the bottom, gigantic, omniscient,
are clawing at the roots of the earth, fast asleep,
their dreams slow and unhindered:
they dream of the blue rains and tides
myriads of lives and white mermaids
that brush their manes with their delicate silvery fingers;
their sleepy thoughts are rising to the surface
like white clouds of salt and stone,
suspended between the water and the sky,
mirroring the white wings of the seagulls
and the endless stirring of mosquito larvae
at the edge of the lake…
Eyes are watching the sunset
waiting
for the end of the day
or a beginning of a new world

The seagull

The seagull that carries the skies on her wings
Is cutting the space over bridges;
She sings:
Her call both wild and hauntingly bold
Is stringing the wind and the waters below
The dark heavy salmon that streaks through the waves,
The slender pine trees enveloped in haze,
The daunting abysses and snowcapped peaks,
The fisherman’s boat that groans and creaks,
The narrows and straits, sleepy islands and bays,
And seems that the time itself is under sway:
No memory, sorrow, but water and flight
And tremulous lips and the triumph of night.

Snow in Seattle - the worst of plagues

It is snowing in Seattle - and, oh, the world is crashing down! The ill combination of hilly terrain, black ice, high gusty winds and dropping temperatures with subsequent dry icy pellets of snow wreaked havoc on Seattle streets, causing accidents and, unfortunately, at least one death. A man who left his stalled vehicle was run over by another motorist, who could barely see through the snowfall and even less control his car... Fortunately, Seattle schools closed 2 hours early, with kids safely transported home before the roads turned into icy mush. Today it is freezing cold, many homes have lost power, but the sun is shining, and kids are out (a wonder!) to play...

Morning Fog

I pressed my face onto the bosom of sloping hills,
my trailing sleeves
caressing deep enchanted valleys
and lulling willful silver streams.
I hung the curtains over morning vistas
of drying grass and darkly dreaming trees;
My friend, the farmer, slowly dragging a graying cloud
Along the newly-ploughed field,
Pays me his tribute, early riser,
Like me, he is the one who sees
the insignificant:
a squirrel
a stalk of wheat
and falling leaf.

I hush the noises of your busy highways
I hide the skid marks on their sides.
I envelope the rags of ruptured tires
And wrestle with your windshield wipes.
Half-beast, half-goddess,
uninvited,
unwelcome, hungry, and unloved
I cling to you like an abandoned mother
and like a mother
I will trust
your last embrace
and parting whisper
your final breath and final glance.

September 19, 2010

Immigrants

When a young boy’s hand grows Hanuman
In his battle armor
Magnificent, victorious, fierce, bent on destruction
And asurs flee the pale space of the cheap paper
I hear the thunder of leathery wings
Of the flying monkeys
Over the darkening cityscape,
Its many fractured reflections drowning like shiny spears of light
In the black well of the Elliot bay
Little Dorothy
Lost in a strange land

MOTHER COURAGE

With March blowing wild breath onto the sprawling cold city
The armies moved along the coast north
Motorized infantry
Towards the Canadian border;
That day the sakuras bled
Gathering pools of red petals
streaming like rivulets of blood
In the gray cement canyons
Today I am left to pick up the spoils by the road
Round shields
A lonely shoe ( I always wonder where its mate could be)
A torn garment
And a pale piece of paper,
a letter to nowhere
rolling in the dust

Lake Washington

Sweet tender alders
are drinking in sunlight
fanning out thin brunches into the skies
from the dark rancid mud and the graying dead grass.
the fireworks of the blossoming branches:
sakura, appletree, dogwood
crisscrossing the shady evergreen
in luminescent bold strokes
and the strange square stars
shimmer mysteriously as they cascade down still half-open.
The lake breathes evenly:
its bosom, shielded by steel and sapphire
rises and falls,
moist breath carnivorous, insatiable
(fish, weeds, herons and seagulls
are caught in the endless Brownian motion)
it clings to the shore
claws at its cold wet stones,
at the roots of the willow
yellowing in the anticipation of leaves -
and stops,
mesmerized by a tiny sparkle:
a daisy
in the grass.

Holy Friday

The spring - her heavy breath ice-cold breeze-
Tears leaden shroud of the darkly roiling brume
And ray of sunlight at the edge of the horizon
Makes asphalt burst in blazing fiery streams
And every blade of grass
And every tender petal
Of pink magnolia
in frost
Is trembling in anticipation
Of retributions
And earthquakes.


The broken body of the Lord
Is being washed with heavy tears
The ones who have not witnessed yet
His resurrection, full of fears
and hope,
Are waiting by the tomb

Early Spring in Seattle

This Spring is out to get me
to wrap me up
to trap me
with dangerously tender limbs around my neck
to crash me
to mute, to tame, to smash me.

The treachery of fragrant breeze
the breath of shameless blooming trees
and mossy trunks of verdant green
the flash of wing and happy din
the buzz, the whisper in those budding branches
the crawling velvet of new grassy patches
delirious daffodils, primroses, hyacinths
break through the rotting skin
of autumn's leaves
abandoned children drying, dying
Disturbing sweetness lingering above
the city stench of gasoline
wet paint, urine and tattered blankets
(the nameless owner is gone)
is entering my blood like slow poison
poised for a kill
reluctant to begin

Familiar colors, sounds, smells,
the springy blades of grass,
the heavy blossoms
are out to lull me in convenient dream
to numb the pain
to mar the hints
of previous Covenants
of life forgotten,
grounds
lost.

On theater and sickness

25, 26 and 27 of January were days of exhilaration and stress: my students performed The Taming of the Shrew 4 times...And I lived to tell the tale! Not quite, though - the next day I was down with pneumonia - and I am still recovering. Well, Molier and a few other favorite thespians died on stage, so it is not really anything unusual!