I stole this off of someone else's blog. but it is very good, so share nice.
by Li-Young Lee
Persimmons
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose
persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet onewill be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew on the skin, suck it,and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet
all of it, to the heart.
Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down,
I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.
Naked: I've forgotten.
Ni, wo: you me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.
Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.
Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat
but watched the other faces.
My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,warm as my face.
Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang. The sun, the sun.
Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father would stay up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.
This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents' cellar, I rummage, lookingfor something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.
He's so happy that I've come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.
Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.
He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?
This is persimmons, Father.
Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.
-- Li-Young Lee
I really like this. I copy/pasted it, not sure i got the spacing quite right, may the artist forgive my barbaric transgressions.
Someone once told me that there is a (chinese?) poem that says something about: there is tea for two "and all my neighbors are barbarians"
I only remember the barbarians part, obviously. but I like that too.
Every day I have things that I think I should write about, but by the time I get home, to the computer, and finish distracting myself from anything that might be constructive or worthwhile by enviously reading what everyone else has written, it's all gone. So I guess I'm self-sabotaging, shooting myself in the knee for no other reason than- than what? I don't know. Fear? Of what? Critisism, maybe. Crazy ideas of being broke and insane because I gave in and gave my all to the musing siren of words on the page. Or maybe that's just my o'erweening pride, there. Being a leo, I can be amazingly smug, even when I'm (what is the word I want? degrading? denigrating? where is my dictionary?) myself.
Gods above and below, what a strange creature I can be. What a strange creature I am. Like no other, and yet so familiar you know me without knowing me.
Or do you?
Do I?
What was my point?
Oh yes.
I forget; that was my point.
Well, sportsfans, today I made a note; so I remember.
Things to bitch about from work: (note: workspeak is about to commence. please feel free to ask for definitions/clarifications in the comments.)
1) Ice machines.
we have three out on the floor. Two in the north break area, right by the lines, and one in the south, in the midst of finish.
Today, we had a line for the singular ice machine in the south break area.
The person in front of me told me that the other two were out.
When she had filled her jug, she headed back to the lines.
I looked at the catch tray beneath the dispensing chute, and gripped my mug very firmly as I viewed the heap of melting ice that threatened to overflow the tray.
What the fuck.
How can I put this into a linear thought pattern?
Quit pouring out your drinking containers, people. Just put more fucking ice in your fucking cup because you are drinking fucking water, you assholes. it isn't as though the ice in the machine is colder than the ice in your cup, you idiot fuckwads. this is why the other two ice machines are out, you empty headed over-paid screw monkeys.
Good lord.
It makes me want to throw things, or blow stuff up, or both.
These are the things that will finally shove me over the edge and result in my rebirth as a super villain.
2) "ROBSTOY"
there is a burgundy Miata (very new looking, too) in the parking lot.
The tags says : ROBSTOY
this makes me think: ROBISANASSHOLE
The plate frame says: God Loves You
This makes me think: "God loves you, but I'm his favorite" is what Rob is saying with his new-looking burgundy Miata.
When I fall off the edge and go into super villain mode, I will start with ROBSTOY and the explosions will last for days.
Oh, yes, so many things will go up in flames.
But I will resist the call of the evil super genius in my soul.
For my kung fu is strong.
Or something.
3) the Plad Platypus
(I know that it is normally spelled "plaid". Wait for it.)
I'm not tremendously fashion conscious, but Plaid is passe, no? (stupid american keyboard. No accent ague.)
Why, then, O God, are so many of the manegement men wearing it?
We monkeys are convinced it is a plague, first carried by the Plad Platypus. (this is actually an insult to platypi. they are wonderful creatures. the Plad Platypus is not a wonderful creature.)
It has spread to my boss, and to several other radio-wearing males of medium importance.
We have watched the onset of the illness, and it is an illness, for it makes us all ill.
We find no answer to the disease other than the oh-so-overdue removal of the original carrier.
Unfortunately, the Plad Platypus remains in his position; how, we know not.
His stupidity and intolerable personality are apparently unnoticed by the management above him. Again, we know not how.
and now you are saying "yes, yes, but why Plad instead of Plaid? this is all we care about right now."
"Keep your shirt on, and let me read."
My Favorite Little Freak named him, and decided that the referencing phrase should be without the "i" to identify him uniquely. (does that sentence read well? -- ok.) And at the company picnic, he brought the t-shirt he had made that said "Just say no to plad" so that everyone who was in on the joke/silent protest could have a good laugh together. There was a picture of him with his shirt in the newsletter the next week. I saved a copy, just for that picture. It was good.
ok.
next.
Stories that I miss because I am going the wrong way:
1) Yesterday on the way home, I noticed that there was a person standing in the middle of the highway (169) on the other side of the dividing wall. Just standing there, looking in the direction of oncoming traffic. And there was oncoming traffic. Not lots of traffic, but it was coming towards him. And he just stood there. I didn't see a car broken down nearby, and he wasn't looking on the ground like he lost something. I thought about exiting and going back to see if I could help him, if he needed a ride or if he knew where/who he was.
But I didn't.
So I guess now I will never know what that story is.
Ah, well.
2) Today there was fire on the way home. Again on the same highway, on the same side; I don't think that I have ever seen feral fire like that. I have only seen it safely caged, in a corral of wood; or domesticated, in the confines of the fireplace. ( I like the ideas in that word, fire place.) I have also seen it huge and roaring, consuming buildings, but that is also a kind of urban animal.
This was small, and feeding on the grass on the side of the highway;
it was translucent, in shades of heat I've never seen;
it was free.
It was completely wild, newborn, and without knowledge of containment.
And I exited to call the fire department to come and put it out.
Does this make me a bad person? I did nothing about the man in the middle of the road, that noone else might have noticed until they tried very hard not to hit him. But I took the time to call about a small fire that I knew other people would have reported. I did nothing to try to protect the man in the road, and I took action to destroy that beautiful fire. (yeah, that last phrase makes me sound chock full o', doesn't it?) I feel very conflicted by this set of choices. I'm not sure what they say about me. I'm not sure I like the implications.
I suppose I should have my shower and go to sleep, especially now that Luigi can cuddle again. I just don't sleep right anymore unless we are nestled together in the "comfortable postion".
I hope you have enjoyed my stream of conciousness post; it was unintentional, but it was fun.
Perhaps I will do it again.
we will see.
Thank you for your support.
