Details |
Krysada Phounsiri Poem
I meet you in Laos
as a seed
just a simple
existence of hard rice
seeded inside Huay Xai’s dirt
until water plains
cradle and nourish your infant body
'till you sprout above water banks
where you tickle yourself
with sunshine
like a child who spends all
day with the wind
when you mature
people pull your roots
carry you in bulk back home
along with your friends
moisten your skin
steam under flames and
boiling water
only a bath where
dirt splashes off
while you try to hold
breaths underwater
your skin does not wrinkle
only softens
to stick with other rice
and sink in perfection
of the basket
where my mother’s hands
shake and shuffle you
into a ball
to roll on a plate
now fully grown ready to
liberate our hunger
with your body
that is how we meet
everyday even now
when I chew you in big bites
you never fail to fill
my head with steam
and make my tummy your
cozy home
sometimes I eat you too fast
you burn my tongue
and mom says
I am crazy for eating too fast
but it don’t matter
when I can cool
squeeze to pebble-size bits
dip you in fish soup
or papaya salad
Kao Niew
my family sits together
on the floor legs folded
or on a dinner table
you cuddle inside our bellies
warm our lips
all
the way
down
our throats
in cold evenings with no heaters
you sacrifice to
fill our stomachs
so we can stick to each other
and swallow
our love whole
Copyright © Krysada Phounsiri | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Krysada Phounsiri Poem
Pistols shoot
and rifles unload
thunderous banters
initiate the race
she dives
into the Mekong River
stealth head start
she leads amongst the pack
of four boys and three girls
paddles faster than catfish
other swimmers dive
chasing for the finish line
the Thailand border
no one trains for this race
many do not know
how to swim
instincts ignite energy
in their arms and legs
signals their brain to
pick up the skill
on the spot
faces
splash into
murky depths
greeting a timezone
between breath
and drowning
some legs fail to flap
some racers sink
and one boy gives up
swims back to Laos
the rest continue
down to Paiyanag's home
death cries with people
underwater
either bullets pierce their
flesh or the
breathing
seizes
water filling lungs
100 meters
200 meters
400 meters
her Olympic debut
two hours long
she peeks ahead
sand and shore
on the horizon
her feet do not give up
her hands
cup away whispers
to submerge beneath the Mekong
she ignores temptation
to call it quits
the finish line waits at
Nong Khai refugee camp
no one cares
where they place
first or second
or last as long
as their knees can
sink into dry earth
rather than their corpses
be fish food
she crawls
out the Mekong River
looks back
at her homeland torched
ammo shells whizzing
no audience present
no cheers
no celebration
only the moon
and the stars
watching her
speed
tracking her velocity
until the finish line
her medal for winning
Prison
then,
a new Life
in America
Copyright © Krysada Phounsiri | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Krysada Phounsiri Poem
I seize time when funky drummer songs break
into my body robbing feeling of nerves making me fly
off floors with hips bouncing and shoes sweeping soot on concrete
I leave my history on any ground wherever I scuff my hands
and greet earth beneath me made of cement and sand
roughening calluses in
my upper palm and never do I feel more alive in
doing anything other than breaking
dancing on the floor that my fingers sand
with blood thrashing through my veins till I push and fly
legs flailing toward the moon; only my hands
feel this field of concrete
within the hour, ridges of concrete
rub against my knuckles as I guzzle in
air gasping for breaths that hit my hands
feeling this warmth pat me does nothing more than break
any possibility that I might be dreaming, flying
somewhere or dead drifting with sand
dirt smears its calligraphy in an ink of sand
when my shoes scrape concrete
markings on the floor inscribe stories and time flies
I see scratches my palms and shoes make in
a canvas of floors where I dance till the break
of dawn meditating with music, the bandage of my hands
I read life through my hands
brush rubble or throw sand
dancing off feelings of being lonely breaking
nostalgia of home because I can find that in concrete
the ground teaches me of pain on my skin or inside
my mind as I wander into a song flying
and falling over pebbles that gash my flesh blood flying
all directions and while wiping blood from my hands
I feel my age seeping the years I keep anxiety in
on a path of exhaustion counting thuds of my heart with sandpaper
hands I forge on concrete
I will slide-spin-tap the floor in harmony breaking
my life into stories of me dancing in all worlds I touch, showing the world my broken
rhythm in handling pain with hands pressed on floors people walk on in concrete
cities where I fly into freedom, puffing out, dying breaths, and taking all, breaths of life, in
Copyright © Krysada Phounsiri | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Krysada Phounsiri Poem
you ever heard of a Lao party?
might be one going on right now…
we Lao folks love that celebratin’
sifting through sunrise and slipping
through sunset we sing our favorite
songs in our heads
it shortens time at work
cuz we sa baiiii sa baiiii
we force ourselves to
sa bai through the weekdays
so when weekend come
we too sai bai to be sa bai while
Beer Lao gushes down as if a recession
exists in our bellies
and we must stimulate our celebratory economy
this weekend on our little cousin’s birthday
where grandpas and grandmas
get down Salavan style
Lao folks gotta play that music
gives us an excuse to pick up microphones
clap our hands and wave our wrist around
and dance like how our aunties teach us
when the right song come
when the right keys
of the khaen flute lifts our stress out
our sleepless bodies
we always celebrating something
waiting for that weekend
coasting past the jobs we hate
or waiting to grab jobs we don’t have
it don’t matter if our elders can’t speak English
they singing like they own the land
where their voices reach
rejoicing over the smallest
of happenings
and we all sa baiiiii real good
Copyright © Krysada Phounsiri | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Krysada Phounsiri Poem
a ghost haunts the country of Laos
sieving through jungles
crackling twigs because
it has not yet died
beware of it
the one who drags one foot
while the other rots 20 feet away
shoes made of cast metal
footprints ever so present
in night fall
imprints of bomb shells in mud fields
a phantom roams
plains in Laos
hide your children
its breath reeks of agent orange
its shouts
dynamite flames that dusts away human bones
and bamboo baskets
a stench of wheezing willing to fold
curl
leaves and skins of families who
who hide in forest
till their flesh shrivels
like the lungs of many dead soldiers
the fissures of its face
exposes land mines
crooning a song of torment
through throats of civilians fleeing
on the hair of this
wicket phantom
its hair droops the length
of the Ho Chi Minh trail
hear its whispers
it also cries
moans of a past that begs
to be remembered
clawing trees to spell out its name
the ghost wails pain
filters itself everywhere
whimpering
peeling steal and lead
by the millions
what remains become chains
that burrow into earth
by cluster bombs
big bombs
B-52 bombers dropping
in its tons of U.S. congress approval
in ink
an old friend still alive and well
and under moonlight
refugees run
only to meet more trouble
in camps
they desire to break away
from this ghost and its name
and no one recalls its name
of this
ghoul who rages through
the country of
Laos
melting tendons and flesh
this ghost hungers
for humans
screeching napalm gas on
palms of
guerilla soldiers
american soldiers
and vietcong alike
death does not even remember its name
beware but
tell your children
light the candles and the
incense
the ghost drifts because
no one wants to
know about its name
The Secret War
put this crying soul
of secret history
to rest
recognize
its name
bless this curse
that wants to
name
all the people
it claims
and they too
will remain alive
like mines beneath the soil
seeds of calamity
Copyright © Krysada Phounsiri | Year Posted 2016
|