Poet Sharon Suzuki-Martinez finds inspiration in unlikely places. Her writing covers diverse topics, from Sasquatch to ethnozoology to In-n-Out Burger, combining a mix of playfulness and gravity. “No matter how much I brood, absurdity always breaks through the darkness like dandelions through a sidewalk. With me it’s all about balance.”
Sharon’s poetry and essays have been widely published. Her latest book of poems, The Loneliest Whale Blues, winner of the Washington Prize, received rave reviews. She is a Kundiman Fellow, a Best of the Net finalist, and a Pushcart nominee. Her next poetry collection focuses on the internet and includes found poems pieced together from various resources, including social media posts, Yelp reviews and Google Translate. “This is very exciting for me because I am not aware of anyone else using social media in this way.”
Sharon chooses topics that fascinate her. “I obsessively research something that puzzles me to see its wider context and stumble across odd facts, connections and tangents. I want to thoroughly understand the mysterious thing to articulate its wonder to others.” A few of her recurring themes include: “What appears to be a single thing is made up of many smaller things, and what looks like many small things (no matter how disparate) are actually one thing; staring at the mundane until it becomes magical, and the reverse, letting the strange become familiar; the ambivalence of monsters — our wonder and dread evoked by mysterious creatures and people dwelling in the margins, at the borders.” She relishes these deep informational dives, feeling that condensing the exploration by using apps and AI “would be like taking a short cut rather than the scenic route.”
Sharon is of Okinawan/Japanese heritage, grew up in Hawaii and moved to Arizona to earn her doctoral degree. Although she considers her cultural background “the air I breathe,” she does not write specifically about herself. “All of this is influential on my point of view, but rarely the inspiration or main topic of my poems.” She has written many haibun, a traditional Japanese form that combines prose and haiku. “I wish I could say that I was taught to write haibun by my grandmother to continue our ancestral tradition, but I wasn’t. I’m the first writer on both sides of my family. Nevertheless, writing a haibun makes me feel like I’m honoring my ancestors. Also, the haibun feels like home, a place where I can be run-off-at-the-mouth candid, but also introspective and concise. It is where I can truly be myself.”
Moving to Tempe had its challenges for Sharon, including a stereo-blaring apartment complex, crazy hot weather and constant traffic, but “the comic absurdity of my situation eventually took over so I could write poems.” The two haibun on this page demonstrate Sharon’s skill in merging prose and poetry, humor and pathos. In “Taco Shop Haibun” she learns to transcend the outside world at a Mexican fast-food joint. “It had a peaceful vibe, like being in the desert wilderness instead of a crowded metro area.” She wrote “Snail Haibun” after discovering a couple of interesting facts about snails: they choose their companions, and they eat their dead. “I love all animals and so I live for info like this. These odd, easily shattered creatures connected with me through kintsugi.” Ultimately, writing allows Sharon to examine many sides of existence and offers solace from dark feelings. Hinting at the ravages of propaganda, she shares, “Poetry is the best medicine for despair induced by lies. So, while most Americans won’t make time for it, poetry waits like a healing scenic route home.”
More at sharonsuzukimartinez.com.
Slow. Slower than a tortoise chewing a Milk Dud. Here, it feels like time immemorial in the desert rather than the middle of asphalt Arizona. Our apartment is just a kiss away from major crashroads and “Los Fav’s,” the strip mall hole-in-the-wall. The past lunch hour has seen landscape crews, suits, moms, Sun Devils, and missionaries. Norteño music drifts from the kitchen into the dining room decorated with a pool table and vending machines stocked with instant tattoos and soul patches. I tuck into my crunchy beef taco combo and watch the traffic beyond the glass storefront. Soundless traffic is as lulling as watching goldfish. Goldfish in SUVs and pickups, swerving and flipping each other off. A stone’s throw away in the parking lot, the wind almost turns the page of a newspaper stuck under pink oleanders.
Amidst the rat race:
pockets of eternity,
refried beans and rice.
There is a humble snail inside my chest. Thrift store white porcelain shell. Eyestalks glancing the clouds like kite strings. It learns slowly, but it never forgets. I used to smoke to force my snail into its shell. So it couldn’t see, so I couldn’t feel. Now I can make my heart hide in its shell without cigarettes. But cynicism is brittle armor. Life will still crush you, and march on. And since nothing in nature is ever wasted, other snails will eat you, and crawl on. But more often than not, life has put me back together, shard by shard. We all can be brutal boots, but also helping hands. It also helps to know about kintsugi, a Japanese art form meaning “to repair with gold.” When a ceramic piece breaks, a craftsperson rejoins its parts using lacquer dusted with gold or silver. These lustrous scars render the pottery even more beautiful than when it was perfectly intact.
The greatest treasure
could be one’s humility.
A fractured heart, healed.
“Taco Shop Haibun” first appeared in Four Chambers; “Snail Haibun” in Anti-Heroin Chic.
Dee Cohen is a Prescott poet and photographer. deecohen@cox.net.
