Yoko Danno
hopscotch
on a moonlit night
the child alone
is playing hopscotch,
spellbound
by the game, not knowing
it's past time to go home⎯each time
she kicks the cobblestone
over a line chalked on the street,
she remembers her grandmother saying,
when you travel to a foreign country
you must cross a border.
when you step into a new land
you'll be relieved,
to find an image of yourself,
the one you abandoned in a mirror⎯
the child keeps breaking
through the white line,
her shadow hopping behind her
like a twin⎯grandma, every
new line leads me to another!
moon
new: not existing before
in the space
between eyebrows, the deep
round well
glistening at the bottom
last quarter: his bow drawn
to its full
extent, way out of orbit
the arrow
disappears in a flash
full: beyond her usual
brilliance
she passes out of reach
of our eyes
fading out fixed stars
first quarter: moving slowly
eastward
each day the luminous
shadow
swelling to a whole
new: yin and yang
reversed
in the golden bowl
containing
a handful of seed dust
Departure
yesterday the house was empty⎯
wind
rustled the carpet
of dry sedge grass,
moonlight
streaming through
a cleft of the shingled roof,
pale grey mist
hovered on the lake
hiding incessant ripples⎯
bamboo leaves
falling
in the blink of a star's
birth,
white feathers
scattering,
the weaver at her loom
keeps weaving,
waiting⎯
tonight
i want
a clear sky,
so he
may wade
across the milky river.
the earth fleeting
under their feet,
golden dust of the sun
swirling in each other's
arms
at dawn today⎯
sleeves
heavy
with dew,
clothes
exchanged,
they depart,
each heading
for the next
growing season.
anima
a wind is blowing
from the caribbean sea,
a singer sings sweetly,
on our way home my little girl found a bird,
eyes closed in the wayside shrubbery⎯
i picked it up and felt it barely breathing,
the feathers soft, ash-green, on my palm⎯
a woman is
a rough sea
quiet down below,
she lifts her voice,
the fish jumped off the cutting board,
flopping around on the wooden floor.
with a knife in my hand, frozen, i watched
until the headless carp calmed down⎯
a woman is
a turbulent reflection
of the rumbling sky,
the singer softly groans,
the sun glazing the parched fields,
the woman wailed like a wounded animal
that had lost its young, and went out
for food, water and a mate⎯
a woman is always
double-hearted,
the voice is whispering,
we put out to sea⎯my little girl sets free
the tiniest of the three fish she caught,
and we eat the rest to celebrate her birthday⎯
a wind is blowing
on the blue-green sea,
we breathe in,
blow into paper balloons,
and let them go.
crystal
past the point of no return,
our jet trails
sparkling white claw marks⎯
last night a burglar tore
a page from my unraveled
mystery book,
"how can you find
a flower blooming
in an icy lake?"
the missing page says⎯
the moment
a hand touches a hand,
palm to palm,
skin to skin
under clear fresh water,
vapor rises
from soft wet leaves,
condenses into
a blue orchid . . . freezes . . .
as we fly higher
through air stratums
to the home of the stars
the temperature falls.
not even a blanket,
nor the heat of blood circulating
through a polar bear scratching the air
can melt the flower in ice.
Yoko Danno
Yoko Danno was born, raised, and educated in Japan. A graduate of Kobe College, she has been writing poetry solely in English for more than 40 years. In addition to being a poet, she is also a playwright, translator, and the editor-in-chief of the Ikuta Press in Kobe, Japan. Her poetry has been published in various journals, anthologies, and magazines in the US, Canada, and Japan, and she is the author of four books of poetry, including Epitaph for Memories published in 2002 by the Bunny and Crocodile Press. Her fifth book of poetry⎯a jointly-written poetic experiment with the American poet James C. Hopkins, entitled The Blue Door⎯will be published in May of 2006 by The Word Works press in Washington, DC.
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