by Takamura Kôtarô
Translated from Japanese by John Peters
Singing dribbles
from a timid and simple cicada.
Red spots on a large oak’s leaves,
in the azure depths of a jewel sky,
before bright faces behind bamboo-blinds,
in front of an ice shop, crimson spots
dazzle and luminesce—
Onions choking in a suburban Tôkyô produce market,
Gnats clinging to a horse’s sore stomach,
The sun, like a thin plank,
slaps my cheek. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Daniel Lassell
It was the motion of her body as she lurched into the waves. The tree lines breezed slowly and the droplets beaded on our paddles each time they reached for the sun. In their descent to greet the current, some dripped off sooner. There, the droplets mingled away, unrecognizable in the vast and splashing body that called them back. The swirl the water made when the paddles joined them reminded me of us.
Filed under Poetry
by Ruth Saxey-Reese
Ua hele mai au, ua hele mai au
Filed under Poetry
by George Bishop
It could be a drunk, a cop, someone
so familiar with exits they don’t need
a sign, they just take one. It could even be
me behind the headlights, going home
Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Sarah Brown Weitzman
Everything was his.
Everything had his name
Every flower. I had
to take his word
for it. Sky, earth, water,
even the air his choosing.
Every single creature,
even the snake. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 