The idea of linked poems, so beautifully realized in the new Bamboo Ridge Press book No Choice but to Follow, fits snugly into a larger idea. The four poets—Jean Yamasaki Toyama, Juliet S. Kono, Ann Inoshita, and Christy Passion—linked their poems, one to the next, for twelve months in 2008.

What exactly did they use to link the poems?  They used words.  Taking the last line of the most recent poem as the starting point for a new poem, they connected not only poems, they also connected experiences, memories, and emotions. One poem built upon the other, the project grew, unfolding like an exotic, yet familiar, flower. We take our first look at this delightful new thing and somehow believe that it has always existed, that it is classic.

Think of all the other links, links of language and life, that tie together the various works of a single writer of poetry or prose, or links that connect one writer to another.  Think about how one writer influences another writer he has never met, or how one writer influences a single reader, or millions of readers.  Writers bring us together. They give us a common experience. "Here, take a look," the writer says.  "This is the flower I planted and fed and protected. Take a look. I'm not sure I understand it, but maybe you can complete it. Maybe it will become yours as well."

Where to begin to watch the links at work? Perhaps with Ann Inoshita's September poem. Juliet Kono's September poem ends with the lines "Upward and outward/ toward nothing/ and the uncreated." Ann's poem follows, with the title "The Uncreated":

She lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling
while her body is heavy from a cold.

The smell of miso soup and warm squash
cooked in dashi, shoyu, and sugar
comes from the kitchen.

As she looks at her empty notepad,
she sees the clock's rotating hand.

She stares at the uncreated
until words assemble and sounds connect.
The room fills with stories.

In November 2008, Ann Inoshita ends her poem with the line "prepare to move into the White House." Christy Passion then takes hold of those linking words and gives us this, under the title "Prepare to Move into the White House":

I imagine you would take us with you,
perhaps rolled up in a Persian rug
or tucked in hidden pockets of your luggage
carrying white shirts, socks, and underwear.

There is no need to take us out
right away, no need to show us around.
Forget about us as you do your spine or spleen.

But when old chains begin to rattle
in your mind, or on the lips of suits
lining red carpeted hallways
that no longer seem new to you

we will be there, trade winds twisting
down the Ko‘olau, fragant fallen mangos,
nests of salt. Let us offer you respite, let us
be a toe hold in the craggy wall  you climb
treading a new path to a new country.

Let us remind you of when hope
was measured in pocket change
after a long day of body surfing—
just enough for shaved ice and the bus ride home.

I'll save poems by Jean Yamasaki Toyama and Juliet S. Kono for part 3 of this series, but for now I want to add one more personal experience. After reading all 48 poems, enjoying the words and thoughts that linked them along the way, I saw the last lines of the last poem as a challenge. I wanted to join the project, to share some of the fun, to feel just a bit of what the four poets felt when they had only a few days to create a new poem.

Christy Passion's December poem, "Fade," ends this way: "You would not shield your eyes/ as he fades from view/ flashing over the horizon." I made this last line, "flashing over the horizon," the title of my poem.  "Here, take a look," the writer says.  "This is the flower I planted and fed and protected. Take a look. I'm not sure I understand it, but maybe you can complete it. Maybe it will become yours as well."

Your small hands race
along the keys
the music open
but no longer needed
as you chase the song
inside your mind.

Your fingers are slender
built for speed
and I watch them fly
from key to key
from allegro to presto
from a child of eight
to nine and beyond
patience not a virtue here.

My heart and hands
fell in love with andante
long ago before you sped
into this world
and you know andante
because I’ve seen you walk.

Your legs say andante
but your hands yearn to rush
along the keys
as if other songs are waiting
lined up like small swift birds
needing only your command
to leave the earth
and play in the sky.

Tags: Ann Inoshita, Bamboo Ridge Press, Christy Passion, Jean Yamasaki Toyama, Juliet S. Kono, No Choice but to Follow

This entry was posted on Friday, April 30th, 2010 at 9:45 am and is filed under Hawaii poetry, Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.