Poetry by Jonathan Hayes

Poetry

Jonathan Hayes has edited and published Over the Transom a Bay Area literary journal for the past twenty-seven years. He has taught poetry and published booklets for children in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. His most recent publication is Ghetto Sunshine & Other Poems 1997-2023, Mel C. Thompson Publishing, California, 2024. He lives with his wife in Oakland, California.

Mongolian Woman in a Box

In 1913, a Mongolian woman
was condemned to death for adultery

She was confined in a wooden crate
and left in a remote location to die
in agony from starvation and exposure

To prolong her torture and suffering
a small hole was carved for her head
to stick partially out allowing her
to beg for food or for water from
a bowl on the ground next to the crate

The bowl of water was not refilled

The photographer, Stéphane Passet, was on
an “Archives of the Planet” expedition
bankrolled by a philanthropist and came upon
the Mongolian woman in a box

He did not free her taking photos instead
presumably in empathy and as historical documentation

What was her name, her favorite color, did she have children,
how old was she, did she have a soul, and did her soul escape
when her body died, was the wooden crate burned with her body
still inside, or was her body taken out?

History leaves the photograph

The Mongolian woman still trapped to death inside

Ryōkan sd…

Hai Zi — “I carve poetry and clouds”

Ryōkan sd staff in hand I walk through the gate

— old walking staff full of poems.

Ryōkan sd the butterfly visits the flower w/ no mind

—  the mind is an empty rice bowl.

Ryōkan sd call me a dunce living w/ the trees and flowers

— we all need water.

Ryōkan sd to Etel Adnan, the clouds

—  she replied back, the water.

Ryōkan sd don’t ask me about illusion or enlightenment

I’m just an old fool smiling — I agree w/ him.

Ryōkan sd the clouds are his neighbors —

unfortunately, they don’t always glide by and evaporate.

Ryōkan sd he never worked retail, but if he had

— being a beggar is easier. 

Ryōkan sd he missed the bus

— but, he wasn’t trying to catch it.

Ryōkan sd his bouncing ball is forlorn

— everything, including the ball, is a mirror.

Ryōkan sd he sits alone on cold nights in an empty room

—  the company of everything.

Ryōkan sd he was playing hide-and-seek w/ the children

— sleeping through the night in the bushes.

Ryōkan sd the flowers and moon will guide your way

— the moon is always full and the flowers laugh.

Ryōkan sd at night, deep in the mountains he sits in zazen

— the temple gets in the way of things.

Ryōkan sd he’s as pure as a mountain steam

— I have to piss.

Ryōkan sd the ridicule or praise of worldly people means nothing

— no one follows me on Instagram.

Ryōkan sd counting days is like snapping one’s fingers

— the heart is a beatbox.

Ryōkan sd if you want to find the meaning stop chasing after so many things

— a faster internet connection is now available.

Ryōkan sd day and night the cold wind blows through his robe

— yes, monks wear thermos too.

Ryōkan sd the thief left “it’ behind — moonlight on his walking staff.

Ryōkan sd all I have to offer you is the tranquility of my hermitage

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