Today’s poem is actually a three-fer. I’ve been writing to prompts from NaPoWriMo, one of the national sites for National Poetry Writing Month. The poem today is written from yesterday’s prompt, which asked writers to do a riff on a poem (Black Stone Lying On A White Stone) by César Vallejo. To show those writers who might wonder how the heck you write from/ to another’s poem, NaPoWriMo offered a 2nd poem by Stephen Burt (A Nickel on Top of a Penny).
All of this is by way of remarking: poetry is another kind of web. Like Buddhism (you KNEW I was going to say that), like life. If all that I’ve learned from reading & writing poetry could be measured and sold? I’d be so rich! Oh wait ~ that’s the whole point of poetry…
Seriously? To look so closely at anything — poetry, a bee, the surface of a cup of hot tea — is to learn. Just seeing the moment clearly is, as all meditation teaches (in any faith tradition) a form of reverence for life.
So here is my poem today, a tribute to both poets, as well as my own childhood, and the differences that were obvious very early.
Dust On a Tropical Breeze
after César Vallejo
Old Saigon will claim me
after I fold my wings, after decades of flight.
Probably on Monday moonday, Lundi, at the grande marché
I will collapse in feathery dust beside the leper at the gate.
I knew this even as a child, watching the leper’s outstretched hands
knew I was already half-erased, only a dusty ghost
like the hungry bụi đời who float upon the wind.
I am half Saigon still.
‘She is gone,’ they will murmur, in breathy whispers.
My words will unravel like the silk of cocoons
and they will weave a sieve to catch the wind.
‘We didn’t mean to hurt her,’ they will say.
‘Who knew she would fall to dust?
She seemed so much more solid…’
 The Vietnamese term bụi đời means”dust of life”; it has come to refer to refugees vagrants, as well as Amerasian children left behind after the Việt Nam war.