Amy Uyematsu
Let's see...I'm a third-generation Southern Californian. My Japanese grandparents came
here between 1910-1920. Growing up, I was fortunate to experience Little Tokyo when it was
a hustlin', bustlin' immigrant center (what you see now in Little Saigon and Koreatown). I
graduated UCLA with a major in mathematics (don't ask why), although as I get older, my
love of math has grown immensely, and I do find all sorts of fascinating connections
between math/science and poetry. While still at UCLA, I helped pioneer its Asian American
Studies Program; my poetry roots can be traced back to my "yellow power" period
of political activism.
ON POETS
— after Frank Burnaby
A poet carries the unseen seed for a long time.
A poet is both mother and father.
Collecting bones, leaves, and names with equal anticipation.
a poet is most amazed by the gift of countless
moments of amazement.
A poet walks on a tightrope of syllables.
A poet keeps writing no matter how dangerous.
An advocate for the ordinary,
a poet can be no less than revolutionary.
Feared most by tyrants.
a poet cannot hide.
A poet begins with nothing and ends with everything,
over and over again.
A poet inhabits the crowded country of dream and desire,
improvising her small portion of words
like a jazz musician.
A poet sings because it's the only way she knows how.
A poet keeps giving birth to herself.
Daybreak, Volume I, 1998