Chen-ou Liu, CA

 

 

Haiku   drones hone in on Taliban hunter’s moon     the moon swims in waves of cherry blossom mountain breeze     misty moonlight on the bed; her body faces away from mine     spring path. . . autumn leaves under my feet     arms flailing from my neighbor's zen garden— I sip jasmine tea     bloodstain on this old ball gown rose fingered dawn     Haiku Sequence   In a World of One Color   hearing her methodical footfalls snow on snow... footsteps on basement stairs; murmuring name upon name all that remains of his funeral snowflakes...     A Life in Four Seasons   we stand still hands together falling petals a shadow of that summer kiss crescent moon autumn dawn... the night that has passed stays in me first snow on a blade of grass her three words     Tanka   a falling star flares up for a moment sliding into the dark sky— the usual death of Jane Doe     John Doe... from a crying baby to a silenced man leaning against a lamppost accompanied by his mangy dog     idly we gaze at each other doing nothing ... the sounds of traffic fill the day     flipping through a science notebook— a photo of us taken at the catalyst of love falls on the floor     a leech sucking on man's blood you take pleasure in my anxious desire to feel your surrender     my mouth chews English words anguished they tip and stumble in clumsy flight     like yesterday Today comes to its end resting behind the horizon of my mind— short day into long night     Tanka Sequence   Becoming an Adult for Jean Rostand who claims that to be adult is to be alone Times Square I leave my hometown memories in a crowd speaking foreign languages loneliness spreads out her arms over my heart murmuring you are the marrow of my bones and flesh of my heart between two tips of the crescent moon mother and I age in separate worlds at the same pace the crescent moon shines on my nostalgia past hopes wither on its lower tip for eight years now we've seen the opposite sides of the same moon gazing up at it I drink a full cup     Tanka Prose   To Buy or Not to Buy   You buy furniture. You tell yourself, "This is the dinning-room table I need." Buy the FORSHED dinning-room table known for its clean aesthetic exuding a warm, calm and inviting atmosphere, then for a couple of years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your dinning-room table issue well handled. Then a set of dishes, chairs, and pendant lamps. Armchairs. The rug. A set of sofas. Then you're trapped in your cozy nest. life is nothing but a single issue... I kick all day long a Coca-Cola can     Gogyohka Sequence   June Frogs and I for Matsuo Basho   Basho's frog jumps in an old pond no sound heard yet it ripples in the minds of poets where there is neither pond nor frog I sit still to hear the sound of a frog jumping into the pond one frog after another jumps into the pond of my mind lub dub, lub dub, lub dub the frog of my mind jumps into the pond of the zeitgeist splashless as it swims sitting under the basho tree by an old pond frogs and I sing to one another     Time Is Nothing   for W. G. Sebald   I awake eat, read, write, and sleep the Mondays of present follow the rhythm of the Sundays of past walled-in room a clutter of books a coffee-stained desk stacks of returned mail a mind unrested the clock ticked the sun rose and set but in the shadows Time does not pass though the clock ticks on any Monday or Sunday I’m on the lam crossing continents sailing the Pacific beyond Time’s grasp drifting in a dream turned into a bird flying over the Pacific I open my eyes upon darkness again pondering who is this thief drifting in and out of windows slain by the clock     Being-Toward-Death   for Martin Heidegger   like a child shoved down the playground slide scared I reach this age forty six a long strip of white sand washed by waves no footprints left separated by a thin wall I've never greeted my neighbour Death Death (whom I just befriended) and I chat about our dreams through the vent in the wall Death lurks about the room taunting how can I stop her from editing my poems? Death and I face to face minds apart staring in silence who will blink first     Red Dust Dreams   embracing a dream that dances to the rhythm of my heart I jump to catch the moon for you not seeing we pass each other by in corridors my dreams see you the only way back to my lost youth the whispers in my dreams love poems to you waking alone in the middle of a night distressed— you evade my glances even in dreams moonless nights and blank dreams measure the distance between us two lives apart I waste my life away remembering your touch entering my dreams one poem after another I cry like a three year-old for lost dreams my manhood thrown into the rapids of days gone by the piercing cry of my neighbor's cat laden with pangs of loneliness the same in my dreams awake, I dream of a butterfly or does it dream of me? Either way we both live in Samsara     Nine Ways of Looking at a Maple Tree   dewy morning birds chirping children playing somewhere in maple leaves sunlight breaks into pieces intertwined over the back alleys maple leaves flash in morning sun autumn crimson sitting under the maple tree I read the poetry of leaves falling into the book maple tree on the front yard enjoys its solitude I, too sit by the window daily maple tree and I gaze at each other neither of us moves or gets tired withered to a skeleton, the maple tree stands firm I see fragments of sky between its bare limbs maple tree its bare arms embrace Canadian winter snowflakes on the face of a Taiwanese immigrant I have a mind of winter to regard the maple tree on the lawn covered in snow but no body of winter bare maple branches embrace the wintry sky a Taiwanese becomes the naturalized citizen in a world of one color     *Zuihitsu   Confessions of a Struggling Writer   (Author's Note: *Zuihitsu is a classical Japanese poetic form derived from the Chinese literary tradition that employed random thoughts, diary entries, reminiscence, and poetry. The first book of zuihitsu in English is The Narrow Road to the Interior written by a Japanese-American poet, Kimiko Hahn who received the 2008 PEN/Voelcker Award for Poetry.)   drunk on moonlight from Taipei I stand alone under the Ajax sky. My heart is depressed, my poetry schizophrenic, but nonetheless, my hand is normal, and I am a writer. a Taipei key opens the door of Ajax twilight I pursue my poem throughout the night put it down on paper Writing tanka: four lines sound perfect, yet I struggle to write a fifth to perfect my tanka. my anguish crumbled into a ball I continue to write as the wastebasket waits for one more throw Sunlight drifts through the window and settles again on the worn cover of my Chinese-English dictionary. My heart is a lonely hunter seeking the place where the odor of words is strongest. Writing poetry is an endless and always defeated effort to kill my shadow. I am forty…something in the attic waiting alone four years gone by and yet no chapbooks My life… a void. I hit my head with books by other poets. Being a writer means being voluntarily mad and struggling alone with the voices whispering, we all know you’re a failed writer. Writing is a Jobian struggle against silence and noises.