Return

Four seasons have changed in Japan since I left, but hardly in Hawai’i. My father passed away late August and I rushed back. After a series of events and ceremonies, I returned to Hawai’i with my mother so that she could refresh herself. She did not forget to carry Father’s photo. I was happy visiting sights with my mother that I hadn’t yet seen, as well as favorite places.

The window of the studio to which I moved faces east. Every morning we would wake up in bright natural light, but it was soon too hot for the end of October.

…Morning sunshine

…Over Diamond Head:

…The face in the photo

…Warming up

7-5-3

bowing

to giggling children -

the priest’s eyebrows

Waterside Birds, Part II: The Cormorant

..That island in the River Ota was also used as a resting place by cormorants. Unlike herons, cormorants are ferocious birds and dive into water to catch fish. They can stay underwater for a long time. It is always interesting to predict where they will appear again, for our guesses are seldom right. When they are tired of diving, cormorants perch on the rocks and spread their wings to dry. On these occasions, there is something comical about their appearance.

..Cormorants are also tamed and used for cormorant fishing. I first saw a cormorant show at Miyoshi, where three rivers merge to form the Gonokawa, a big river that runs into the Sea of Japan. Here, even today, we can catch one-foot-long ayu fish. What is so good about the cormorant fishing in this river is that we can get very close to the master fisherman’s boat to watch the show from there. I have seen cormorant fishing at other places, for example, at Gifu and Iwakuni – but I could never get close enough to enjoy the show. Basho wrote the following poem about his experience.
….Enjoyable at first,
….But eventually saddening–
….Cormorant fishing.
..I am not quite sure what was the cause of Basho’s sadness. Is he referring to the end of this magnificent show when torches are extinguished and everything is swallowed up in darkness, or is he thinking about the sad fate of the ayu fish caught by the cormorants, or the plight of the birds kept on a leash? Whatever, cormorants come up to the water’s surface with an ayu caught horizontally in their beaks, and then throw it up into the air before swallowing it down with their neck held vertically. This is nothing short of an acrobatic feat, and gave rise to our expression unomi ni suru, which means to ‘gulp something down like a cormorant without chewing’. The special delicacy of Miyoshi is ayu zushi, strained lees of bean-curd stuffed into the cleaned bellies of ayu fish. I have not had the pleasure of tasting this delicacy for a long time now.
When I travelled to Guilin several years ago, I saw Chinese cormorant-fishing masters. One of them was enjoying a nap with his cormorants perched on his raft. I thought it was very brave of him to entrust himself to the fast-flowing River Li. Compared with elegant herons, cormorants look very fierce, probably because of their pitch-dark feathers.
….Black as a monk’s robe,
….The cormorant has red eyes
….Burning with hell fire.

Cirku from the South Island

This cirku was composed (Wainakarua, 17.4.06) close to where my great grandfather settled in New Zealand. I had never been there before. The NZ autumn is our northern hemisphere spring. You can begin the poem at any line and read around the circle. (in the middle of autumn nowhere / donkeys greet me / like a long-lost friend)

The name – of it – is “Autumn” – / The hue – of it – is Blood –

Again, in the spirit of the “Ayame Society,” formed in England more than a century ago to encourage exchange between poets West and East, I offer the following poem on autumn, by the American poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886). Dickinson neither titled nor published her poems while she was alive (with some very few exceptions). And her punctuation is highly eccentric (a point I hope will provide no serious obstacles to readers unfamiliar with her work). In the first comment below, I’ll provide a few remarks about the language of the poem that Hailstoners new to Dickinson may find of use. But for now, simply the poem itself, in the hope that it will inspire responses in haiku for preservation here in the Icebox.

The name – of it – is “Autumn” -
The hue – of it – is Blood –
An Artery – upon the Hill -
A Vein – along the Road -

Great Globules – in the Alleys -
And Oh, the Shower of Stain –
When Winds – upset the Basin -
And spill the Scarlet Rain -

It sprinkles Bonnets – far below -
It gathers ruddy Pools -
Then – eddies like a Rose – away -
Upon Vermilion Wheels -

ca. 1862

Now, get to work & send in some autumnal haiku!

Nagaoka-kyo ‘Vestiges’ Ginko-Kukai

Robin Beshers ginko-ing

At work on the Nagaoka-kyo site

On 27 September in Muko City, Kyoto, some of us took part in a linked event with the Haiku Bandit Society based in St. Paul, Minnesota, USA. That day, Muko was bustling with bicycle racing fans, not to mention a band of six Hailstone poets. They were betting and we were composing.

Toshi leads the imagination tour

In the lingering heat, we spent a few hours visiting the ruins of the ‘phantom’ capital of ancient Japan. There are almost no structural remains to look at: only a few plots of preserved ground and mounds covered with summer grass. This was going to be an imagination exercise!

Willie, knees muddied with vestiges

After strolling around the site composing, and having eaten a soba lunch, we used a room in the Community Hall for a workshop, where we discussed which of our poems to send the Bandits. Some poets’ pens streamed smoothly, others sluggishly.

Kneeless Tito and persimmon

Meanwhile, the Bandit poets were going on their own ginkos – in Minnesota, Tennessee, Canada, and California – and focusing on ‘vestiges’ of their own. For more details, see the link to the H.B.S. site (in Blogroll). The poems were collated by Hailstone Stephen and Bandit William and sent across for reading by the other group. Prizes were also bought and sent. Over the next fortnight, using email, Bandits and Hailstones voted and supplied comments (kukai style) to arrive at a favourite selection from the partner group’s pieces. These were then duly collected and relayed to the other side for their mutual benefit, as both groups try to grow in their understanding of the expression and spirit of haiku.

Hisashi unwraps his prize at the YBC

The comments received on each of our poems from people far across the ocean whom we have never met are indeed treasured goods. So, here are the results:

AMERICAN SELECTION OF JAPANESE HAIKU

1. the emperor’s governance:

… a dragonfly patrols it

… in the breeze

…… (Hisashi Miyazaki, Osaka)

2. Nothing to mark

… The cursed capital –

… Loosestrife flowers

…… (John Dougill, Kyoto)

3. The Court is gone –

… Still the ginkgo tree yields

… Its golden nuts

…… (Toshi Ida, Kameoka)

JAPANESE SELECTION OF AMERICAN HAIKU

1. first kiss

… the statue of a prime minister

… holding his lapel

…… (K.A. Martin, Ottawa)

2. a thousand voices

… and then…

… autumn sparrows

…… (William Sorlien, St. Paul)

3. indian summer

… jerusalem artichokes

… mark the camp

…… (Eric V, San Francisco)

From the Icebox moonbox 9

The huge October moon has cast its spell.

Here are some recent submissions inspired by the harvest moon and by the last flickers of summer.

harvest moon
halcyon days
in river town

…. Willie

Takeshi’s tuna -
Its skin, burnt on the roof
Makes a ring
Around the moon

…. Tito

harvest moon
the cupboard space surrounding
a tin of deviled ham

…. Ed Markowski

his death wish
a moth plunges
into the flame

…. Vic Gendrano

Midnight nears
memories of distant Japan
and poet friends…

…. Jane Wieman

Moon over Daikakuji

The harvest moon, over Daikakuji; in lieu of a haiku, & in the hope that the photo will flush some of the latter out of the woodwork and into the Icebox.

words

not knowing what to do

about this anger

the moon drifts among the clouds

Reparations

On Easter Sunday last year, I heard an American soldier speak in the Catholic church on Kawaramachi street. He was uneasy, only twenty-four, and by avocation a photographer. The translator hobbled him somewhat, but he had presence, and he told his story––a story of how, south of Baghdad, his unit killed three goats and one child, in error; and of how, in reparation, the Army paid out $200 U.S. for the girl, and $1,200 more for her father’s livestock. The soldier had made his stop in Kyoto, on a long walk from Hiroshima to Tokyo, with a group of Buddhist monks––a walk undertaken for whatever it might accomplish in the name of peace.

After the meeting, the soldier stepped outside for a smoke, and took a seat beside me on the steps. A young Japanese woman approached him. She said she spoke no English––a fact for which she apologized in English. She extended her hand to touch his. “You have beautiful eyes,” she said.

No desert mirage,
in this sorry botch of a war––
three goats dead, one child.

Waterside Birds, Part I: The Heron

by Nobuyuki Yuasa …

.. When I go river fishing with a long pole on my shoulder, I often see different waterside birds.  My most frequent encounter, perhaps, is with white herons. From spring to autumn, they are quite independent, each bird taking its own position in a shallow, waiting for a fish to come. Young herons are a bit clumsy, chasing fish but failing to catch them. As they grow older, they become more patient, and do not move until a good opportunity arises, although their eyes move keenly from time to time. Mature birds usually stand on a rock motionless, like philosophers. When the wind comes, however, their crown-feathers are shaken. In winter, herons form a flock. I can see them from my veranda as it looks down on the River Tamagawa. Their flight is quite graceful, white feathers reflecting on the blue water. The least appealing aspect of herons, however, is the way they nest in a forest.  The trees are suffocated by their white droppings, which have an obnoxious smell. During the years of war evacuation, I worked with woodcutters and charcoal-makers in the mountains, but I tried my best to avoid heronries. In Hiroshima, where the River Ota forks into the River Enko, one of its delta branches, there is a small island where herons nest. When I saw it five years ago, its trees were almost dead.

.. Apart from the usual white herons, I sometimes see bigger herons with grayish feathers and black heads crowned with a few plumes of white. According to a history book called Okagami, Emperor Daigo granted the fifth rank of Imperial Courtier to this bird when it obeyed the emperor’s order to return to his seat. Be that as it may, the bird certainly has courtly gentleness and dignity, especially when it spreads its wings to fly.

……. Neath the willow tree

……. Of the royal palace moat,

……. A big gray heron.

A young heron’s dance, ……

With a small fish glittering ..

In its pointed beak. …………..

“Memories of the Sea Shore”

It happened at the very last moment. I didn’t expect a week off of work this summer, but fortunately I wangled it. I spent five nights and six days in America with my husband and his friends––five nights and six days, a typical Japanese holiday. Three of those nights we spent on the sea shore, at the Isle of Palms, just north of Charleston, South Carolina. The weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too humid; it welcomed me, and I relaxed.

Up to my balcony
A sea breeze carries
The sound of slow waves––
Summer afternoon

The long, white beach spread out before our holiday condominium. The waves were calm; the tide ebbed. We walked down the sandy beach toward the north end of the peninsula, the green of a golf course to one side, the green of the Atlantic ocean to the other.

On a lingering bubble
A rainbow boomerang forms––
Receding wave

A hand print
On a heart shaped sand castle––
Evening glow

At the close of day, we walked down to the beach again, and listened to the waves as they lapped the shore by night. The sky was quite clear, but lights from the condominiums washed out the constellations.

A shooting star
Draws a fresh line
On a black canvas