25 November 2010

Strangers/

China.

Fifty years ago, when my father was a boy, 
old women still had bound lily feet
in the south, from a train window
mountains jutted heavenward like dragons' teeth
and fishermen-poets by the river like weathered parchment
spoke,
truth.
Two revolutions to thank for this. 
Meaningless digging of a foundation pit.
Until the next chapter erases its predecessor
still. We hold.
On,
and on.
To rivers. 

4 comments:

Daigu said...

Interesting piece. And well-written. I like it.

Varia Karipoff said...

thanks Daigu. Trying to grease the cogs of my writing brain again. It has been a while.

Woman in a Window said...

somehow i find i hold these words on my tongue like i might hold a lily foot in my hand. much to think about.

you've a really beautiful place. (here by way of andreas.)

xo
erin

Varia said...

Very kind words. I'm getting to that point in my life where I live through my ancestors, there's something vaguely Chinese about that. Half my grandparents and both parents were born there, so it trickles down perhaps.