therideoflife

I read this poem recently and @seasofme suggested I share it. She is so kind, you guys. :) I love all the bright, pungent imagery, the title, the themes, the setting, everything.  
          	
          	"Yellow Light" By Garrett Hongo
          	
          	One arm hooked around the frayed snap
          	of a tar-black patent-leather purse,
          	the other cradling something for dinner:
          	fresh bunches of spinach from a J-Town yaoya,
          	sides of split Spanish mackerel from Alviso’s,
          	maybe a loaf of Lagendorf; she steps
          	off the hissing bus at Olympic and Fig,
          	begins the three-block climb up the hill,
          	passing gangs of schoolboys playing war,
          	Japs against Japs, Chicanas chalking sidewalks
          	with the holy double-yoked crosses of hopscotch,
          	and the Korean grocer’s wife out for a stroll
          	around this neighborhood of Hawaiian apartments
          	just starting to steam with cooking
          	and the anger of young couples coming home
          	from work, yelling at kids, flicking on
          	TV sets for the Wednesday Night Fights.
          	
          	If it were May, hydrangeas and jacaranda
          	flowers in the streetside trees would be
          	blooming through the smog of late spring.
          	Wisteria in Masuda’s front yard would be
          	shaking out the long tresses of its purple hair.
          	Maybe mosquitoes, moths, or a few orange butterflies
          	settling on the lattice of monkey flowers
          	tangled in chain-link fences by the trash.
          	
          	But this is October, and Los Angeles
          	seethes like a billboard under twilight.
          	From used-car lots and the movie houses uptown,
          	a brilliant fluorescence breaks out
          	and makes war with the dim squares
          	of yellow kitchen light winking on
          	in all the side streets of the Barrio.
          	
          	She climbs up the two flights of flagstone
          	stairs to 201-B, the spikes of her high heels
          	clicking like kitchen knives on a cutting board,
          	props the groceries against the door,
          	fishes through memo pads, a compact,
          	empty packs of chewing gum, and finds her keys.
          	
          	The moon then, cruising from behind
          	a screen of eucalyptus across the street,
          	covers everything, everything in sight,
          	in a heavy light like yellow onions.

therideoflife

@Nyhterides Thank you so much. :)))
Reply

therideoflife

@OwainGlyn @JoeCottonwood @seasofme Thank you for reading, it means so much. :)))
Reply

therideoflife

I read this poem recently and @seasofme suggested I share it. She is so kind, you guys. :) I love all the bright, pungent imagery, the title, the themes, the setting, everything.  
          
          "Yellow Light" By Garrett Hongo
          
          One arm hooked around the frayed snap
          of a tar-black patent-leather purse,
          the other cradling something for dinner:
          fresh bunches of spinach from a J-Town yaoya,
          sides of split Spanish mackerel from Alviso’s,
          maybe a loaf of Lagendorf; she steps
          off the hissing bus at Olympic and Fig,
          begins the three-block climb up the hill,
          passing gangs of schoolboys playing war,
          Japs against Japs, Chicanas chalking sidewalks
          with the holy double-yoked crosses of hopscotch,
          and the Korean grocer’s wife out for a stroll
          around this neighborhood of Hawaiian apartments
          just starting to steam with cooking
          and the anger of young couples coming home
          from work, yelling at kids, flicking on
          TV sets for the Wednesday Night Fights.
          
          If it were May, hydrangeas and jacaranda
          flowers in the streetside trees would be
          blooming through the smog of late spring.
          Wisteria in Masuda’s front yard would be
          shaking out the long tresses of its purple hair.
          Maybe mosquitoes, moths, or a few orange butterflies
          settling on the lattice of monkey flowers
          tangled in chain-link fences by the trash.
          
          But this is October, and Los Angeles
          seethes like a billboard under twilight.
          From used-car lots and the movie houses uptown,
          a brilliant fluorescence breaks out
          and makes war with the dim squares
          of yellow kitchen light winking on
          in all the side streets of the Barrio.
          
          She climbs up the two flights of flagstone
          stairs to 201-B, the spikes of her high heels
          clicking like kitchen knives on a cutting board,
          props the groceries against the door,
          fishes through memo pads, a compact,
          empty packs of chewing gum, and finds her keys.
          
          The moon then, cruising from behind
          a screen of eucalyptus across the street,
          covers everything, everything in sight,
          in a heavy light like yellow onions.

therideoflife

@Nyhterides Thank you so much. :)))
Reply

therideoflife

@OwainGlyn @JoeCottonwood @seasofme Thank you for reading, it means so much. :)))
Reply