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Poem-a-day

Being pregnant is a dream

You’re pregnant?
How can that be, you dead girl
Nei thlee nui
gong mought ah?
What you talking about?
Jin hai faht moong
Truly a dream, nightmare, hah?
At your age, single for so long
What did you eat? Foo gwah, bitter melon?
You know how to wok?
Haw ooo black bean, nit du see yew
many black beans, macerated
Droplets of dark soy sauce
Yeah, yeah, ’bout time
The Vitamin A good for you
You know, thlin foo how hem
Nei ee tui lah, eat bitter then sweet
Never too late
’cause you got head full
of white hair ’cause
you send him away, ’cause
you refuse to stay married, ’cause
you wake up?
No wonder nei faht moong
No wonder nei joong yee thleh doo
want to write allaw time
bong jaw na gung nghin
help working people
Ai ya, ngow nui jin hai ngow ngow jaw lah
your head knocking ’round the ricebowl
Mought hai nah poem ah?
Shi. Shi. Hai hai lah
Okay, okay, keep dreaming
got to do something
maybe dye your hair black,
find a new cloud, Sun Wu Kong,
Monkey King there, where where
maybe asleep in stone?
But I find you, thlee nui.
Ngoi foon jaw nei
Hoo ga be be?
Pregnant?
Jin hai faht moong,
True true you dream
dream ’til you die.

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Nellie Wong

Poems

15218 poems

In The Matter Of Two Men

One does such work as one will not,
And well each knows the right;
Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot,
The black must serve the white.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s softening flesh,
While the black man’s muscles grow!
Well I know which grows the mightier,

James D. Corrothers

1922

Compensation

O, rich young lord, thou ridest by
With looks of high disdain;
It chafes me not thy title high,
Thy blood of oldest strain.
The lady riding at thy side
Is but in name thy promised bride.
Ride on, young lord, ride on!

James Edwin Campbell

1922

A Poem for My Wife

I’m in my room writing
speaking in myself
& I hear you
move down the hallway
to water your plants

I write truth on the page
I strike the word over & over
yet I worry you’ll pour too much water on the plants
& the water will overflow onto the books
ruining them

If I can’t speak out of myself
how can I tell you I don’t care about the plants?
how can I tell you I don’t care if the books get wet?

David Meltzer

2005

I Have Folded My Sorrows

I have folded my sorrows into the mantle of summer night,
Assigning each brief storm its allotted space in time,
Quietly pursuing catastrophic histories buried in my eyes.
And yes, the world is not some unplayed Cosmic Game,
And the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me,
And in the imaginary forest, the shingled hippo becomes the gray unicorn.
No, my traffic is not with addled keepers of yesterday’s disasters,
Seekers of manifest disembowelment on shafts of yesterday’s pains.

Bob Kaufman

1965

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