by Anna Yin
My Father’s Family Tree
It all started from an ink spot,
my father took it as a sprouting bud.
Sucking on his pipe,
he drew his long narrative
on a piece of paper.
I can sense his smile,
as leaves spread their dense fragrance:
always his favourite,
now highlighted by a brush—
son: a high-ranking officer,
daughter: a respectable scholar,
(my father decorated each with details
like my mother’s Christmas tree),
then me, the would-be poet.
My father has never known poets,
and, to him, “would-be” is worse than rough bark.
(I can feel his pause)
then, a tinted soft orb beside me:
“engineer abroad” perfectly mirrored.
My father ensured his final touch
to free me from starving.
I roll up this glowing paper,
and place its warmth on my chest—
Someday at harvest,
out from the chrysalis of my heart,
I shall start a new scroll.
(This poem won IBPC Second Place for November 2008)
The Bodhi Tree
Travelling to the far East,
I meet a Bodhi tree,
beside a river, huge leaves
and green.
I puzzle,
Are you here waiting?
A sudden shower.
The foghorn from a ferryboat calls,
winds flip the Bodhi’s leaves.
I cry,
I must go.
What could I carry away?
Upon my palms,
the tree frees its seeds.
From “Wings Toward Sunlight” (Mosaic Press 2011)
Raspberries
On our bed
we lie like flatfish.
Outside, stars grow old.
A white cocoon
casts its image on the river.
In sparse shadows
a willow dangles.
Along the thorn fences
raspberries bleed.
They remember
once being the fire
drawing the moth
flapping its wings
to flames.
Raspberries was on Cha Magazine and was nominated for Pushcart Prize in 2009
Root Carving
This tree falls
in echoes of the saw,
roots pulled up roughly.
Dedicated hands
chisel them until
their dragon facade appears.
Dying, once resilient limbs
surviving flashes of lightning,
now recline under sympathetic eyes.
Turning round,
we hold ourselves
in layers of cold, hard soil.
Transplant our roots—
hardship beyond anyone’s touch.
This poem was on 2006 Honorable Mentions in 8th international Poetry by Mattia Family
