GIVE AND TAKE

Ten Statements about Poetry

tinabartolome — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 23:00:42 +0000

by Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai
0: It can make you walk away from death.
1: If you don’t look up, you will die in these pages.
2: I spend more time not writing, than writing.
3: Quality can’t be measured by waste. Quality is quality. Waste is waste.
4: Not writing leads back to writing.
5: Once I allowed myself what I loved, it all came less painfully.
6: Writing leads back to not writing.
7: If I knew other languages, I would know other things.
8: It’s not mysterious, but wonders reveal themselves when paid attention.
9: Leaves, skin, how the ocean cleanses itself. Make your own metaphor of this work.

yes. yes. and yes again. assignment to self: write ten statements about poetry. write a poem that is not tragic or longing.

Filed under: poetry, Writers & Poets

The Only Thing I Have to Slip Into

tinabartolome — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 07:52:37 +0000

It’s been a time for living, some days I could even venture to say I’ve been living poetry. A good excuse for not keeping up my writing practice, which is not to say that the impression of these days should not be written down. A list poem, at least, which might include the words
tornado
Roseanne
emergency room
roller derby
ratchet straps
motel sex
southern accents
Wyoming
Deerhunter
redwoods
gorge
king’s chambers
Gypsy
goodbye
reunion
french fries
turtles
elk
electric toothbrush
passenger seat
ten and two
Biting on the gritty dust kicked up by hundreds of lightning bolts striking a purple sky.
Filling up the gas tank one more damn time.

In the past two weeks I have left, I have arrived, I have finished, I have started, I have reunited, I have jumped in, I have come home, I have returned, I have rarely been alone.
I am just catching up with the part that writes, that reflects, that tries to make meaning out of putting words together. I’m in no hurry. I don’t hurry very well.
The first thing I wrote after I returned, in front of the ocean, was a prayer.
Right before I left, when I was landlocked, before my love arrived, when I was often alone, I also wrote prayers. This was one.

Give thanks for prayer
when it’s the only thing
I have to slip into
the cracks of my cold,
tight heart. Give thanks
for clichés, though they
are the very things I warn
my students against using.
Clichés may be dead language
but we say these things over
and over for a reason, don’t we?
Sometimes things just need
to be said without a care
if it’s been said before.
The dead still need remembering.
Give thanks for warm nights
that let me stand out on my deck
in tsinelas and stare at the stars
Give thanks for the waxing moon
that is not yet half way full
because when I have nothing
to hold I imagine my own hands
hanging on to the bright edges,
dipping my fingertips into the dark
parts though I know the moon is always
round and full. It’s just a matter
of waiting for the light to shine.
Give thanks for all forms of transportation
the planes that carry my loved ones in the sky
and the car that will carry me away from this place.
Give thanks for the ability to take care of myself
even when it looks like having one more drink
even when it looks like smoke in my lungs.
Give thanks for the ability to run
and feel my muscles moving
even if my main motivation
to move is to release
my body from longing.

Filed under: cross-country road trip, Homesickness, Landlocked in Indiana, long distance relationships, love, mid-west, poetry, prayer, San Francisco

On Becoming an Ex-Writer: A Personal Essay (part 1 & 2)

tinabartolome — Thu, 19 May 2011 16:52:42 +0000

Blessed and honored to announce that Part 1 & 2 of my non-fiction essay “On Becoming an Ex-Writer” just went live at Doveglion Press! Many thanks to editors Barbara Jane Reyes and Oscar Bermeo for the shine. Shout out to coming out and coming of age in the golden early 90s in Frisco, writing on walls, bombing partners and falling in love with words, one at a time. Trying to connect the dots before they fade…
Check it out and let me know what you think.

Filed under: 90s hip-hop, blues, childhood memories, community organizing, friends, getting politicized, graffiti, Inspirations, literary universe, origins, poetry, San Francisco

I Do Not Know Our Name, But I Can Tell You Where It Comes From (work-in-progress)

tinabartolome — Wed, 18 May 2011 04:29:20 +0000

Our name came from
a wood-burning fire
in a dirty kitchen,
a limp arm thrown
over the shoulder of a man
slow dancing,
a dark grey feather
floating down
to the ground.

It came from peeling back
corn husks, frying bawang
in hot peanut oil, twisting
a carrot root out of the
salty earth from its top.

Our name came from the pucker
of dried plum rubbing
inside our cheeks,
the pale yellow memory
of a sampaguita flower.

Our name came from
a secret password
that only opens
without trying.

It came from
a question.
A little girl tugging
at her mama’s pant leg
asking why the moon is in the sky the moon is in the sky the moon is in the sky.

Filed under: colonization, origins, Pacific Ocean, poetry

The Other Side

tinabartolome — Wed, 18 May 2011 03:59:23 +0000

That night
you enter the tunnel
back in your country of subways

*there is no easy way

Inhale moss and tar and vibrating
air that always waits for the next train rush
air that does not know moonlight

there is no easy way

Tunnel the length of a blues song
tunnel your chorus
take your time warming up

should I, should I ask for more

Belt out Etta James,
nightsilk worn by the friction
of deep thunder and lightning

so I won’t be wasted

You’ll never hit
these notes again

like sugar on the floor

once they carry
you to the other side

*Lyrics from “Sugar on the Floor” by Etta James

Filed under: blues, love, music sweet music, poetry

Grieving in Cameo (Can the Living Haunt the Dead?)

tinabartolome — Wed, 18 May 2011 03:56:53 +0000

for Don Cornelius Belton

I’ve become an extra in the background
of your afterlife. Who thought it possible?
I knew you would choose the city.

Last week I stared at you through the
window as I separated darks from lights
at the laundromat across the street.

You strode forward to meet the wind
grinning with a ghost at each side.
Did you know that I was there?

I hope to land a speaking role next time
but that may be against the rules.
I’m sure it’s not up to you to decide.

Did you mind when I showed up
at your afterlife night spot
and told you to fix your hair?

Your hair was a shoulder-length
curtain of white beads, Rick James style.
You looked dapper, except for the little tuft.

You passed by me at the bar
on your way to the disco
down the dark staircase with a turn.

I grabbed you gently by the arm,
you paused but did not stop
when I pointed to the unruly bit.

I was only trying to earn my keep.
I wanted you to look flawless
underneath the revolving lights.

You were happy to see me, I think.
You looked me in the eye this time
before continuing your descent.

I heard the needle drop
on the record a drum
like my own heart
beat at your arrival.

Filed under: poetry, spirituality, teaching, the dead, Writers & Poets

Fiel

tinabartolome — Fri, 13 May 2011 17:45:07 +0000

Love me, love me, with two hands & no rearview.

-Aracelis Girmay

Filed under: love, poetry

Response to my sister grieving at the bottom of a well

tinabartolome — Wed, 11 May 2011 17:50:05 +0000

Dear sister,
I want to crawl into a bucket
wearing a big ass puffy coat
and lower myself down there
to give you a hug you can sink
into instead. Or release a jar
of fireflies to keep you company
and bring you some light.
Or maybe you’d like floating cloth
bundles that release baby potatoes
on your head that make you laugh
and the sound of your laughter paints
the walls of your well a spring green
where little shoots of daffodils
and violets start to poke out.

I’m so sorry you’re down there right now.
I have a whole big strong heart
full of love and resilience for you pumping.

Maybe you’d like to hear this song while you’re down there, too:
Tell me how it sounds when you tilt your head up at that circle-shaped opening of night sky that is still yours.

I’m here. And I will come looking for you.

love you so much (it’s not hard),
t

Filed under: friends, love, music sweet music

Wearing the Weather

tinabartolome — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 06:11:35 +0000

Baby, when we have a good
conversation it fills up
my chest with sky.
I’m not talking about
light and fluffy cloud talk
all blue skies with easy breeze,
I mean the kind that might
start out howling wind
at first maybe even sheets
of rain that follow hitting
the pavement so hard
we have to raise our voices
above their drops or lean
in close to whisper and be heard.
We are standing beneath
a shelter see, huddled close,
like waiting at the bus stop
or for our favorite breakfast joint
to open we are hungry, stomachs growling
places to go and the overcast gray
makes it hard to tell the time. Hurry.
Still I can taste when your breath is almost
the silvering sky that will break open
and when mine keeps us warm like cups
of tea. You take me in sips. We change
color. You bloom fuchsia and I blush purple.
We don’t see it coming and neither does
the sky when it tries to catch up.

Filed under: love, poetry

Love poems

tinabartolome — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 02:16:03 +0000

Key
Each time you open
the door after looking
through the peephole
I leap across the threshold
into your steady arms.

Unlock
My love if this apartment
is too small we can break
the lease and find a home
with more room for your
instruments.

Taking Turns
You and I are
in the kitchen
making midnight

snacks. Sometimes
I have a sweet tooth
when you are craving salt.
Sometimes we are missing

an ingredient (and if you cannot
beg me to the store in my pajamas)
then we improvise to make it

tasty. But whoever cooks
does not have to clean
and we never go to bed hungry.

Treasure
The crook
of your neck
is hiding precious
jewels. Rubies, diamonds,
emeralds, mother of pearl.
Don’t bother trying to cash
them in. I made a deal with
the crook of your neck
to stash them there just for me.
Don’t worry, you will forget
they are there once I bury
my face in them.

Filed under: Homesickness, Inspirations, long distance relationships, love, poetry