Enjoy an evening of poetry with Kathryn Takara and friends, and get your copy of her latest publication, Season’s in Haiku, Saturday, October 1st.
Enjoy an evening of poetry, featuring Kathryn Takara, reading from Seasons in Haiku.
An exciting pocketbook of poetry that offers Takara’s firsthand observations and reflections of the 2018 Kīlauea eruption, including the following poem.
PELE AND FISSURE 8
ominous, eerie, fiery-painted skies.
There are variable, color-filled clouds
corals, magentas, rubies
irregular shades of gray and black.
Surprising impermanent weather
while molten rock gushes torrential
reveals the heartbeat of Fissure 8.
Kanaka maoli understand
the powerful process.
Let go of illusions of control.
Allow for the robust untamed cycle
Recognize the signs.
It’s still too smoky
to fathom the future
in an unpredictable present.
This poem, originally published in Zimbabwe Spin: Politics and Poetics by Kathryn Waddell Takara, refers in part to the then-President of Zimbabwe, the late Robert Mugabe (Feb. 21, 1924 – Sept. 6, 2019).
Under the rule of a zealot
Opponents beaten and discouraged
The meaning of democracy.
Wild animals near extinction
Heedless, greedy poachers
Elephants and rhinos at high risk
Rare tusks for ancient Chinese remedies
Jewelry, decorative art, piano keys
Endangered even on animal preserves
Where empty nests dot the abandoned trees in leafless intricacy
All Nature a sunset witness.
Hungry, envious of Western wealth
Commit unspeakable acts of cruelty to feed their families and greed.
Awesome independence corrupts
Distorted collective vision of progress
Ignores economic meltdown
As policy supports political intimidation
Social unrest dominated by bully tactics.
Discontent rumbles under the drought of inequality
Like magma inflates before an eruption.
Copyright 2015 Pacific Raven Press, LLC
Brown. I imagined it was such an ordinary color the color of my skin. Brown, the color of Mother Earth, rivers rain-swelled, a variety of tones, sharps and flats, like people: Africans, Indians, Asians, Pacific Islanders. Don’t mind. Apple Brown Betty, pie crusts, brown gravy, coffee, caramel, chocolates, walnuts, pecans, peanuts, cashews, brown wrapping paper for Xmas packages. Brown, the color of my skin. Don’t mind. Kaleidoscope of kids brown-nose the teacher, preppies scuff their brown penny loafers. Brownstone elegance fights decay creeping blight in New York City, reminding of another time—resurrecting. Browns of tapa cloth, batik, wood carvings carved brown doors to places and events memorable, the brown doors, usually forgotten. Brown owls, chipmunks, squirrels, dogs, horses, elks, bears, giraffes, gazelles, lions, and other creatures around the globe. The color of me, brown. Don’t mind. Browns are as natural as breath, as varied as grains of sand. To think, I imagined it was such an ordinary color, the color of my skin.