Poems by Goro Takano

DOLL PLAY

This is a poem about the dolls neglected still now
in a tranquil corner of your old hometown house

You were a little child when your parents bought
them for you --- the first time you discovered two

headless naked ones in those fashion-model-like
men and women dolls, you didn’t feel discomfort

On that sunny day, you placed on a kitchen table
all the dolls, as usual, to play with them all alone

A long article in a newspaper left on a living-room
sofa was telling a new story about heavy casualties

in a distant foreign country’s civil war --- first, you
put all the fashion-model ones in an exact ring and

then set the two headless ones at the ring’s center
You weren’t aware of a fire rising from behind you

One of the headless dolls started punching the torso
of the other one bitterly, giving a loud cry: “I’ve lost

the most valuable person in my life because of you!
You didn’t help us enough, though you are a doctor!

If you hadn’t neglected the efforts of resuscitation!
I cannot live without --- ah, I’ll never pardon you!”

The rageful doll didn’t stop using violence at all on
its counterpart who repeated: “Your loved one died

before being carried over to my place --- too late for
revival!” --- “Resuscitation of the dead is a must for

this community,” the furious doll quickly responded,
“All doctors who can’t do it are the root of all evils!”

All the other dolls surrounding the two headless ones
and watching quietly their unsightly act were saying

to themselves in unison: “Constant observation and
self-restraint in intervention are our duties as well as

self-mockery of such shameful conduct” --- rubbing
your tired eyes, you lay by the dolls and fell asleep

On that cloudy day, you woke up and took a whim to
dust off all those old dolls after longtime negligence

your grown-up eyes watched each of their stiff poses
on the table with nostalgia --- more foreign countries

were suffering from tragic civil wars, while the fire
burning right behind you almost reached the ceiling

In the circle of the fashion models, yet again, one of
the two headless was beating the other who moaned:

“Why do my internal organs have to be used to save
this thug? --- only because this devil is my closest kin?

Why does my good heart have to be transplanted into
the numbered life of this wretch? --- my life has been

nothing but a mess due to this criminal --- I wish my
heart were rather grafted into a good stranger’s body”

Gasping with exhaustion, the beater halted the offense
and said: “Making the ultimate sacrifice for your kin is

your utmost duty in this community, didn’t you know?
You achieve no benefit without carrying out your duty!

Give me your inside, NOW!” --- all the fashion models
were already tired gazing at this row and speaking with

one another in whispers about plagues: “Infection from
the uncivilized to the civilized is terrifying for sure, but

infection vice versa is even more dreadful, rumor says”
While the violence continued in the ring, you got older

Now age wrinkles spread all over your deathbed face
It is raining today --- a radio informs at your bedside:

“Civil wars are everywhere around the globe, except
in this beautiful country --- only here on earth you can

enjoy peace” --- your childhood dolls assemble for you
after a long separation from one another --- one of them

speaks up: “The special ritual we are going to perform
from now is called ‘body-tossing’ --- it was introduced

here from an unknown distant country a long time ago
We celebrate through this rite our old members’ path of

virtue to longevity!” --- the withered bodies of the two
headless dolls are tossed by the other ones into the air

Holding each other’s hand even in the air, the two seem
to take delight in the entire ceremony, while, right under

them, one tosser after another cease tossing --- “Human
mind having no fear is the most horrible thing on earth,”

one of them mumbles --- the two fall onto the hard floor
and their limbs come apart when your eyes finally open

to notice the big fire reflected on a mirror set before you
What if the similar blaze is bursting here and there in this

country? --- civil war? --- you don’t have to be afraid yet
Can you find me? --- I’m still here --- behind the glowing

mirror --- lower the flame, wait for another few minutes,
and an excellent cuisine will be ready --- it will be tender

enough even for your surviving teeth to chew well, so no
worries --- once you finish this meal, I will give a good

clean to your whole body --- lastly, I must tell you this:
If you have one more chance to go back to your old home

you should search for the heads of the two headless dolls
They must be still somewhere --- and, as a matter of fact,

one of them is your head
and the other one is mine

Poems by Susan Laura Sullivan

4 VIEWS OF MOUNTAIN WITH CASTLE ON TOP 

there it is in night
I walk the path
may as well have
eyes closed I find if
I look down I see
shoes black and
am less likely to fall
into holes over stones

there

it is in morning only just
stretching limbs yawning green morning
fresh birds call people over eighty and me
climb the sun barely a colour
the old people say
good morning to me
and wonder why

I am

there

in day time sky blue grey people
from families tour groups cities
on other islands crane necks to
look at the stone wall castle that
lives on the mountain then crane
to look at me

there

in evening joggers and I
exhaust pant our way up the
side pass me easily twice
over twice the
speed at the top they are
stretching their legs breathing
stomach hard sit ups not seeing
the sun as it sets down

there.

FOR THE CIVILIANS

(OPERATION PROTECTIVE EDGE)

too scared to leave my computer night by night
thinking one keystroke might
somehow prolong a life a gasp a grasp knowing
I had to watch because you asked
not to be forgotten knowing
I could hear you, but the tap of nails hardly
honed or sharp enough to prise wax from the ears
of leaders and media, rat-tail lips twitching,
mottled and streaked, sated and sleek,
they will never stand tall yet
it is you who is
stooped

my words cannot compete
explosions rip you from your skin,
the white flag from your hand, send your scarf
high above you not quite fluttering
like the papers that ordered you
from your house.

my words cannot compete
bullets swoop, magpies greedy for
the glint of jackets as you gather
the dead, the seared, the wounded, the ones
not vacuumed into burnt beyond-known. you are
                  soon to join them
on the roads, in the schools, in their houses
your children have nowhere to run, knowing
this I watch knowing that once it is
black and messages no longer come
I will know nothing except the piles of rubble
vacant of people or buried beneath, a soldier atop.
once it is black, where do they go?
once it is black, where do you go?

misconfigured half-beating hearts
amputated
a woman gives birth and maybe
there was joy in her voice as her child
was born
because a heartbeat is a heartbeat
a life a life
right?
but who will hear once all goes dark
the murmur of his heart
once all goes dark
what chances are there for
the murmur
of this heart?

FOR GRYFFYN, JULY 25, 2014 – JULY 31, 2014

AND HIS PARENTS 

the english language lost
the day I lost my son
its pregnant pauses
impregnated odours
making all not alive alive
except for my son

some would sell their first born
others swaddle in leaves and wicker
and cast them afloat amongst the rushes
to save their lives, integrity.

did I sell my first to have my first?
a bargain of cancelled reciprocity
or were the reeds not taut
enough?

we cradled his head and feet
and yet the water seeped
into the humidicrib
and dragged him down

Poems by Jeffrey Side

ON THIS FATEFUL DAY AND BARREN LAND

And on this fateful day
I sought some hours,
and escaped
among
certain friendly trees.

I saw a rose upon the land,
half buried in the sand,
and held it
all day,
in the breeze.

And I made some plans
for the Golden Lanka,
and wrote a note
to a woman
and thanked her.

And in some fallen moment,
and some unknown kind
of way, I managed
to pass by
this troubled day.


SNOW RANGES AND FAIR WOODS

Angers and failures:
my lads are not for reconciliation.

I alone drink accurately
on the uncertainty.

I drink for the occasion,
similarly impressed, to brakes, skies,
and ghosts.

Snow ranges and fair woods
have their stint.

Printed feasts of richness.
Thrushes that quote but do not sing.

Racing to the beginning where the
reed’s breath sums up heaven.

And yet the reed speaks of simplicity
while full motion reconciles earthly years.

Dread lurks in the forest.
Candle boys shine the rough men.
Safe are the spheres that are dried
like the shells

The old ships cry fleetingly
under the moonshine.


PLASTER PIECE

The sky-blue plaster piece
you chose because I touched it,
you will always keep.
You like to spend the days with me.

The Sunday I first took you
on plastic with red button lens
you turned out well.
The air was cold, but it was shining.

And the round crowned church
held you in its circle
and calmed you at my side.

You take photos in the light.


SOMETIMES IT CAN TAKE A YEAR TO BE TRUE

It was inconceivable
that the horizon
could be ablated
by the paving
stones of anxiety
foisted upon the
gravelled stairway and
ceramic triangles that
we passed against.

Charlotte was a woman
of strange complexion whose
ambiance was that of
a cat trapped in
a fire escape of
its own projected delusion.

I knew her
well that spring
and June and
on that Friday
morn in blessed
dawn she was
the best thing
that ever happened
to her and
I cannot recall
my problems at
that state other
than to say
we had a
great time there.

The autumn leaves fell
by the gate and
slipped through the mist.
Time has no meaning
to fruit. Nothing bothers
them so it seems.

I found a
woman too I
heard her say
stop dreaming you
lush we are
not in May
so have a
drink on me
if you believe
in nothing he
wrote can be
heard but fleeced.
If I could just
go back to that
autumn week and all
the tables and chairs
that shone so brightly
for her glorious madness
and upbeat tortured serenity.