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keilexandratiger_san commented to remind me that this journal existed, so I'm posting again. Dunno what to say, really. I wrote another poem, inspired by this chinese tv series my mom was watching a few months back. I still have the image in my head, so haunting. What was interesting was, it had no dialogue whatsoever in that entire, 10-min-ish scene -- and it worked. Either the actress or the screenwriter must have been amazing. So, this poem (tentatively titled) is my humble attempt to capture that image in words. She pulls it toward her,
up and away and
back again, cranking,
hefting another bucket
of water, well water, deep
from the earth and
cold as melted snow
but cleaner.
She lifts the weight with
both hands, hooks both buckets
to the carrying yoke -- strong
supple bamboo, and heavy again -- then
bends her back and bows
callused shoulders to bear.
She stumbles, staggers, steps
past the hut of bound bamboo
where her mother endures
her father's drunken rage.
Remembering, the water seems
not so heavy.
She walks into the sun,
destined for the farthest field
where rice was never planted,
never flooded, never paddied.
She almost runs past the only
wood building, the schoolhouse
where town children count
past twenty and scribe
messy black blotches with their
ox-hair brushes.
She never lingers, would be
beaten for even wanting to,
but the water weighs down
and the bamboo yoke
bites into her back
to remind her of her place.
A worthless water-ox daughter.
She passes by the open door
and hears a boy's yelp
as the teacher's bamboo
switch swooshes down
on his hand.
She wishes for the pain, for
such an impossible privilege.
She trudges onward, ashamed
of her selfish wistfulness,
and when she arrives
at the harvest-place,
few leftovers lay cold
in their bowls and the men --
finally finished -- are already
drunk on rice wine.
She eats the burned pudding
and sips the last dregs of
gray chicken soup, surprised
when she finds a whole
chicken bone with
meat scraps still dangling.
She savors her luck.
up and away and
back again, cranking,
hefting another bucket
of water, well water, deep
from the earth and
cold as melted snow
but cleaner.
She lifts the weight with
both hands, hooks both buckets
to the carrying yoke -- strong
supple bamboo, and heavy again -- then
bends her back and bows
callused shoulders to bear.
She stumbles, staggers, steps
past the hut of bound bamboo
where her mother endures
her father's drunken rage.
Remembering, the water seems
not so heavy.
She walks into the sun,
destined for the farthest field
where rice was never planted,
never flooded, never paddied.
She almost runs past the only
wood building, the schoolhouse
where town children count
past twenty and scribe
messy black blotches with their
ox-hair brushes.
She never lingers, would be
beaten for even wanting to,
but the water weighs down
and the bamboo yoke
bites into her back
to remind her of her place.
A worthless water-ox daughter.
She passes by the open door
and hears a boy's yelp
as the teacher's bamboo
switch swooshes down
on his hand.
She wishes for the pain, for
such an impossible privilege.
She trudges onward, ashamed
of her selfish wistfulness,
and when she arrives
at the harvest-place,
few leftovers lay cold
in their bowls and the men --
finally finished -- are already
drunk on rice wine.
She eats the burned pudding
and sips the last dregs of
gray chicken soup, surprised
when she finds a whole
chicken bone with
meat scraps still dangling.
She savors her luck.
The longest poem I've ever written, come to think of it.
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-07 07:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-12 10:24 pm (UTC)