If you would be a poet, invent a new language anyone can understand.
—Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Hiromi Yoshida’s work has been included in the INverse Poetry Archive, and nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, the Wilder Poetry Book Prize, the New Women’s Voices Poetry Prize, and the Gerald Cable Book Award. Her poetry chapbooks are Icarus Burning, Epicanthus, and Icarus Redux.
Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Hiromi, what poems have you brought for us today?
Mother of Icarus
The mother of Icarus was
effaced from the father-son narrative,
as though she didn't matter. Who
was she ,who birthed that silly,
defiant boy, who
became that scrawny
flipped bird (f-word
embodiment)? Motherless
fetus plunging into the amniotic
formaldehyde sea, now a green rose,
blooming from the splashing
dapple of the sun’s coin-sized
reflection? Did the mother
of Icarus sweep up her hair in intricate
braids round her worried head each
morning before she stoked the fire
for their breakfast? Did she shatter
the earthenware pots in her over-
eagerness to serve her husband and son?
Did she bunch up her skirts around
her thick waist and wide hips
to wade into the Aegean Sea, soaking her
tired flat feet? Did she
sprout wings in the secret
dark of her own mazy mind? Did she
ossify into a crumbling
caryatid, pillar of salt? Did she
become the ball of thread
in Ariadne's hands—unraveling its
long-winded way toward liberation
from Crete? Did she
smile when green roses bloomed
for Icarus?
Lunch Hour
Wordless, the Japanese businessmen
accepted from me the lacquered bento boxes
and steaming bowls of miso soup I
placed before them. We gazed upon
red silky maguro slices; tempura shrimp
tails peeking beyond coats of crisply bubbled
batter; teriyaki-glazed tender
chicken pieces; green dollop of
wasabi; pale pink petals of shaved
ginger, each flavor
compartmentalized. Solemn moment
during blur of lunch hour rush at Suibi—
I bowed, turned, and two white businessmen,
who had already been served, winked
at me, and said, “We’d like some
attention.” I
blinked at them, and Icarus was a speck of
green seaweed on the edge of my
fluttering eyelid.
You've been listening to the poems of Hiromi Yoshida on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
—Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Hiromi Yoshida’s work has been included in the INverse Poetry Archive, and nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, the Wilder Poetry Book Prize, the New Women’s Voices Poetry Prize, and the Gerald Cable Book Award. Her poetry chapbooks are Icarus Burning, Epicanthus, and Icarus Redux.
Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Hiromi, what poems have you brought for us today?
Mother of Icarus
The mother of Icarus was
effaced from the father-son narrative,
as though she didn't matter. Who
was she ,who birthed that silly,
defiant boy, who
became that scrawny
flipped bird (f-word
embodiment)? Motherless
fetus plunging into the amniotic
formaldehyde sea, now a green rose,
blooming from the splashing
dapple of the sun’s coin-sized
reflection? Did the mother
of Icarus sweep up her hair in intricate
braids round her worried head each
morning before she stoked the fire
for their breakfast? Did she shatter
the earthenware pots in her over-
eagerness to serve her husband and son?
Did she bunch up her skirts around
her thick waist and wide hips
to wade into the Aegean Sea, soaking her
tired flat feet? Did she
sprout wings in the secret
dark of her own mazy mind? Did she
ossify into a crumbling
caryatid, pillar of salt? Did she
become the ball of thread
in Ariadne's hands—unraveling its
long-winded way toward liberation
from Crete? Did she
smile when green roses bloomed
for Icarus?
Lunch Hour
Wordless, the Japanese businessmen
accepted from me the lacquered bento boxes
and steaming bowls of miso soup I
placed before them. We gazed upon
red silky maguro slices; tempura shrimp
tails peeking beyond coats of crisply bubbled
batter; teriyaki-glazed tender
chicken pieces; green dollop of
wasabi; pale pink petals of shaved
ginger, each flavor
compartmentalized. Solemn moment
during blur of lunch hour rush at Suibi—
I bowed, turned, and two white businessmen,
who had already been served, winked
at me, and said, “We’d like some
attention.” I
blinked at them, and Icarus was a speck of
green seaweed on the edge of my
fluttering eyelid.
You've been listening to the poems of Hiromi Yoshida on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
