by Margaret Tsuda

A letter came
by airmail
the other day in which
the writer contracted
to eagerly cherish
“anybody’s dream.”

Anybody’s dream!
Everybody’s hope!

Think of it.
Your noblest dream of
joy and brotherhood in
the hearts of all men,
mine of the peaceable
kingdom, child-led
lion and lamb
and all
our individually-packaged
bite-size dreams
which would suit
no one else
but ourselves–
all these
all these dreams are
already cherished
right here and now.

And there must be
a thousand other pens
poised at the same time
with the same
fond message.
And a
thousand thousand
other heads to
nod in agreement.

For
while one hand wrote it
many can read
this truth in their
own hearts
that the cherishing of
another’s dream
is the sure guarantee
of one’s
       own.

Margaret Tsuda’s poem appeared in the Christian Science Monitor of April 28, 1972, and in the collection Urban River, published in Newark in 1976.

by Margaret Tsuda

From the ashes of
        dead loves
I rise to
        love anew.

In the cold coals of
        dull disappointments
I grow fresh wings to
        soar in hope again.

From still-smoking embers of
        total defeats
I come forth to
        build a new city.

I am the Phoenix—
not a bird from
half-forgotten legend
but
        Everyman who
        loves
        hopes
        builds!

Until the night of Wednesday, July 12, 1967, it was hoped and widely believed that the civil disorders afflicting other cities would leave Newark unscathed. What Life magazine would later call “the predictable insurrection” wrought deep wounds in the fabric of the Central Ward, with a loss of lives and livelihoods out of all proportion to Newark’s size. It also impelled a reconsideration of the kind of city Newark was to be.

Artist and poet Margaret Tsuda, a recent arrival in 1967, was one of the many who stayed and joined their futures to the city’s own. Her poem appeared in the Christian Science Monitor of January 20, 1971, and in the collection Cry Love Aloud.

by Margaret Tsuda

On a commonplace
workday weekday
I was startled at the sight
of a horse on High Street
stepping out with Lippizaner grace
into the frenzied stream of
mechanized morning traffic
so that the patrolman
astride him could oversee
the safe passage of
three small schoolchildren.

What a handsome beast is the horse!
How generously he has lent
his strength/his fleetness to man!
Small wonder that the Attic Greeks—
lovers of beauty
tamers of the horse
sailors of the sea—
seeing the tossing of many manes
in the powerful plunge
of Aegean waves over sandbars
gave to their sea-god, Poseidon
the epithet, Hippias
Lord of the Horse.

The next day there was
no horse on High Street.
The friendly blue-garbed school guard
watched for the children.
But I still remember a
workday weekday made
uncommon/classic
for me
just by the sight of a horse.

Longtime resident Margaret Tsuda included this poem in Urban River, published in Newark in 1976.

by Margaret Tsuda

On the street we two pass.
I do not know you.
I did not see
if you are—
fat/thin,
dark/fair,
young/old.

If we should pass again
within the hour,
I would not know it.
Yet—
I am committed to
love you.

You are part of my city,
my universe, my being.
If you were not here
to pass me by,
a piece would be missing
from my jigsaw-puzzle day.

Therefore—
I am committed to
love you deeply.

Originally published in the Christian Science Monitor of December 9, 1969, this poem appeared in Margaret Tsuda’s Cry love aloud in 1972.

by Margaret Tsuda

It is good for a child
to grow up by a river.

There is much talk of
coming from
passing along
going toward
from a river.
Comments put into
sparkling form whose
luster is not forgotten.

It is good for a child
to grow up in a city by a river
where concrete can
be seen to merge into fluid
the static into the ever-flowing.

And a river can give assurance
of the power of beauty
to surmount defilement and
that is important
to a child
growing up in a city.

This poem appeared in the Christian Science Monitor on August 14, 1975, and was included in Tsuda’s collection Urban River, published in Newark in 1976.

by Margaret Tsuda

In poets, poems sleep
(all men are poets)
like seeds dreaming in earth
which wait for
the awakening kiss of silver rain
to free them from
their spore bonds.

Some
tight-shelled
resist the rain until
harsh cycles of heat/frost
persuade them.

But whenever that
catalytic moment
comes to compel
they rise humped
heavy with cotyledons.
Slowly
slowly they will
straighten and their
own true leaves appear.

Neither poem nor seed
can be urged before its time
but
each will have a flowering
in the sun!

During her years in Newark Margaret Tsuda published two books of poems; the second, Urban river (1976), contained this piece.

by Margaret Tsuda

My eyes are
not windows through which
I peep at
hurrying crowds and
birds and things.

My eyes
are doors
through which I run
run
to embrace the
new day and
hail each passerby as
        “friend.”

This poem appeared in the Christian Science Monitor on March 12, 1971, and in Tsuda’s collection Cry love aloud.

by Margaret Tsuda

Your roots push and
hump under the cement
that men have
lain upon you as if
you were a
prisoner to be
denied
                even water.

The exhaust gas of
many motors has
stripped and blackened
a half of your branches.

The bright tender
green of your buds
and leaves
is grayed by the
unremitting
smokeshade of
the city.

But passersby
can see that
you believe
“I am that which lives.
I will grow.”

For this
we humbly
                salute you!

In an Arbor Day booklet prepared for Newark school students in 1916, Shade Tree Commission secretary Carl Bannwart wrote: “The more you come to know of trees, the more you’ll come to love them. And whatsoever you truly love, you take care of without urging.”

The Christian Science Monitor of November 14, 1970, published this poem by longtime resident Margaret Tsuda. It appeared in her collection Cry love aloud in 1972.