3:46 p.m. - 2002-04-21
Persimmons
I wasted hours today. Slept for hours today to make up for waking up early to do laundry yesterday. Then I read diaries online, when I probably should have been working on a speech that I promised to give to a group I'm giving a presentation for. I did write one page, but it's so very pathetically written.

But I am thinking. What is it that is so different about Germany in comparison to US, in terms of support for those with hearing loss? Much. And it infuriates me, and it seems that I've gotten it all shaken into me -- I took too much for granted in the US, and now I realize what I need and what is crucial in the day-to-day life of one who has a hearing loss. The attitudes of people, the services provided, the feeling I get here...there's just so much and it is infuriating. Despite that, I do love Germany. I just can't imagine living here for longer than I need to, that's all.

I also was going through a list of things I want to eat when i get home:
*Auntie Anne's pretzels--the cinnamon sugar pretzels
*East Side Marios pizza
*a cheeseburger, thrown on the grill, sizzling. I don't eat beef here in Germany
*Papa John's pizza
*Mom's steak and dad's sausage dish

Funny, isn't it? I rarely eat this stuff (with the exception of dad's sausage dish and mom's steak)...and these are the things I miss?

I cannot seem to shake "Persimmons" by Li Young-Lee from my head. Here it is--this poem. It resonates within me for some reason...

Persimmons

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew on the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet
all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down,
I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.
Naked: I've forgotten.
Ni, wo: you me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat
but watched the other faces.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang. The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father would stay up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents' cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He's so happy that I've come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.

After reading "Persimmons", I always wish I was a poet. Somewhere inside of me lurks the soul of a poet, but it doesn't know how to get out...so often stuck in wordiness and narrative, that I cannot strip the words right down to the barest bones...And it makes me wonder what certain poet-types are doing, especially one I've never forgotten...

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