Friday, August 29, 2008

36x365x83


In the cold green night grass of the backyard, we watched and listened to the game of tag. Waiting, unsure and waiting for first contact. Finally, a dry peck on the cheek before joining the game.

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There are moments when I wish I hadn't already written about someone because they are in my mind and I've more to say about them.

Rob is a poet, and that piece has lain dormant for years. Yesterday, he wrote for me and it was lovely and easy to read- not rusty and not the poetry of a boy who struggles or shocks or grieves.

This is a poem Rob introduced me to about 15 years ago.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.
Phrases still run through my mind and I think it's delicious:

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 one
will 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, looking
for 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





4 comments:

Anonymous said...

i think you should write more about them then!
maybe the outcome of this is that it inspires more detailed writing
break your own rule!!

Rob said...

Thank you for believing it could still be done and for seeing past rough craft to the heart. And thank you for remembering the glorious craft of Mr. Lee, he, and it (Persimmons) are my favorite.

Rob said...

Oh and 'cold, green night grass'...beautiful, just beautiful.

Meg said...

Kat- that might just be my next thing-

Rob- so nice to read you again... and thanks