Tiens, Tian 天! (Look, the sky!)

I spent too much time thinking about the sky:
I began to forget how to walk,
I began to forget how to crawl.

What do I know of gravity?
I only say: Sky, come down to me.

Watch me walk again:
sway my arms with my feet,

remember the wave of my own body.

Hear me sing again.…

Sky, come down to me.
I am returning to my feet.

I’ve lived where the sky was narrow,
where clouds hung low,
sensed imminent storms like drunken breath,
tasted the fog with my tongue in spring.

I fixed my gaze on the sky so long
I forgot the animal in me.

The stars in the night sky formed a map I couldn’t read.
There were too many stories, too many castles.

I cleared the sky again:

Tiens, Tian 天!
Look, the sky!

Tian kung 天空, the empty sky.

I can move again.
I remember my limbs.

More than a tree, I am animate,
arms and legs swaying,
the wind flowing through me,
sweeping high and low,
clouds distant as a fourth language:
ciel, nuages.
Clouds like the swipe of a paint brush.
Sky, come down to me.

Tiens, Tian 天!
Look, the sky!

If you wish to make love to me,
I must tell you this:
I was born a nomad,
the sky my only constant.
By the age of four,
I had moved four times.
My first memory is of moving again,
the sky, my only constant.

There were times the sky seemed too large
and I too small, like a meteor, liu xing 流星.

liu 流: flowing    xing 星: star

When I close my eyes at night, I am no where:
in the cradle of the ocean
(I fall through the bottom);
in the cradle of the sky
(with flight, the fear of falling).

Yet the moon stays.

I am so far away.
What do I know of gravity?

exile: 流亡
liu 流: flowing     wang 亡: death

Sky, come down to me.
Home is where you see me.

If you wish to make love to me,
think of me as the moon:
halfway between sky and earth.

Sky, I speak to you as I would a lover
I dare not name.

Tian kung 天空,
the empty sky.

Come closer.
I’ll sing you a song.









The Quenching

In the grace of these branches bowing in the wind,
in the calm of these redwoods,
there is thirst like a dry creek bed. 

There is a thirst for each animal;
there is a thirst for each plant;
there is the shared thirst of a dry creek bed:

the thirst of a fox leaving his scent along the path;
the thirst of rabbits fleeing the fox;
the thirst of unhatched eggs;
the thirst of newts waiting to mate;
the thirst of moss clinging to trees by slender filaments;
the thirst of redwood saplings tethered to posts;
the thirst of manzanitas offering their drop-like berries;
the thirst of madrone, shedding its red, red bark.

On the shared thirst of this dry creek bed,
lay down a river of cloth.
There will always be absence like thirst.
Drink from this river of cloth.
Drink with cupped hands. 
Drink from the sky above.
Drink, and let the sky be.

In the grace of these branches bowing in the wind,
in the calm of these redwoods, there is hunger like love.

There is hunger stalking like a coyote;
the hunger of a doe and a fawn roaming outside fences;
the hunger of a mountain lion crossing a freeway;
the hunger of parceled land;
the hunger of a swallow swooping to feed its young;
the hunger of a spawning trout;
the hunger of hatchlings winding to wider waters;
the hunger of crowded roots.
On the boughs of this oak, on this wide slope,
lay down this red, red ribbon.

There will always be hunger like love.
Drink from this red, red vessel.
Drink from cupped hands.
Eat of this blood, this flesh, this heart,
these lips, this tongue, this viscera, this rage,
this placenta, this umbilical cord, this body inside out.

In the grace of these branches bowing in the wind.
in the calm of these redwoods,
there is thirst like a dry creek bed. 

There is a thirst for each animal;
there is a thirst for each plant;
there is the shared thirst of a dry creek bed.

A thirsty woman sits by the creek bed.
She asks the sky to send the rain her father felt
as a boy on a house boat in a deep sound;
the rain on the hard shells of oysters on their soft beds of silt—
oysters with flesh like supple tongues,
oysters with minute pearls on flesh like supple tongues—
the rain on the roof of the house boat;
the rain on the shoji windows his father built;
the rain on the deck, the rain in the bucket on the deck;
the rain on the pulley, the rain on the rope;
the rain on the water of the deep sound;
the rain on the small boat he rowed from their house boat to school;
the rain on the spoon his mother clanged on the pot
to guide him home in the fog.

A thirsty woman sits by the dry creek bed.
She softens like the sessile flesh of an oyster;
she hardens like the shell’s osseous resistance;
she thinks like a growing pearl;
like moonlight, like the reflection of the moon on a dry creek bed;

There was a time, before her father was born,
pearl meant a concretion of nacre found in oysters;
and Wai Momi, Pearl Waters was a lagoon off the coast of Oahu.
Hawaiians fished there, though oysters were plenty—
they placed no value on pearls.

By the time the woman's father was born,
pearl meant a concretion of nacre found in oysters;
harbor meant an inlet deep enough to shelter a boat;
Pearl Harbor had been dredged to shelter warships.

By the time he was thirteen, her father was living on a house boat,
shucking oysters with a dull knife. He held them with care,
as if he loved them—he had learned early how the shells of kaki
could cut into his palm like crenellated blades.

He was after small slabs of flesh, small slabs of flesh, small slabs of flesh,
and the sudden gift of a pearl.
Do oysters feel pain, he asked? 

His buddhist mother and sister were too ashamed to answer:
small slabs of flesh/ahimsa, small slabs of flesh/ahimsa
small slabs of flesh/ahimsa…

as the boat rocked:
dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma,
dhamma/adhamma dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma….

His mother and sister would rather count prayer beads than pearls:
namu-amida-butsu-namu-amida-butsu-namu-amida-butsu-namu-amida-butsu….

December 7, 1941
pearl still meant a concretion of nacre found in oysters;
dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma,
harbor still meant an inlet deep enough to shelter a boat;
dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma,
Pearl Harbor Pearl Harbor
Pearl Harbor Pearl Harbor

The family had to leave their house boat in the sound.
As they looked out from the back of the army truck,
they saw their dog chasing after the them,
[panting] [panting] [panting] [panting]
[panting] [panting] [panting] [panting]
growing smaller, smaller, smaller, smaller….

Tule is a large, hardstem bulrush:
common tule, hardstem tule,
tule rush, hardstem bulrush, viscid bulrush.
Tule Lake was a camp for no-no boys:
dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma….
If there was one in the family, the whole family went, to stay together:
dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma….

A pearl is an oyster's way of protecting itself from foreign substances.
The younger brother of a no-no boy might ask two questions:
Could an oyster sometimes mistake part of its own body for a foreign substance?
Is there anyone who is not too ashamed to answer this question?

yes-no, no-yes, yes-yes, no-no….  
yes-no, no-yes, yes-yes, no-no…. 

A thirsty woman sits by the dry creek bed.
She softens like the sessile flesh of an oyster;
she hardens like the shell’s osseous resistance;
she thinks like a growing pearl.

A hungry woman comes and sits by her.
She asks the earth to send the hunger her father felt as a boy,
the child of a gambler, when dinner was rice—nothing but rice and soy sauce;
the hunger of a stray cat he took in and fed moistened crackers—
the stray cat he placed on his lap to help him stay seated while he studied;
his hunger for knowledge—hunger for hunger itself;
his hunger for the loud streets:
the cries of hawkers, the cheers of boys shooting marbles;
his hunger to rise above the streets, above his father's 天九 gambling cards:

天, 地, 人, 和, 梅
heaven, earth, human, harmony, plum flower
九, 八, 七, 六, 五, 三
nine, eight, seven, six, three

above his mother counting the beads of her rosary:
hail mary full of grace, hail mary full of grace, hail mary full of grace….

at the end of one hill          began another;
at the end of one hill          began another;
at the end of one hill          began another;
at the end of one hill          began another;

hills like knowledge….
His hunger brought him to this country,
where he studied and studied,
where his wife gave birth to a hungry baby
who would eat nothing but stories and flowers.

Her first word was 花 fa, flower.
She says to her mother:
teach me the language you speak to your family;
teach me how to count from 1 to 11, for the 11 daughters in your family.
She asks her mother:where are your lost sisters, numbers 3, 4, 10, and 11?
She says, I'll count in the language I speak to you:

三, 四, 十, 十一
三, 四, 十, 十一
三, 四, 十, 十一
三, 四, 十, 十一

She asks her mother:
Where are your lost sisters?
What were their favorite flowers?
She says: I would like to show them
how to pluck the petals off a morning glory
and suck the nectar dry.
She asks her mother:
Where are your lost sisters?
Were they given away like pets?
[panting] [panting] [panting] [panting]
[panting] [panting] [panting] [panting]
Growing smaller, smaller, smaller, smaller….

She asks her father:
What was written on the hills you walked?
Where does one hill end and another begin?
Why do we have names for oceans?
Where does one ocean end and another begin?
If you feel with two fingers, how do you know
if you’re touching two things, or one continuous surface?
She repeats her little brother’s question:
Why does the moon stay in the sky?

She asks the thirsty woman for stories.
The thirsty woman gives her a set of wind chimes made from oyster shells:

yes-no, no-yes, yes-yes, no-no
yes-no, no-yes, yes-yes, no-no

The hungry woman sits by the dry creek bed.
She softens like the sessile flesh of an oyster;
she hardens like the shell’s osseous resistance;
she thinks like a growing pearl,    
like moonlight, like the reflection of the moon on a dry creek bed.
She builds a raft to cross the dry creek,
adorns it with oyster shells and the names of flowers:

蜘蛛花     spider flower
美人蕉     beautiful maiden banana
薑花         ginger flower
含笑         the hidden smile

When she is finished building the raft,
she sees there is no water in the dry creek bed;
there is no reflection of the moon in the creek bed;
but the moon is shining in the full sky.

莫道水清偏得月, 須知水濁亦全天,  

Don't say the moon only appears in clear water;

there is a full sky even when the water is turbid.

請看風定波平後, 一顆靈珠依舊圓。

Look!  When the winds and waters are calm,

the round spirit pearl remains.

She lets go of the raft.

She lets go of the small slabs of flesh/ahimsa, small slabs of flesh/ahimsa, small slabs of flesh/ahimsa….

She lets go of the prayer beads:
namu-amida-butsu-namu-amida-butsu-namu-amida-butsu-namu-amida-butsu….

She lets go of the questions:
dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma, dhamma/adhamma….

yes-no, no-yes, yes-yes, no-no 
yes-no, no-yes, yes-yes, no-no

She lets go of the hunger:
at the end of one hill          began another;
at the end of one hill          began another;
at the end of one hill          began another;
at the end of one hill          began another.

She lets go of the rosary:
hail mary full of grace, hail mary full of grace, hail mary full of grace….

She lets go of the gambling cards:
天, 地, 人, 和, 梅
heaven, earth, human, harmony, plum flower

九, 八, 七, 六, 五, 三
nine, eight, seven, six, five, three

She lets go of absence:

三, 四, 十, 十一
3, 4, 10, and 11
三, 四, 十, 十一
3, 4, 10, and 11

She lets go of letting go:
[panting] [panting] [panting] [panting]
[panting] [panting] [panting] [panting]
Growing smaller, smaller, smaller, smaller….

She lets go of the pearls in moonlight,
the wind chimes made from oyster shells,
the names of flowers:

蜘蛛花     spider flower
美人蕉     beautiful maiden banana
薑花         ginger flower
含笑         the hidden smile.

In the grace of these branches bowing in the wind,
in the calm of these redwoods,
there is hunger stalking like a coyote; 
the hunger of a doe and a fawn roaming outside fences;
the hunger of a mountain lion crossing a freeway;
the hunger of parceled land;
the hunger of a swallow swooping to feed its young;
the hunger of a spawning trout;
the hunger of hatchlings winding to wider waters;
the hunger of crowded roots.
On the boughs of this oak, on this wide slope,
lay down this red, red ribbon.

There will always be hunger like love.
Drink from this red, red vessel.
Eat with bare hands.
Eat from this blood, these vessels, this heart,
these lips, this tongue, this viscera, this rage,
this placenta, this umbilical cord, this body inside out.

In the grace of these branches bowing in the wind,
in the calm of these redwoods,
there is thirst like a dry creek bed. 

There is a thirst for each animal;
there is a thirst for each plant;
there is the shared thirst of a dry creek bed:

the thirst of a fox leaving his scent along the path;
the thirst of rabbits fleeing the fox;
the thirst of unhatched eggs;
the thirst of newts waiting to mate;
the thirst of moss clinging to trees by slender filaments;
the thirst of redwood saplings tethered to posts;
the thirst of manzanitas offering their drop-like berries;
the thirst of madrone, shedding its red, red bark.

On the shared thirst of this dry creek bed,
lay down a river of cloth.
There will always be absence like thirst.
Drink with from this river of cloth.
Drink with cupped hands. 
Drink from the sky above.
Drink, and let the sky be.









Bonnie Wai-Lee Kwong's first book of poems is ravel, a finalist for the Many Voices Project from New Rivers Press and the White Pine Press Poetry Prize. Among her projects is a digital anthology, The Taste of Each, curated around references to oranges and bananas in various literary and artistic works across cultures. Kwong has received several Pushcart Prize nominations in poetry and fiction. "The Quenching" and "Tiens, Tian 天!" were performed at the 2014 and 2015 Art in Nature Festival with collaborators Judy Shintani and Marybeth Tereszkiewicz.