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World Poetry/Prose Portfolio: Tokya Tanka and other poems

World Poetry/Prose Portfolio: Tokya Tanka and other poems
      

Ten poems by the Pushcart Prize-winning poet, author, editor and translator of over 15 books and chapbooks, whose memoir, Correctional, is forthcoming in 2021 from University of Wisconsin Press, as part of World Poetry/Prose Portoflio, curated by Sudeep Sen 

Gayatri Mantra 

translated from the Sanskrit by Ravi Shankar



Om Bhur bhuvah svah 
Tat savitur varenyam
Bhargo Devasya dheemahi
Dheeyo yonah prachodayaat
The Rig Veda (10:16:3)


Oh manifest and unmanifest, 
wave and ray of breath, 
red lotus of insight, 
transfix us from eye to navel 
to throat, under canopy of stars
spring from soil in an unbroken 
arc of light that we might 
immerse ourselves until lit 
from within like the sun itself. 


Misreading Shelter in Place as Swelter in Lace

with Sara Cahill Marron 

A spring so beautiful it gives me a headache
winter jasmine climbs my spoked black chair 
screentalking hours away in lotus pose
 
you telling me how much you miss me
clutching yourself while you say it
I hit the end button, you don’t call back.
 
A headache so jasmine it clings to the cortex
a floor-length drape that obscures any view
from the window. Let the nape of your neck
 
be the power of a prime and I a positive integer
for every vertex ∝ our entwined fingers, show
the nonzero code word its own guttural syntax 
 
∴ Keywords cream heavy droplets in morning
blackness coffee dark and deep searching: engine
optimizing things I saw today. Behind the masks
 
we are all eyes now, bump against baser desires
(lips behind fabric)*(shield touch, disease)
remembering an interlacing of longer sums.
 
a nun’s habit, not a niqab’s notion, though both rise
from some dead man’s mouth like ≠, ever ≠ and <,
though what the mask conceals reveals truer
 
impurity, a velveteen world of prohibited touch. 
Beneath cloth, my breath dampens the outside
of my lips and I only taste the salt of myself. 



Phenomenal Numen 


Bald-headed metaphysicians wonder if I’m real, 
You cannot taste me nor touch me nor even cop a feel.
But when I start to gust,
They only notice the waves against their keel.  
Without words, I say, 
It’s in the Japanese Kami
The Polynesian mana,
The Anglo-Saxon wod,
The Semitic shekhinah,
I’m a numen. 
Phenomenally. 
Phenomenal numen,
That’s me. 

I materialize in the mind
Quite spontaneously, 
Leaving behind 
A gift for those who own 
Eyes but cannot see. 
Like a feeling set free,
The holy is a priori.  
I say, 
It’s the thing-in-itself, 
And the heat from the chair
Left behind by the one 
Who sits everywhere. 
I’m illuminated 
Numinously. 
Luminous numen,
That’s me. 

A mysterium tremendum
Is what you sense in me. 
You try so hard 
But will stay barred
From my inner mystery. 
Even when I reveal myself
You’ll claim you cannot see.
I say, 
It’s in the dread of my force, 
The wing of my awe, 
The tao of my telling 
Unwritten by law. 
I’m a numen 
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal numen,
That’s me.


Tokyo Tanka 


The man in bathing
ape color-camo sweatpants
makes origami
dragons in the next bus seat.
I can’t fold my city map.

Certainty is stone.
Being perplexed is enough
over rice noodles
the steam rises, disappears 
like potentiality. 

The Beijing man sports 
a surgical mask because 
of air pollution. 
The Tokyo woman wears hers, 
being sick, not to spread germs. 

“We have decided 
not to die,” the one title 
I can decipher.  
Reversible destiny 
lofts to shake tenants awake. 

Busukawa chin 
in a geisha’s silken lap
gazes with disregard
while being stroked and tickled.
Before a photo, they’re gone. 

Of people, there are 
two kinds: some who love robots
and some Godzilla.
The floating paper lanterns 
fade into the horizon.  

“Can a prefecture
be hood? Roppongi Harlem,
Kabukicho Compton,
Yakuza instead of Bloods?” 
I ask his tattooed forehead. 

The art of placing 
stones into wavering plinths
stable in the wind.
The place of art in making
love shares a similar trait. 

Mitsui cider, 
Ashai beer, umbrellas, 
novels, omikuji
(random fortunes), batteries:
some things in vending machines. 

Home for time once spent
with Vector the Crocodile 
and Miracle World’s 
Alex Kidd, Akhibara’s 
retro Sega multiverse. 

During rush hour,
oshiya, or “passenger 
arrangers” (pushers!)
jam commuters onto packed
subway trains with white gloved hands. 

The washlet control 
panels have proximity 
sensors on heated
seats, adjustable spraying
bidets, even masking sounds.  

Nigerian touts 
promise cheap booze and women. 
The bass pounds above
strobe lights flickering, a man
in a moonsuit plays bouncer. 

Ganguro translates 
to bold black faced girl in white
concealer, hazard 
tape bright heels, skirt, scissorhand 
fingernails and a deep tan. 

When Gwyn Stefani 
rocked a bindi, no one cared, 
not Indian me. 
Appropriation, surely,
yet she made being brown cool. 

Typhoon Jongdari 
hurtles towards the mainland 
darkening the skies
inverting umbrellas, wind
blotting out our voices. 

The infernal roar
when the shoji sliding door
opens must be a circle
of hell with the name Stardust. 
No. A pachinko parlour. 

Quadruple-decker 
elevators rise and fall 
(neon is passé)
shadows of woodern cladding
meant to emulate bamboo. 

Ni ichi ichi 
ni, each step running water.
Otherwise beware 
Shibuya Crossing.
Spill like a marble. Scramble.  

Underground nation, 
banks of locker glowing red
or green, space to stash 
your stuff. What gets forgotten
lives unseen with new purpose. 

I missed Basho’s hut, 
its thatched roof with wide rice fields
stretching from bamboo 
groves and fallen persimmons 
to the Katsura River. 

Taking the stillness 
off the zabutan is hard
work for noise too easily
intrudes once the door opens
and the dead world is reborn.

Gaijin discouraged, 
nothing subtle in his words. 
The reason, my friend 
explains, some salarymen  
feel shamed not to know English. 

Harujuku girls 
are like Nara deer confronted 
with deer crackers. 
They can turn into monsters 
if you don't feed them enough. 

Before his manga 
obsession and his denim 
fetishization 
my friend Satoru Saito
had a rat rot in his room. 

100 Yen Shop:
pedicure pad animals
hand grips, sushi shaped
key rings, kanji drill books, dolls, 
dokodemo caps. What else? 

The sunlight shining
through the leaves of the forest
dapples the damp earth.
In Japanese, there’s a word  
for this dance: komorebi. 

In the land of cat
cafés, I just want to find
a sumo stable.
The barista makes matcha,  
wears his hair in a topknot. 

On an unlit stick 
of incense two cicadas
leave behind brittle
shells to return underground. 
What’s most vulnerable, concealed. 

Fragility: screens 
made from translucent paper.
Mono no aware:
cherry blossom petals’ bell
peals, then disappears. Let go.

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