Here's a taste of Darlene's oeurve …
Aloha! I'm pleased you found my page and hope you "happily" ponder over this little snippet of poetry. My first chapbook, "Patsy's Gingerbread Fantasy", is upcoming in 2025 with Finishing Line Press.
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The Passing of Time, Bamboo Ridge Press, Issue 81
Respirator removed, tubes unplugged and pushed aside, we gathered, prayed, said our goodbyes, kissed Mom’s cheeks, and watched the monitor and her chest move in the slowest, most deliberate way-- rising, pausing, lowering, pausing. Twenty minutes later we continued to witness every slow draw of breath, each cleansing exhale, and we knew she was taunting us, making monkey face, sticking out her tongue, winking her eye one last time. The sun went down and we began to get comfortable, chat about the weather, stroke her leg, hold her hand, write poetry. We kept the all-night vigil, then met the new day, but morning faded into noon, forcing us to accept that time belonged to her and she would linger as long as she damn well pleased. Bamboo Ridge, Journal of Hawaii Literature and Arts, Issue To be included in upcoming chapbook, “Patsy’s Gingerbread Fantasy”, Finishing Line Press. |
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My Poems are Escaping, Bamboo Ridge Press
Driving on Jones Avenue, a poem skittered across the dashboard toward the passenger door. I reached over, tried to roll up the window, but the car swerved; the poem escaped. Through my rear-view mirror I watched the car behind me run over the verse. I turned around to pick up the pieces, but there were no letters left on the pavement. Once I woke in the middle of the night, and a poem slithered like a shadow up the wall, climbing toward the ceiling, growing slowly, line after line. I turned on the light to find a pencil; the poem disappeared like a vampire at dawn. I carried a pen and pad in my pocket during my three-mile jog; a poem ran beside me. I stopped on the track, took out my paper, but it began to rain, the ink running off the page faster than I could write the words. During a shower, a poem dripped from the faucet and splashed in the tub. Soapy hands reached for it, but it slipped, flowing down the drain. I turned off the water, called the plumber but all he pulled out was hair. Bamboo Ridge, Journal of Hawaii Literature and Arts, Issue 81 |
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For Robin, Unclaimed, Bamboo Ridge Press
Thin as hibiscus petals-- sick for a month, unable to breathe, you finally went to the emergency room, but no one accompanied you when you were transported to the next hospital sixty miles away. Not wanting you to be alone I drove to Hilo Medical Center and claimed we were related. You talked through your oxygen mask until the doctor came in and reported-- disease had claimed your body. I used the phone at the nurse’s counter to call your home, to tell your lover to hurry, to get here. Unable to breathe, again, you were transported to another hospital an island away, again unaccompanied, again unclaimed. I called your mother after searching the directory, explained I was a new friend, acknowledged your absence of seven years; the mother who once saved you, adopted you, sheltered and loved you when you were her little boy. She told me you were already damaged beyond repair by the time she got you, that she had lost you twice-- she calling you by her chosen male name, me calling you by your chosen female name, both of us not claiming your birth name; and then the daughter she could not accept disappeared for seven years. “Terminal, Saint Francis Hospital” I reported. She contemplated flying across the Pacific to see you, to help you, to love you. Your mother and I talked each week and she shared that she would sing to you over the phone, love you, pray with you, and she would come. I called your friend in Alaska and shared with her that you were dying. She said she would come, to see you, to help you, to love you. Each week we talked and she was still coming. I called the transgender support group. I called the nurse to complete the forms. I called the doctor when you wanted to lessen the pain. Flown to O’ahu, an island away, your lover said he would come, to see you, to help you, to love you. When the doctor called me to say that you might not make it through the night, I bought the airline ticket for your lover, so you wouldn’t be alone and unclaimed anymore. After a week, you sent him home. When the doctor called me and said you had died, I called your friend, you lover, your mother. Alaska wanted your body, Arizona wanted your body, but O’ahu had your body. A month after you pulled off your oxygen mask, two months after you were admitted with AIDS, a voice over the phone explained, “Unclaimed bodies are incinerated.” Like you changed your name, I changed my number. Bamboo Ridge, Journal of Hawaii Literature and Arts, Issue 100 The Best of Aloha Shorts, edited by Sammie Choy, Craig Howes, Phyllis S.K. Look, Bamboo Ridge Press, 2018, pp. 179-181. |
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A Yellow Tinge Wraps the Pile, Chaminade Literary Review
Seven months of unread memories, your year’s subscribed Hawaii Tribune, forwarded to my box, wait stacked in the corner of my dusty garage. Obsolete headlines, proclamations of the moment, weather away like the forecast, cloudy, with a chance of rain. A yellow tinge wraps the pile of international summits, train wrecks, hurricane warnings, NBA championships, and corporate mergers. No mention of you. You once had a baby blue house surrounded with roses, chickens scratching up the backyard, green tabis drying on the clothesline, a karaoke voice flowing through Keahi Street. Ka’u Agribusiness pay stubs, Good Housekeeping subscriptions, Finger Hut orders are canceled. Newspaper for training puppies, starting fires, lining drawers, stuffing boxes, saving dishes, wrapping fish, cleaning windows, making kites, remind me of how life moves on without you. Chaminade Literary Review To be included in upcoming chapbook, “Patsy’s Gingerbread Fantasy”, Finishing Line Press. |
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Scarification, Hawaii Pacific Review
I saw it once on television on the Discovery or Learning Channel, a river tribe and an African tribe, one matriarchal. It was easy— the way the blade glided through the skin to draw rails and rails of half inch lines, adorning the torso of a boy being initiated into manhood. It was still easy, though they had to hold the toddler down-- the blade moving across the skin of forehead and face; tribal marks of his mother. I learned about this ritual after I found your batu pipe, before I smashed its bulb, took the remaining neck of jagged glass to my forearm in swift, reckless motion, down and back; carved two pairs of five-inch parallel lines of red. Imagine if I had already known how each of the hundred lines have meaning, purpose, belonging; that the process is sacred, that the one being beautified should lie on a bed of leaves, that healing water is poured across the body. My flourishes do not heal quickly or become ornamental. Keloids take on their own identity, manifest their own will, work obsessively to heal the body, have no bonding with my soul. Hawaii Pacific Review, Volume 25 |
Publishing Credits
Darlene M. Javar’s poems are published by Bamboo Ridge Press, Chaminade Literary Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Into the Teeth of the Wind, The Distillery, Earth’s Daughters, Storyboard 8, Kaimana, and Tinfish. My poetry is also recorded in “Rural Voices Radio II,” National Writing Project, and “Aloha Shorts”, a co-production of Hawaii Public Radio and Bamboo Ridge Press. “Shame and the First Day of College” is cited in The Bloomsbury Handbook of Contemporary American Poetry (Svonkin and Axelrod, 2023).
Darlene M. Javar’s poems are published by Bamboo Ridge Press, Chaminade Literary Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Into the Teeth of the Wind, The Distillery, Earth’s Daughters, Storyboard 8, Kaimana, and Tinfish. My poetry is also recorded in “Rural Voices Radio II,” National Writing Project, and “Aloha Shorts”, a co-production of Hawaii Public Radio and Bamboo Ridge Press. “Shame and the First Day of College” is cited in The Bloomsbury Handbook of Contemporary American Poetry (Svonkin and Axelrod, 2023).
Poetry Links
- “The Growing of Hope”, published by Bamboo Ridge, Journal of Hawaii Literature and Arts, is available online via the University of Hawaii through free downloadable ebooks at https://dspace.lib.hawaii.edu/server/api/core/bitstreams/ab4ce9d8-fd4a-48a3-a9a6-64db3280f392/content
- My work has also been read and recorded on Aloha Shorts, Hawaii Public Radio. “For Robin, Unclaimed”, The Best of Aloha Shorts published by Bamboo Ridge https://www.bambooridge.org/aloha-shorts/
- “Shame and the First Day of College, https://soundcloud.com/nwpradio/track-05-2?in=nwpradio/sets/rural-voices-radio-volume-ii-cd-1 Rural Voices Radio: Hawai'i - Shame and the First Day of College