Chen-ou Liu, CA
at the far end
a dark green sea
kisses azure sky—
I stand on the shore
of an autumn dusk
I waste
my life away thinking
about her touch
that entered my dreams...
one poem after another
I see
myself in a child
playing
hide-and-seek with himself
under the scorching sun
loneliness
wears a T-shirt with passion
written in red...
snowing outside
I finally feel at peace
waning blue moon
my forty-seventh New Year's Day
I still fail
to become a phoenix
a heap of embers...
seeing
the mid-autumn moon hangs low
over my attic
I'm in the mood to take bites
out of loneliness
I ask God
how could this happen to me?
Eve
is a spear
wedged between my ribs
I am
dead
if I were an African
unemployed
a fiftyish American
gazes at the hazy full moon
for you said
you would come and see me
I wait under our tree
bathed in leafy shadows
night after night
Tanka Prose
If on a
Summer’s Night, a Sojourner
neon night
in Yonge-Dundas Square—
alone
I mingle
with faceless crowds
Everyone
looks like they're connected to someone or something:
talking on their cell phones, or growing plastic vines
attached to tiny iPods from their ears. Still, others
are steely-eyed, mouth-set and concentrated on getting
where they are going.
in Toronto
the meeting place
I've nothing to do—
one two three...
people pass me by
Author's
Note: The origin of the name "Toronto" comes from the
Huron word toran-ten, which literally means meeting
place.
Three
Ifs by a Would-be Tankaist
yellow leaves
whirled by the wind
struggling in mid-air...
my tanka is conceived
at the sight
I, too,
dislike it: too short, too understated, and too
difficult to write. But, it gives me joy if read, pride
if published, and assurance if paid. After all, I
discover in it a hiding place for my feelings.
shades of memories
fly about, collide, and land
I pick them up
and put them to rest
in the grave of tanka
