This blog is maintained by the participants of "Herb Port of Poets" (https://herbport.blogspot.com). Poems bound by themes, poems free from themes, and essays on literature and art are posted here. The poem theme of the first half (January-June) of 2026 is "AIR".
Giacometti in a Fridge
10 a.m.
the door is opened.
I step into the gallery.
I feel the air of fridge –
immaculate, intact.
Figures are standing
in this clear atmosphere.
They are thin, almost
emaciated
but still solid
like trees.
I stare at these people,
wondering
how they could cope with this chill
and silence
after visitors disappeared
last evening
and how they could wait
until this morning
when our body temperature
reheats
their space.
The veins of the journey
The veins of the journey
unravel into multiple
furrows
and our expectations kindle
beneath contrary forces
we are the stars
of a thousand branches
frail cracks
fractures
with golden glints
our marks
and our marblings
mineral
darkened by words
sentences
sketches
traces of time
calligrams
of our weaknesses
flaws and imperfections
thus
we write ourselves
Mists of dreams
Mists of dreams
or mists of heat
silence awakens us
through the shutters
mashrabiya
of shadows and light
on your skin
figures
of desire
glyphs
of our ardent wishes
carved into the body
a caress awakens our senses
a blackbird's song in the distance
and the wind in a soft whistling
carries to us the discreet delights
and the secret coolness of the palm grove
Vacuum Voice
In the vacuum of space,
there is no need to read the air.
If each of us carries our own oxygen tank,
breathing is easier
than it is on Earth.
But in the vacuum,
sound does not carry.
No matter how much the vocal cords tremble,
if there is no atmosphere to transmit that vibration,
a voice is powerless.
If so-
how can I call out
to your distant back, carrying your own tank?
That’s it-
turn it into a signal.
This trembling.
*read the air : from Japanese “kuki o yomu” (空気を読む), meaning to sense unspoken social cues.
Breath
It is almost nothing:
invisible, except when frigid air
or cold, smooth glass
transforms its moisture into mist;
its sound too faint to hear
unless the body needs more of it
than the lungs can claim.
It has no taste, no smell:
whatever chance aromas it may wear
are not its own. We feel
only a passing breeze across the lips,
a rhythmic swelling
and contraction of the chest,
so gentle, so familiar we forget
that it is happening. How strange
that our entire life depends
upon a thing so insubstantial
that we might suppose
it wasn’t there at all.
Stage
The darkest shadow has an air of ghost
He believes he was a king
He claims he was assassinated
He wants his son to be a detective
His son has an air of ghost
He questions whether to be or to go
He acts as a detective
He laughs at his girlfriend and kills her father
She has an air of ghost
She likes to sing in a river
She dreams of living in a convent
He and she have an air of ghost
Whoever understands them has an air of ghost
This pale cool air is a funny fragile fragrance
Of utterly immature actors on this cosmic stage.
Eiffel Tower
I’m weaving an Eiffel Tower
like weaving a fishing net.
It’ll be as tall as me.
The string is made of cotton
and it’ll not stand up.
When it’s completed
it’ll lie flat on a floor.
I may sometimes wish
it could rise into the sky.
When I feel that way
I will put on my tower
and stand up
in my invisible room.
---ESSAY---
Tart or thunderbolt or ...
Some may say a poem is a small tart of never ever experienced taste made with languages. I would rather say it is like a sudden thunderbolt in the blue sky. This is nothing other than the Japanese (Chinese?) proverb "青天の霹靂"(seiten no hekireki) meaning something unexpected appears all of a sudden in a striking and fascinating way. This thunderbolt may come from the sea of dream. Then this flash and thundering have some existential root. And I imagine this thunderbolt may not have the shape of lightning in the sky. It may well be a pebble or a fragment of glass giving out superb shine of a jewel.
A poet stands on the shore of the sea of dream, wanders and finds something small and beautiful and enigmatic. He or she picks it up and watch carefully. This is the pivotal deed of poetry. A magic tart is sure to delight tongues and eyes and noses. A thunderbolt cannot help surprising eyes and ears and hearts. A tiny enchanting drift on the spiritual shore will have the potential to describe a tremendous amount of secrets kept unseen in the world. A twig of a thunderbolt drifting along the border of day(consciousness) and night(unconsciousness) is omniscient.
A student plays the paper piano
Penniless and inexperienced
Anxious and frenzied
Chaotic but proud
There is no sound
But surely music is here
Paper piano is piano itself
Anyone can play it
No one can play it
The sacred instrument creates
Murmuring bubbles gold and silver
Flying soon to vanish
When you play the paper piano
Something thoroughly pure comes
Take out your piano from your pocket
Put your fingers softly on it
And here comes from the world bottom
Faint rhythm and rhyme
Muses' glimmering dream
Every song and music hides
deep in itself
You
A student playing the paper piano
Veins of rain...
Veins of rain
on the glass
autumn colors
under the gray
sky
through the landscape
we explore
motionless
other worlds
other leaves
other memories
always traveling
we cross
alone
and nothing
we need
through existence
through the flow of time
we move
unpossessingly
sunlit and peaceful
the exit
we greet
Giacometti in a Fridge 10 a.m. the door is opened. I step into the gallery. I feel the air of fridge – immaculate, intact. F...