# data[].attributes.body
Let us leave our children skies of blue
That burning August morning even shadows burnt away
That weight of fathers mothers brothers sisters lives
We carry and we hold.
Let us leave our children skies of blue.
That night the essence of thousands vanished silent into space
The weight of fathers mothers brothers sisters lives
Now float like lantern lights to sea
Let us leave our children skies of blue.
Put out the fires of war from every nation in the world
May peace and love and liberty and life glow
in our handshakes
In our voices
in our songs
Let us leave our children skies of blue.

# data[].attributes.body
Program Library: Tomoe Hiiro Half a century since the atomic bomb was dropped in Hiroshima, NHK Hiroshima Station called on the public to provide first-hand historical accounts such as diaries or letters written in 1945. (In the last part of the program, there is a segment asking people to provide their diaries or letters, but this is no longer valid.) Sankichi Toge is a poet known for his poem that starts with the line, "Give back my father, give back my mother." He had visited the army clothing depot, which had been turned into a shelter for the victims, to see a woman he knew who had been taken there. He wrote in his diary that he would never be able to forget what he had seen for as long as he lived. "Excrements poured onto the floor, and from all around, I could hear people calling for family members and calling for help. Their voices echoed on and on and would not stop." The woman thanked Sankichi, and passed away in autumn.

# data[].attributes.body
白色洗滌
我的文化在出生時背叛了我，
在西海岸拋棄了我
並剝奪了我的遺產
玫瑰紅舌頭
  卡利太陽
輕輕地親吻我的處女皮膚，
把我包在白色的床單裡
稱她為她的一員。
White Washed
My culture betrayed me at birth,
Abandoned me on the West Coast
And stripped the heritage from my
Rosy red tongue
  the Cali sun
Kissing my virgin skin, carefully, softly,
Wrapping me in her white bed sheets
Calling me one of her own.

# data[].attributes.body
In the invitation, I tell them for the seventeenth time
(the fourth in writing), that I am gay.

In the invitation, I include a picture of my boyfriend
& write, You’ve met him two times. But this time,

you will ask him things other than can you pass the
whatever. You will ask him

about him. You will enjoy dinner. You will be
enjoyable. Please RSVP.

They RSVP. They come.
They sit at the table & ask my boyfriend

the first of the conversation starters I slip them
upon arrival: How is work going?

I’m like the kid in Home Alone, orchestrating
every movement of a proper family, as if a pair

of scary yet deeply incompetent burglars
is watching from the outside.

My boyfriend responds in his chipper way.
I pass my father a bowl of fish ball soup—So comforting,

isn’t it? My mother smiles her best
Sitting with Her Son’s Boyfriend

Who Is a Boy Smile. I smile my Hurray for Doing
a Little Better Smile.

Everyone eats soup.
Then, my mother turns

to me, whispers in Mandarin, Is he coming with you
for Thanksgiving? My good friend is & she wouldn’t like

this. I’m like the kid in Home Alone, pulling
on the string that makes my cardboard mother

more motherly, except she is
not cardboard, she is

already, exceedingly my mother. Waiting
for my answer.

While my father opens up
a Boston Globe, when the invitation

clearly stated: No security
blankets. I’m like the kid

in Home Alone, except the home
is my apartment, & I’m much older, & not alone,

& not the one who needs
to learn, has to—Remind me

what’s in that recipe again, my boyfriend says
to my mother, as though they have always, easily

talked. As though no one has told him
many times, what a nonlinear slapstick meets

slasher flick meets psychological
pit he is now co-starring in.

Remind me, he says
to our family.

# data[].attributes.body
"No More Hiroshima" poet

# data[].attributes.body
God-My-Father gave me three words:
O-My-Love
O-My-God
Holy-Holy-Holy.

God-My-Mother’s wounds will never heal.

God-My-Brother is always alone in the library.

Meanwhile, I can’t remember

how many brothers I have.

God-My-Sister, combing the knots out of my hair,

says that’s because

so many brothers died before I learned to count,

and the ones who died after I acquired arithmetic

so exceeded the number of brothers still alive.

God-My-Father gave me three words to live by.

O-My-Love. O-My-God. Holy-Holy-Holy.

Why won’t God-My-Mother’s wounds heal?

Wounding myself doesn’t cauterize her wounds.

Another wound to her won’t seal her open blooms.

Her voice is a flowering tree struck by lightning.

It goes on greening and flowering,

but come petal-fall, its blossoms dropping

thunder so loud I must cover my ears to hear her.

Meanwhile, God-My-Brother spends every afternoon

alone with the books God-My-Father writes.

Some days he looks up

from a page, wearing the very face of horror.

Ask him what’s the matter

and he’ll stare into your eyes and whisper, “Murder!”

He’ll howl, “Murder!” He’ll scream, “Murder!”

Until he’s hoarse or exhausted.

Or until God-My-Sister sits him down,

combs and braids his hair,

and sorts his dreams.

I’m counting out loud all of my brothers’ names,

the living and the dead, on my fingers.

But the list is long,

leading back to the beginning

of the building of the first human cities,

and I keep losing my place and starting over.

Once, I remembered them all

except the first pair.

God-My-Sister says I must never say those names, never

pronounce the names of that first pair of brothers

within earshot of God-My-Brother.

God-My-Father gave me only three words.

How will I ever learn to talk like other people?

God-My-Mother sings, and her voice

comes like winter to break open the seeds.

God-My-Brother spends most of his time alone.

God-My-Sister is the only one

he’ll ever let touch his face.

God-My-Sister, you should see her.

I have so many brothers,

but forever there will be

only one of her, God-My-Sister.

God-My-Father says from those three words

he gave me, all other words descend, branching.

That still leaves me unfit

for conversation, like some deranged bird

you can’t tell is crying in grief or exultation,

all day long repeating,

“O, my God. O, my love. Holy, holy, holy.”

# data[].attributes.body
No matter where we go, there’s a history
of white men describing a landscape

so they can claim it. I look out the window
& I don’t see a sunset, I see a man’s

pink tongue razing the horizon.
I once heard a man describe the village

in Vietnam where my family comes from.
It was beautiful

a poem I would gift my mother
but somewhere in the pastoral I am reminded

a child (recently) was blown apart
after stepping on a mine, a bulb, I guess

blooming forty years later—
maybe it was how the poet said dirt

or maybe it was how he used fire
to describe the trees.

# data[].attributes.body
https://www.google.com.au/search?safe=strict&sa=G&hl=en-AU&q=yin+and+yang+love&tbm=isch&tbs=simg:CAQSlQEJTXsX94HTo-MaiQELEKjU2AQaAggVDAsQsIynCBpiCmAIAxIo8gnxCYAIiBTzA90Hkwn4E9UJtwm8NMA0lSe_1NMM0-z3RPfw99yjJPRow9w7uoghXq7nrAQRzNzwKXxDU7ImrR6Fawoca-hlP33SIASusfkqhIzFLpCz2j7cLIAQMCxCOrv4IGgoKCAgBEgRadS86DA&ved=0ahUKEwiBr6S1qdzbAhUDOJQKHVq_AasQwg4IIygA

# data[].attributes.body
A haiku consists of 17 ‘on’, or syllables, in a 5-7-5 pattern. A traditional Japanese haiku is printed in one long vertical line, while in English it is split into three horizontal lines.

# data[].attributes.body
瘸子，血液和蝴蝶。
   不知何故，种植了一株向日葵
在胡同里。它的脖子断了。
   也许记忆是所有的家
你得到。愤怒，你在哪里
   首先了解这个轴有多脆弱
一切都在倾斜。
   但要说你已经接受条款
与一个从未爱过你的城市
   可能会夸大一点。
你知道的只有一次
   一个现在坐落很多的步行，
空置的，老鼠在深草里
   躲避一天。
那一间公寓发生火灾
   早在76年就回到了街上
称为纵火收集索赔 -
   最终什么都做不了
这座城市本身就是这样，离开了自己的阴影
   设备，大约十六年后。
一些人说，叛乱。暴动，
   其余的说。无论如何，火焰;
和你认识的家，灰烬。
   这不是实际的记忆，但是
你还记得它：
   达特森传下来，
然后被盗。剥光，恢复，
   并从螺栓上回来。
五月份开走。 1992年。
   那生命中剩下的东西很颤抖
在后视镜 - 世界着火的时候，
   和你的头一半

# data[].attributes.body
With Hiroshima eyes I weep
for a world self-destructing,
never learning lessons from
the atomic apocalypse of skies falling.
With Nagasaki ears I listen
to the woeful cries of
more and more victims,
each one muted by preemptive Destruction.
With Bikini and Moruroa lips I mourn
so many stories unheard, untold
a legacy of catastrophe
buried by atolls of coral.
With Nevada skin I burn
to tell a Truth obstructed
of desolate Earth and People
united by a cataclysmic obsolescence.
With Lop Nor legs I run
to find a secret crevice
where I lie hidden from a home
on the brink of nuclear precipice.
With Novaya Zemlya and Chernobyl arms I reach
to embrace an untainted vision,
a reality not beholden since
before the Trinity explosion.
Unlike Pokhran and Chagai, I can not celebrate
a new era of annihilation
concealed in formidable disguise
justifying my security by threatening our demise.

# data[].attributes.body
Asian Americans have been contributing to U.S. literature for over a century, but their role did not gain recognition in mainstream culture or academia until the 1970s. Since then, over 50 Asian American studies programs, centers, and institutes have been established on university campuses, and organizations such as Kundiman and the

Asian Americans' writing workshops, presses, and journals have helped to further cultivate Asian American poetry. As a result, Asian American writers may no longer feel compelled to write in particular traditional or protest modes or represent the external cultural labels pressed upon them. In her 2004 introduction to Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation, Victoria Chang writes, “new Asian American poets have captured the power of the past but have ventured into new territories and discovered, created, and revealed new voices and styles.”

# data[].attributes.body
Divide

the year

into seasons,

four,

subtract

the snow then

add

some more

green,

a bud,

a breeze,

a whispering

behind

the trees,

and here

beneath the

rain-scrubbed

sky

orange poppies

multiply.

# data[].attributes.body
American artist and writer Theresa Hak Kyung Cha was born in South Korea during the Korean War. Her family immigrated to the U.S. in 1962, where Cha earned her BA and MA in Comparative Literature and her BA and MFA in Art from the University of California, Berkeley.

Cha’s work incorporates multiple perspectives of culture, history, and artistic media. Her art is interdisciplinary, combining elements of various media and theoretic approaches, culminating as performance pieces, films, concrete poetry, and artists’ books. One such piece is the experimental novel, Dictée (1982), for which she is most well known. Drawing on a diverse range of cultural and spiritual exposure, Cha’s body of work is rich with linguistic investigation amidst themes of exile, displacement, and redemption.

One week after the publication of Dictée, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha was murdered in New York City at the age of 31. Despite her unfortunate and early death, Cha’s collection of films, writings, and visual art is substantial, and is housed at the University of California, Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive.

# data[].attributes.body
Night in the basement of a concrete structure now in ruins.
Victims of the atomic bomb jammed the room;
It was dark—not even a single candle.
The smell of fresh blood, the stench of death,
The closeness of sweaty people, the moans.
From out of all that, lo and behold, a voice:
"The baby’s coming!"
In that hellish basement,
At that very moment, a young woman had gone into labour.
In the dark, without a single match, what to do?
People forgot their own pains, worried about her.
And then: "I'm a midwife. I’ll help with the birth."
The speaker, seriously injured herself, had been moaning only moments before.
And so new life was born in the dark of that pit of hell.
And so the midwife died before dawn, still bathed in blood.
Let us be midwives!
Let us be midwives!
Even if we lay down our own lives to do so.

# data[].attributes.headline
ああおぉわありがとうございました。

# data[].attributes.body
ああおぉわありがとうございました。

# data[].attributes.body
What is lucidity?
lucidity is the clarity of an expression

# data[].attributes.body
http://examples.yourdictionary.com/examples-of-haiku-poems.html

# data[].attributes.body
He is
my sister, this
beautiful Bedouin, this Shulamite,
keeper of sabbaths, diviner
of holy texts, this dark
dancer, this Jew, this Asian, this one
with the Cambodian face, Vietnamese face, this Chinese
I daily face,
this immigrant,
this man with my own face.

# data[].attributes.body
Kanshi is a form of Chinese poetry, which was one of the most popular forms of poetry during the Heian Period. It consists of five to seven syllables divided into four or eight lines.

# data[].attributes.body
From the sky in the form of snow
comes the great forgiveness.
Rain grown soft, the flakes descend
and rest; they nestle close, each one
arrived, welcomed and then at home.

If the sky lets go some day and I'm
requested for such volunteering
toward so clean a message, I’ll come.
The world goes on and while friends touch down
beside me, I too will come.

# data[].attributes.body
From the sky in the form of snow
comes the great forgiveness.
Rain grown soft, the flakes descend
and rest; they nestle close, each one
arrived, welcomed and then at home.

If the sky lets go some day and I'm
requested for such volunteering
toward so clean a message, I’ll come.
The world goes on and while friends touch down
beside me, I too will come.

# data[].attributes.body
Haiku is a very short form of Japanese poetry. It is typically characterized by three qualities: The essence of haiku is "cutting".

# data[].attributes.body
when the swirling yellow smoke thinned
buildings split, bridges collapsed
packed trains rested singed
and a shoreless accumulation of rubble and embers - Hiroshima
before long, a line of naked bodies walking in groups, crying
with skin hanging down like rags
hands on chests
stamping on crumbled brain matter
burnt clothing covering hips

corpses lie on the parade ground like stone images of Jizo, dispersed in all
directions
on the banks of the river, lying one on top of another, a group that had crawled to
a tethered raft

also gradually transformed into corpses beneath the sun's scorching rays
and in the light of the flames that pierced the evening sky
the place where mother and younger brother were pinned under alive
also was engulfed in flames
and when the morning sun shone on a group of high-school girls
who had fled and were lying
on the floor of the armory, in excrement
their bellies swollen, one eye crushed, half their bodies raw flesh with skin ripped
off, hairless, impossible to tell who was who
all had stopped moving
in a stagnant, offensive smell
the only sound the wings of flies buzzing around metal basins

city of 300,000
can we forget that silence?
in that stillness
the powerful appeal
of the white eye sockets of the wives and children who did not return home
that tore apart our hearts
can it be forgotten?!

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
Japanese aesthetic philosophy inspires us all the way from the Far East to the Folk School. Radically different from Western design, Japanese design principles mesh especially well with the Folk School due to an emphasis on simplicity, unobtrusive beauty, function, irregularity, weathered textures, nature, and tranquility. Cultivate a bonsai, write a haiku, try Ikebana flower arranging, learn about traditional Shibori dyeing, demystify Asian spices, create raku vessels for a Japanese tea ceremony and much more at the Folk School. Embrace Wabi-Sabi and Zen philosophy with these 2015 offerings focusing on Japanese design and techniques:

Learn to do kumihimo - the beautiful Japanese braiding technique - with beads! Use a braiding disk for consistent results, starting with the easiest cords. Progress to more intricate designs and discuss the various results achieved with different materials and with the traditional marudai stand.

Haiku is a traditional Japanese poem, consisting of 3 lines and 17 syllables. It is easy and fun to write, as well as an expedient, creative way to capture life's special moments. Try your hand at it, using the winter beauty of the mountains as inspiration. Bring your powers of observation and depart with a:

Small book of haiku
At the end of the weekend
To take home with you!

Explore exotic food ingredients, recipes, cooking techniques, and presentations of cuisine from around Asia - China, Japan, Thailand, Malaysia, Korea, and Vietnam. Demystify Asian ingredients, cooking tools, and kitchen techniques to create authentic and delicious dishes, along with a five-spice dry rub to take home.

Using both Eastern and Western techniques, we will turn plain paper into virtual kaleidoscopes of color and design. You'll make a good assortment of one-of-a-kind papers, ready to use for a variety of purposes - and if time permits, we'll make a few simple projects in class.

In this introduction to a gentle art, learn techniques of nursery-grown bonsai. Root pruning, top pruning, soils, containers, wiring, and daily care will be covered. Create a bonsai each day in various styles and get an introduction to the philosophy surrounding this ancient art.

See also: Bonsai - Introduction to an Expressive Art with Tim Ryan * August 21-23 ( Weekend)

Tie, dye, shift, and weave. This week will focus on Japanese warp and weft ikat weaving, in which the threads are dyed in blocks and shifted during the warping and weaving process. Work will be done with cotton dyed with indigo and cold-water dyes. We will have time to experiment with shibori and sakiori (rag weaving), along with finishing the weaving into completed pieces.

Immerse yourself in beauty and nature through three Japanese disciplines: Sumi-e ink painting, Haiku poetry, and Ikebana flower arranging. Master the traditional brush strokes of sumi to create compositions that express the emotion of your subjects. Then use sumi to illustrate your haiku, lyrical poetry of 17 syllables in three lines. As you experience Ikebana flower arranging, natural materials become your medium.

Boro is a traditional Japanese method of mending and extending the life of everyday textiles, now honored as an art form. Traditionally, the fabrics were indigo-dyed, and the patched items became a wonderful mosaic of blues, covered with beautiful sashiko hand stitching. Start with your own denim scraps and, as the technique is learned, create a sample book and bag - perhaps to carry future Boro projects!

Focus on making objects used in the Japanese tea ceremony such as tea bowls, fresh flower containers, serving trays, and water jars. We will make black bamboo and deer-tail brushes for decorating. Work will be fired in two fiber-drum raku kilns, and the class will also build and fire a salku kiln.

Shibori, a Japanese dyeing technique dating from the 8th century, produces delicately patterned, "slow" cloth using hand stitching, folding, tying, and dyeing. Learn several shibori techniques including arashi (pole wrapping), mokume (stitching & scrunching), itajimi (folding & binding), kumo (wrapping around stones), and more. Working with both silk and cotton, we will paint and dip-dye brilliantly colored scarves, cloth, and shirts and marvel at the results.

Ribbon origami is a method of working with ribbon that involves folding and pleating to create striking ribbon cockades, cocardes, and hatbands that resemble Japanese origami. Take the mystery out of these remarkable trims by learning at least 6 ways of transforming ribbon lengths into embellishments for hats, clothing, gifts, and home decor items.

Temari is a folk craft born in ancient Japan from the desire to entertain children with an embroidered toy thread ball. Today, the lovely thread-wrapped, embroidered temari balls are given as tokens of good luck. The home craft is now an art form. This class allows students to start from the beginning, and patterns will also be available for intermediate stitchers to tackle.

How to Register

Click on any of the class names above to find out more course information and to register online.

If you're registering from our printed course catalog, or just want to talk to a live person, give us a call Monday-Friday, 8:00am-5:00pm, EST, Toll-free: 800-365-5724 or: 828-837-2775
Visit our website to browse all our 2015 class offerings.
Request a Catalog online, view our Catalog eBook, or stop by the Keith House lobby to pick a 2015 Catalog up anytime.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
Asia to Appalachia: Japanese Influence at the Folk School - John C. Campbell Folk School Blog

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Japanese aesthetic philosophy inspires us all the way from the Far East to the Folk School. Radically different from Western design, Japanese design principles mesh especially well with the Folk School due to an emphasis on simplicity, unobtrusive beauty, function, irregularity, weathered textures, nature, and tranquility.

# data[].attributes.body
On an island of mus
ic

in a city of drumbeats

the drum dream girl

dreamed

of pounding tall conga drums

tapping small bongó drums

and boom boom booming

with long, loud sticks

on bit, round, silvery

moon-bright timbales.

But everyone

on the island of music

in the city of drumbeats

believed that only boys

should play drums

so the drum dream girl

had to keep dreaming

quiet

secret

drumbeat

dreams.

At outdoor cafés that looked like gardens

she heard drums played by men

but when she closed her eyes

she could also hear

her own imaginary

music.

When she walked under

wind-wavy palm trees

in a flower-bright park

she heard the whir of parrot wings

the clack of woodpecker beaks

the dancing tap

of her own footsteps

and the comforting pat

of her own

heartbeat.

At carnivals, she listened

to the rattling beat

of towering

dancers

on stilts

and the dragon clang

of costumed drummers

wearing huge masks.

At home, her fingertips

rolled out their own

dreamy drum rhythm

on tables and chairs…

and even though everyone

kept reminding her that girls

on the island of music

have never played drums

the brave drum dream girl

dared to play

tall conga drums

small bongó drums

and big, round, silvery

moon-bright timbales.

Her hands seemed to fly

as they rippled

rapped

and pounded

all the rhythms

of her drum dreams.

Her big sisters were so excited

that they invited her to join

their new all-girl dance band

but their father said only boys

should play drums.

So the drum dream girl

had to keep dreaming

and drumming

alone

until finally

her father offered

to find a music teacher

who could decide if her drums

deserved

to be heard.

The drum dream girl’s

teacher was amazed.

The girl knew so much

but he taught her more

and more

and more

and she practiced

and she practiced

and she practiced

until the teacher agreed

that she was ready

to play her small bongó drums

outdoors at a starlit café

that looked like a garden

where everyone who heard

her dream-bright music

sang

and danced

and decided

that girls should always

be allowed to play

drums

and both girls and boys

should feel free

to dream.

# data[].attributes.body
can we forget that flash?
suddenly 30,000 in the streets disappeared
in the crushed depths of darkness
the shrieks of 50,000 died out

# data[].attributes.headline
фруктовые петли хороши
фр

# data[].attributes.body
фруктовые петли хороши
фруктовые петли хороши
Empty
Chen Chen
Chen Chen
  
In the invitation, I tell them for the seventeenth time 
(the fourth in writing), that I am gay. 

In the invitation, I include a picture of my boyfriend 
& write, You’ve met him two times. But this time, 

you will ask him things other than can you pass the
whatever. You will ask him 

about him. You will enjoy dinner. You will be 
enjoyable. Please RSVP. 

They RSVP. They come. 
They sit at the table & ask my boyfriend 

the first of the conversation starters I slip them
upon arrival: How is work going? 

I’m like the kid in Home Alone, orchestrating
every movement of a proper family, as if a pair  

of scary yet deeply incompetent burglars 
is watching from the outside.  

My boyfriend responds in his chipper way. 
I pass my father a bowl of fish ball soup—So comforting, 

isn’t it? My mother smiles her best 
Sitting with Her Son’s Boyfriend 

Who Is a Boy Smile. I smile my Hurray for Doing 
a Little Better Smile. 

Everyone eats soup. 
Then, my mother turns 

to me, whispers in Mandarin, Is he coming with you 
for Thanksgiving? My good friend is & she wouldn’t like 

this. I’m like the kid in Home Alone, pulling 
on the string that makes my cardboard mother 

more motherly, except she is 
not cardboard, she is 

already, exceedingly my mother. Waiting 
for my answer. 

While my father opens up 
a Boston Globe, when the invitation 

clearly stated: No security 
blankets. I’m like the kid 

in Home Alone, except the home 
is my apartment, & I’m much older, & not alone, 

& not the one who needs 
to learn, has to—Remind me 

what’s in that recipe again, my boyfriend says 
to my mother, as though they have always, easily 

talked. As though no one has told him 
many times, what a nonlinear slapstick meets 

slasher flick meets psychological 
pit he is now co-starring in. 

Remind me, he says 
to our family. 
 
more_vert
📎 Photo
Sankichi Toge Monument
Sankichi Toge Monument
Sankichi Toge
Sankichi Toge
"No More Hiroshima" poet
📎 Photo
 God
  
God-My-Father gave me three words:
O-My-Love
O-My-God
Holy-Holy-Holy.

God-My-Mother’s wounds will never heal.
 
God-My-Brother is always alone in the library.
 
Meanwhile, I can’t remember
how many brothers I have.
 
God-My-Sister, combing the knots out of my hair,
says that’s because
so many brothers died before I learned to count,
and the ones who died after I acquired arithmetic
so exceeded the number of brothers still alive.
 
God-My-Father gave me three words to live by.
O-My-Love. O-My-God. Holy-Holy-Holy.
 
Why won’t God-My-Mother’s wounds heal?
Wounding myself doesn’t cauterize her wounds.
Another wound to her won’t seal her open blooms.
 
Her voice is a flowering tree struck by lightning.
It goes on greening and flowering,
but come petal-fall, its blossoms dropping
thunder so loud I must cover my ears to hear her.
 
Meanwhile, God-My-Brother spends every afternoon
alone with the books God-My-Father writes.
Some days he looks up
from a page, wearing the very face of horror.
Ask him what’s the matter
and he’ll stare into your eyes and whisper, “Murder!”
He’ll howl, “Murder!” He’ll scream, “Murder!”
Until he’s hoarse or exhausted.
Or until God-My-Sister sits him down,
combs and braids his hair,
and sorts his dreams.
 
I’m counting out loud all of my brothers’ names,
the living and the dead, on my fingers.
But the list is long,
leading back to the beginning
of the building of the first human cities,
and I keep losing my place and starting over.
Once, I remembered them all
except the first pair.
 
God-My-Sister says I must never say those names, never
pronounce the names of that first pair of brothers
within earshot of God-My-Brother.
 
God-My-Father gave me only three words.
How will I ever learn to talk like other people?
 
God-My-Mother sings, and her voice
comes like winter to break open the seeds.
 
God-My-Brother spends most of his time alone.
God-My-Sister is the only one
he’ll ever let touch his face.
 
God-My-Sister, you should see her.
I have so many brothers,
but forever there will be
only one of her, God-My-Sister.
 
God-My-Father says from those three words
he gave me, all other words descend, branching.
That still leaves me unfit
for conversation, like some deranged bird
you can’t tell is crying in grief or exultation,
all day long repeating,
“O, my God. O, my love. Holy, holy, holy.” 
📎 Photo
No matter where we g
 No matter where we go, there’s a history
of white men describing a landscape

so they can claim it. I look out the window
& I don’t see a sunset, I see a man’s

pink tongue razing the horizon.
I once heard a man describe the village

in Vietnam where my family comes from.
It was beautiful

a poem I would gift my mother
but somewhere in the pastoral I am reminded

a child (recently) was blown apart
after stepping on a mine, a bulb, I guess

blooming forty years later—
maybe it was how the poet said dirt

or maybe it was how he used fire
to describe the trees.
Yin and Yang poem
Yin and Yang poem
https://www.google.com.au/search?safe=strict&sa=G&hl=en-AU&q=yin+and+yang+love&tbm=isch&tbs=simg:CAQSlQEJTXsX94HTo-MaiQELEKjU2AQaAggVDAsQsIynCBpiCmAIAxIo8gnxCYAIiBTzA90Hkwn4E9UJtwm8NMA0lSe_1NMM0-z3RPfw99yjJPRow9w7uoghXq7nrAQRzNzwKXxDU7ImrR6Fawoca-hlP33SIASusfkqhIzFLpCz2j7cLIAQMCxCOrv4IGgoKCAgBEgRadS86DA&ved=0ahUKEwiBr6S1qdzbAhUDOJQKHVq_AasQwg4IIygA

How to write a Haiku
How to write a Haiku
A haiku consists of 17 ‘on’, or syllables, in a 5-7-5 pattern. A traditional Japanese haiku is printed in one long vertical line, while in English it is split into three horizontal lines.
の詩
 の詩
 瘸子，
  
瘸子，血液和蝴蝶。
   不知何故，种植了一株向日葵
在胡同里。它的脖子断了。
   也许记忆是所有的家
你得到。愤怒，你在哪里
   首先了解这个轴有多脆弱
一切都在倾斜。
   但要说你已经接受条款
与一个从未爱过你的城市
   可能会夸大一点。
你知道的只有一次
   一个现在坐落很多的步行，
空置的，老鼠在深草里
   躲避一天。
那一间公寓发生火灾
   早在76年就回到了街上
称为纵火收集索赔 - 
   最终什么都做不了
这座城市本身就是这样，离开了自己的阴影
   设备，大约十六年后。
一些人说，叛乱。暴动，
   其余的说。无论如何，火焰;
和你认识的家，灰烬。
   这不是实际的记忆，但是
你还记得它：
   达特森传下来，
然后被盗。剥光，恢复，
   并从螺栓上回来。
五月份开走。 1992年。
   那生命中剩下的东西很颤抖
在后视镜 - 世界着火的时候，
   和你的头一半 

 Wit
  
With Hiroshima eyes I weep
for a world self-destructing,
never learning lessons from
the atomic apocalypse of skies falling.
With Nagasaki ears I listen
to the woeful cries of
more and more victims,
each one muted by preemptive Destruction.
With Bikini and Moruroa lips I mourn
so many stories unheard, untold
a legacy of catastrophe
buried by atolls of coral.
With Nevada skin I burn
to tell a Truth obstructed
of desolate Earth and People
united by a cataclysmic obsolescence.
With Lop Nor legs I run
to find a secret crevice
where I lie hidden from a home
on the brink of nuclear precipice.
With Novaya Zemlya and Chernobyl arms I reach
to embrace an untainted vision,
a reality not beholden since
before the Trinity explosion.
Unlike Pokhran and Chagai, I can not celebrate
a new era of annihilation
concealed in formidable disguise
justifying my security by threatening our demise.


 
 Asian American
  Asian Americans have been contributing to U.S. literature for over a century, but their role did not gain recognition in mainstream culture or academia until the 1970s. Since then, over 50 Asian American studies programs, centers, and institutes have been established on university campuses, and organizations such as Kundiman and the  
Asian Americans' writing workshops, presses, and journals have helped to further cultivate Asian American poetry. As a result, Asian American writers may no longer feel compelled to write in particular traditional or protest modes or represent the external cultural labels pressed upon them. In her 2004 introduction to Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation, Victoria Chang writes, “new Asian American poets have captured the power of the past but have ventured into new territories and discovered, created, and revealed new voices and styles.” 
 
  
Divide
the year
into seasons,
four,
subtract
the snow then
add
some more

# data[].attributes.body
sparrow is a representation of peace, humbleness and delicacy.
everything said within the poem has been said with a light tone however there is a depth of emotion behind the words.

# data[].attributes.headline
фруктовые петли хороши
фр

# data[].attributes.body
фруктовые петли хороши
фруктовые петли хороши
Empty
Chen Chen
Chen Chen
  
In the invitation, I tell them for the seventeenth time 
(the fourth in writing), that I am gay. 

In the invitation, I include a picture of my boyfriend 
& write, You’ve met him two times. But this time, 

you will ask him things other than can you pass the
whatever. You will ask him 

about him. You will enjoy dinner. You will be 
enjoyable. Please RSVP. 

They RSVP. They come. 
They sit at the table & ask my boyfriend 

the first of the conversation starters I slip them
upon arrival: How is work going? 

I’m like the kid in Home Alone, orchestrating
every movement of a proper family, as if a pair  

of scary yet deeply incompetent burglars 
is watching from the outside.  

My boyfriend responds in his chipper way. 
I pass my father a bowl of fish ball soup—So comforting, 

isn’t it? My mother smiles her best 
Sitting with Her Son’s Boyfriend 

Who Is a Boy Smile. I smile my Hurray for Doing 
a Little Better Smile. 

Everyone eats soup. 
Then, my mother turns 

to me, whispers in Mandarin, Is he coming with you 
for Thanksgiving? My good friend is & she wouldn’t like 

this. I’m like the kid in Home Alone, pulling 
on the string that makes my cardboard mother 

more motherly, except she is 
not cardboard, she is 

already, exceedingly my mother. Waiting 
for my answer. 

While my father opens up 
a Boston Globe, when the invitation 

clearly stated: No security 
blankets. I’m like the kid 

in Home Alone, except the home 
is my apartment, & I’m much older, & not alone, 

& not the one who needs 
to learn, has to—Remind me 

what’s in that recipe again, my boyfriend says 
to my mother, as though they have always, easily 

talked. As though no one has told him 
many times, what a nonlinear slapstick meets 

slasher flick meets psychological 
pit he is now co-starring in. 

Remind me, he says 
to our family. 
📎 Photo
Sankichi Toge Monument
Sankichi Toge Monument
Sankichi Toge
Sankichi Toge
"No More Hiroshima" poet
📎 Photo
 God
  
God-My-Father gave me three words:
O-My-Love
O-My-God
Holy-Holy-Holy.

God-My-Mother’s wounds will never heal.
 
God-My-Brother is always alone in the library.
 
Meanwhile, I can’t remember
how many brothers I have.
 
God-My-Sister, combing the knots out of my hair,
says that’s because
so many brothers died before I learned to count,
and the ones who died after I acquired arithmetic
so exceeded the number of brothers still alive.
 
God-My-Father gave me three words to live by.
O-My-Love. O-My-God. Holy-Holy-Holy.
 
Why won’t God-My-Mother’s wounds heal?
Wounding myself doesn’t cauterize her wounds.
Another wound to her won’t seal her open blooms.
 
Her voice is a flowering tree struck by lightning.
It goes on greening and flowering,
but come petal-fall, its blossoms dropping
thunder so loud I must cover my ears to hear her.
 
Meanwhile, God-My-Brother spends every afternoon
alone with the books God-My-Father writes.
Some days he looks up
from a page, wearing the very face of horror.
Ask him what’s the matter
and he’ll stare into your eyes and whisper, “Murder!”
He’ll howl, “Murder!” He’ll scream, “Murder!”
Until he’s hoarse or exhausted.
Or until God-My-Sister sits him down,
combs and braids his hair,
and sorts his dreams.
 
I’m counting out loud all of my brothers’ names,
the living and the dead, on my fingers.
But the list is long,
leading back to the beginning
of the building of the first human cities,
and I keep losing my place and starting over.
Once, I remembered them all
except the first pair.
 
God-My-Sister says I must never say those names, never
pronounce the names of that first pair of brothers
within earshot of God-My-Brother.
 
God-My-Father gave me only three words.
How will I ever learn to talk like other people?
 
God-My-Mother sings, and her voice
comes like winter to break open the seeds.
 
God-My-Brother spends most of his time alone.
God-My-Sister is the only one
he’ll ever let touch his face.
 
God-My-Sister, you should see her.
I have so many brothers,
but forever there will be
only one of her, God-My-Sister.
 
God-My-Father says from those three words
he gave me, all other words descend, branching.
That still leaves me unfit
for conversation, like some deranged bird
you can’t tell is crying in grief or exultation,
all day long repeating,
“O, my God. O, my love. Holy, holy, holy.” 
📎 Photo
No matter where we g
 No matter where we go, there’s a history
of white men describing a landscape

so they can claim it. I look out the window
& I don’t see a sunset, I see a man’s

pink tongue razing the horizon.
I once heard a man describe the village

in Vietnam where my family comes from.
It was beautiful

a poem I would gift my mother
but somewhere in the pastoral I am reminded

a child (recently) was blown apart
after stepping on a mine, a bulb, I guess

blooming forty years later—
maybe it was how the poet said dirt

or maybe it was how he used fire
to describe the trees.
Yin and Yang poem
Yin and Yang poem
https://www.google.com.au/search?safe=strict&sa=G&hl=en-AU&q=yin+and+yang+love&tbm=isch&tbs=simg:CAQSlQEJTXsX94HTo-MaiQELEKjU2AQaAggVDAsQsIynCBpiCmAIAxIo8gnxCYAIiBTzA90Hkwn4E9UJtwm8NMA0lSe_1NMM0-z3RPfw99yjJPRow9w7uoghXq7nrAQRzNzwKXxDU7ImrR6Fawoca-hlP33SIASusfkqhIzFLpCz2j7cLIAQMCxCOrv4IGgoKCAgBEgRadS86DA&ved=0ahUKEwiBr6S1qdzbAhUDOJQKHVq_AasQwg4IIygA

How to write a Haiku
How to write a Haiku
A haiku consists of 17 ‘on’, or syllables, in a 5-7-5 pattern. A traditional Japanese haiku is printed in one long vertical line, while in English it is split into three horizontal lines.
の詩
 の詩
 瘸子，
  
瘸子，血液和蝴蝶。
   不知何故，种植了一株向日葵
在胡同里。它的脖子断了。
   也许记忆是所有的家
你得到。愤怒，你在哪里
   首先了解这个轴有多脆弱
一切都在倾斜。
   但要说你已经接受条款
与一个从未爱过你的城市
   可能会夸大一点。
你知道的只有一次
   一个现在坐落很多的步行，
空置的，老鼠在深草里
   躲避一天。
那一间公寓发生火灾
   早在76年就回到了街上
称为纵火收集索赔 - 
   最终什么都做不了
这座城市本身就是这样，离开了自己的阴影
   设备，大约十六年后。
一些人说，叛乱。暴动，
   其余的说。无论如何，火焰;
和你认识的家，灰烬。
   这不是实际的记忆，但是
你还记得它：
   达特森传下来，
然后被盗。剥光，恢复，
   并从螺栓上回来。
五月份开走。 1992年。
   那生命中剩下的东西很颤抖
在后视镜 - 世界着火的时候，
   和你的头一半 

 Wit
  
With Hiroshima eyes I weep
for a world self-destructing,
never learning lessons from
the atomic apocalypse of skies falling.
With Nagasaki ears I listen
to the woeful cries of
more and more victims,
each one muted by preemptive Destruction.
With Bikini and Moruroa lips I mourn
so many stories unheard, untold
a legacy of catastrophe
buried by atolls of coral.
With Nevada skin I burn
to tell a Truth obstructed
of desolate Earth and People
united by a cataclysmic obsolescence.
With Lop Nor legs I run
to find a secret crevice
where I lie hidden from a home
on the brink of nuclear precipice.
With Novaya Zemlya and Chernobyl arms I reach
to embrace an untainted vision,
a reality not beholden since
before the Trinity explosion.
Unlike Pokhran and Chagai, I can not celebrate
a new era of annihilation
concealed in formidable disguise
justifying my security by threatening our demise.


 
 Asian American
  Asian Americans have been contributing to U.S. literature for over a century, but their role did not gain recognition in mainstream culture or academia until the 1970s. Since then, over 50 Asian American studies programs, centers, and institutes have been established on university campuses, and organizations such as Kundiman and the  
Asian Americans' writing workshops, presses, and journals have helped to further cultivate Asian American poetry. As a result, Asian American writers may no longer feel compelled to write in particular traditional or protest modes or represent the external cultural labels pressed upon them. In her 2004 introduction to Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation, Victoria Chang writes, “new Asian American poets have captured the power of the past but have ventured into new territories and discovered, created, and revealed new voices and styles.” 
 
  
Divide
the year
into seasons,
four,
subtract
the snow then
add
some more

# data[].attributes.body
Wrapped and tied by time.
I felt it seep,
into the world around me.
Always taking never giving.
As it absorbed… slowly.
It pushed the pins,
of the past into the realm,
of my present.
To escape the things,
I store away.
Lids of my sight close,
to view an asian forest.
Riddled with bamboo,
with filter of green and dusk
I feel myself sleeping,
near coy and a soft brook.
I dreamt I was a white wolf
in a green asian forest.
Hunting my brother.
The wolf dark with time.
He was where darkness seeks,
to infect and seep.
I feel myself breathing,
deeper and deeper.
Slowly, the darkness around,
lifts enough and calms.
Stillness, and the light song of evening.
I feel myself calming, breathing,
and letting go.

# data[].attributes.headline
1My soul radially whorls out to the edges of my body, according to the same lawsby which stars shine, communicating with my body by emanation.When you see her, you feel the impact of what visual can mean.Invisibility comes through of deep pink or a color I see clairvoyantly.This felt sense at seeing the rose extends, because light in the DNA of my cellsreceives light frequencies of the flower as a hologram.The entire rose, petals in moving air, emotion of perfume records as a sphere, sowhen I recall the emotion, I touch dimensionality.From a small bud emerges a tight wound bundle of babyskin coral petals, held ina half globe, as if by cupped hands.Then petals are innumerable, loose, double, sumptuous, unified.I look through parted fingers to soften my gaze, so slow light shining off theobject is filtered; then with feeling I look at swift color there.It's swiftness that seems still as noon light, because my seeing travels at the samespeed.I make a reciprocal balance between light falling on the back of my eye to opticnerve to pineal gland, radiance stepping down to matter, and my future selfopening out from this sight.A moment extends to time passing as sense impression of a rose, including newjoys where imagined roses, roses I haven't yet seen or seen in books record as myexperience.Then experience is revelation, because plants and people have in their cellsparticles of light that can become coherent, that radiate out physically and alsowith the creativity of metaphor, as in a beam of light holographically, i.e., byintuition, in which I inhale the perfume of the Bourbon rose, then try to separatewhat is scent, sense, and what you call memory, what is emotion, where in adialogue like touching is it so vibratory and so absorbent of my attention andlonging, with impressions like fingerprints all over.I'm saying physical perception is the data of my embodiment, whereas for therose, scarlet itself is matter.2The rose communicates instantly with the woman by sight, collapsing itsboundaries, and the woman widens her boundaries.Her "rate of perception" slows down, because of its complexity.There's a feeling of touching and being touched, the shadings of color she can sensefrom touch.There's an affinity between awareness and blossom.The rose symbolizes the light of this self-affinity.I come to visit drooping white cabbage roses at dusk.That corner of the garden glows with a quality of light I might see when lightshines through mist or in early morning reflects off water.I stand quietly and allow this quality to permeate air around me.Here, with a white rose, color is clairsentient, this color in the process of beingexpressed, like seeing Venus in the day.Walking, I move in and out of negative space around which each rose is engagedand become uncertain of my physical extent as an object.Look at the energy between people and plants; your heart moves into depthperception; for depth, read speed of light.I set my intention through this sense of moving into coherence with the bio-photonsof a plant and generate feeling in response.A space opens and awareness gathers it in, as at night my dream is colorless andweaves into the nuance.I can intentionally engage with the coherence of light beams, instant as thoughlightless, or the colored light of a dimension not yet arrived, as our hearts are notoutside affinity with respect to wavelength, shaping meaning, using the capacityfor feeling to sense its potency in a rose and to cultivate inter-being with summerperfume. 

# data[].attributes.subject
1My soul radially whorls out to the edges of my body, according to the same lawsby which stars shine, communicating with my body by emanation.When you see her, you feel the impact of what visual can mean.Invisibility comes through of deep pink or a color I see clairvoyantly.This felt sense at seeing the rose extends, because light in the DNA of my cellsreceives light frequencies of the flower as a hologram.The entire rose, petals in moving air, emotion of perfume records as a sphere, sowhen I recall the emotion, I touch dimensionality.From a small bud emerges a tight wound bundle of babyskin coral petals, held ina half globe, as if by cupped hands.Then petals are innumerable, loose, double, sumptuous, unified.I look through parted fingers to soften my gaze, so slow light shining off theobject is filtered; then with feeling I look at swift color there.It's swiftness that seems still as noon light, because my seeing travels at the samespeed.I make a reciprocal balance between light falling on the back of my eye to opticnerve to pineal gland, radiance stepping down to matter, and my future selfopening out from this sight.A moment extends to time passing as sense impression of a rose, including newjoys where imagined roses, roses I haven't yet seen or seen in books record as myexperience.Then experience is revelation, because plants and people have in their cellsparticles of light that can become coherent, that radiate out physically and alsowith the creativity of metaphor, as in a beam of light holographically, i.e., byintuition, in which I inhale the perfume of the Bourbon rose, then try to separatewhat is scent, sense, and what you call memory, what is emotion, where in adialogue like touching is it so vibratory and so absorbent of my attention andlonging, with impressions like fingerprints all over.I'm saying physical perception is the data of my embodiment, whereas for therose, scarlet itself is matter.2The rose communicates instantly with the woman by sight, collapsing itsboundaries, and the woman widens her boundaries.Her "rate of perception" slows down, because of its complexity.There's a feeling of touching and being touched, the shadings of color she can sensefrom touch.There's an affinity between awareness and blossom.The rose symbolizes the light of this self-affinity.I come to visit drooping white cabbage roses at dusk.That corner of the garden glows with a quality of light I might see when lightshines through mist or in early morning reflects off water.I stand quietly and allow this quality to permeate air around me.Here, with a white rose, color is clairsentient, this color in the process of beingexpressed, like seeing Venus in the day.Walking, I move in and out of negative space around which each rose is engagedand become uncertain of my physical extent as an object.Look at the energy between people and plants; your heart moves into depthperception; for depth, read speed of light.I set my intention through this sense of moving into coherence with the bio-photonsof a plant and generate feeling in response.A space opens and awareness gathers it in, as at night my dream is colorless andweaves into the nuance.I can intentionally engage with the coherence of light beams, instant as thoughlightless, or the colored light of a dimension not yet arrived, as our hearts are notoutside affinity with respect to wavelength, shaping meaning, using the capacityfor feeling to sense its potency in a rose and to cultivate inter-being with summerperfume. 

# data[].attributes.body
a peaceful evening
sparrows singing together
with pretty feathers

# data[].attributes.body
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/101589/asian-american-voices-in-poetry

# data[].attributes.body
lucidity of love
everything we know contradicts
the mind of heart
everything unknown
unveils its mystery when
love reminds us of lost light

by mihaela pirjol