Tokyo, Mon Amour https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t2213 Runboard| Tokyo, Mon Amour en-us Fri, 29 Mar 2024 05:09:35 +0000 Fri, 29 Mar 2024 05:09:35 +0000 https://www.runboard.com/ rssfeeds_managingeditor@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds managing editor) rssfeeds_webmaster@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds webmaster) akBBS 60 Re: Tokyo, Mon Amourhttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p15700,from=rss#post15700https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p15700,from=rss#post15700Hi Bernie, This poem works well. The N's voice is believable, and the various narrative strands are seamlessly interwoven with the scene-setting images. This reads very naturally and is artfully done. I like, for example, the way the N uses American slang ("His parties were the best") in a stanza which refers to singing in English while playing an American piano. I love the delicacy and restraint in these lines: the shadow of his kimono sleeve brushing my knee Not his kimono sleeve brushing my knee but only its shadow. The N never once expresses emotion directly, yet a feeling of love and loss permeate the piece. I'm really going to have to get nitpicky to come up with any quibbles: One misspelling: It should be "Sometimes" at the beginning of S3 I wonder if you need "he often borrowed" after "fresh cigarette packs"? Thanks for posting the youtube link. It's fun to see where other poets get their inspiration. nondisclosed_email@example.com (Katlin)Fri, 07 Jun 2013 19:59:34 +0000 Tokyo, Mon Amourhttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p15696,from=rss#post15696https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p15696,from=rss#post15696He began going out dressed as a girl, walking at night in busy places, attending the cinema. He haunted the Kabuki District where his happiness was great; passerby silhouetted against paper windows, lanterns casting red and green lights on new snow; noodle shops under fiery clouds of steam. Sometimes he arrived home early, rouged lip s dulled by singing, powdered cheeks subdued by rain. His parties were the best, he sang in English using a falsetto voice and pounded an old American piano making us laugh and beg for encores. He often fell drunk on a divan breathing on an even keel with my rising cigarette smoke; the shadow of his kimono sleeve brushing my knee like the wing of nomadic birds he fed, birds exhausted by a long flight from the Ryūkyū islands where he too once lived. All evening I sit mute before his tea service touching the pristine gloves he used to protect his hands from boiling water; a peacoc k shaped teapot, sugar bowl and miniature milk jug curved into a silver bird egg. Around his chrysanthemum pyre I set-out his popular still lifes, 14 brushes thin as an eyelash, and fresh cigarette packs. Fellow students serve guests white hot noodles and tell their favorite story. The next morning is cowed and painted in ash tones, apparitions appear among speeding motor cars and the ear-splitting shriek of the Tokyo express cutting cleanly like a dessert knife. I feed his birds, but they refuse to eat or sing from their clairvoyant depth. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9xBJ80kU8SM nondisclosed_email@example.com (Bernie01)Fri, 07 Jun 2013 16:17:24 +0000