On Olive Island

Mark and I were in Shodoshima for a few days just before Stephen went. The hotel we stayed in stands very close to a number of soy-sauce factories. We rented bicycles at the hotel and pedaled off to the harbor. The next day we set off again, visiting three soy-sauce factories, a Dutch pancake café, a sake brewery, and a small factory where thin somen noodles are made by hand. It was a lovely sunny day.

Here and there, you will find tiny, artisanal somen shops in Shodoshima. One such shop, called “Nakabu-an,” allowed us to try our hand at making somen as we toured the facility.

Airing somen

In the spring breeze –

Window-blind shadows

Having made a batch of somen, we bought a few of the house products, including “Olive somen” (pale green noodles flavored with Shodoshima olive paste).

Over toward the port at Sakade, we saw two large hotels, both of them totally abandoned, open to the weather. One was named “Shodoshima Royal Hotel” and obviously had once featured a fine Japanese garden, private beach, and a harbor-side swimming pool. To our amazement, doors and windows alike were wide open. Anyone might step inside.

The hotel was a tumbledown affair, partly looted, but a fancy painting remained on the lobby wall, looking down on sofas and armchairs — everything in place, just as the management had left it, maybe six months ago, maybe a year. (The policeman who pulled up to check us out couldn’t say how long.) At the entrance to the hotel, we found five packages of somen with a curious label: “Arigato.” Someone had left them on the stoop, with no indication why. Who or what was being thanked?

A curtain sways

In a forsaken hotel –

Pink azaleas

A soft breeze blew through the greenery, and we imagined the glory of times past. A favorite haiku of Basho’s came to my mind:

The summer grasses –

Of brave soldiers’ dreams

The aftermath

(夏草や　兵どもが　夢の跡)

A bus from the hotel took us up Kankakei Mountain the morning after we arrived on the island. The mountains there are carpeted in variegated green — ranks of trees, staggered in their distance, slope after slope. We reached the mountaintop quickly enough, and it was not yet crowded. Below lay the sea, at the end of a long swath of new-leafed trees veiled in morning mist.

Surveying the sea

From the mountaintop –

Green gradations

花筏 （はないかだ）Helwingia

The tiny ｆlowers of this plant bloom from the central part of the leaf surface. It looks as if the flowers are carried on a green raft, so it is called (花 hana = flower) + (筏 ikada = raft) or helwingia. I had only known it from the pages of an illustrated book; but one day recently, I was strolling in a park near my house and chanced upon this flower. In this season, a lot of colorful flowers bloom in profusion, so who even notices the helwingia ? But one small insect approaches it …

a poor talker, though

blessed with a few good friends -

the secret helwingia

Flown petal

(April 9) I had wanted to join the Yoshino event and had a plan to visit the Kansai area around that time, but my schedule didn’t allow. Living in Shikoku, I often drive through deep mountainsides between Matsuyama and Imabari. On one such day, when I saw cherry blossoms in full bloom here and there in the mountains, I yearned for the Yoshino haike.

Deep in Shikoku

I drive amidst the blossoms

Warping toward Yoshino

(April 13) Once in Kansai, I travelled to Kyoto one evening after work, hoping to glance at the cherry blossoms. It was raining, occasionally downpouring, and didn’t stop till night. But Entokuin, where Hideyoshi Toyotomi’s wife stayed for the final part of her life, is a breathtakingly beautiful space, and it was made all the more so by the rain. This garden features a dry pond. On that day, it had real water in it, though, because of the heavy rain. A guide there said this was most uncommon.

Garden of Nene -

Her imagined pond filled

With spring night rain

The guide continued, “This tree in front of us was totally naked until a few days ago and I had to explain to people that it was a maple. But, see, now it’s all light green with shoots!”

An invisible tree -

Fresh leaves came into bud

In two nights

(April 22) Back in Shikoku, I tried to write for the Icebox, but an urgent job rushed in. I had to translate thirty pages of a yakiniku menu, and my brain became utterly filled with Korean barbecue terms.

Spring messenger bird,

Smell of grilled meat wafts through

The cherry blossom-viewing

(May 5) Finally I got some time to relax during Golden Week, when intentionally I didn’t go anywhere. That was when I found the Yoshino report, Walking on Petals and Cloud.

Just roam on the net:

How easily I can join

The pleasant gathering

At Home with Mt. Fuji

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Four years have passed since I moved from Hiroshima to Tachikawa. Brought up in my childhood looking at Mt. Fuji, it was my wish to spend my last years admiring the mountain. I had to look around quite a bit, but fortunately I found a suite of rooms in a condominium which was not beyond my means. I live now on the eleventh floor enjoying a superb view. Below my eyes runs the River Tama and far away I can see the range of the Tanzawa mountains. Mt. Fuji fills the wide gap between Mt. Omuro and Mt. Takao and soars far above the other mountains.

I climbed Mt. Fuji when I was a student — only once in my life. I was attending a meeting at a Christian retreat called Tozanso in Gotenba and there met a student from the Philippines, who wanted to climb Mt. Fuji. I volunteered to be his guide. The journey up the steep slope was harder than we expected. Our plan was to see the sunrise from the top, but the low temperature and lack of oxygen forced us to spend the night in a hut at the eighth station. However, it was breath-taking to see the sun come out the next morning and change the whole world suddenly in an eye blink. I can never forget the sight of my own long shadow stretching across the clouds. My Filipino friend was excited about the snow, which he touched for the first time in his life.

Now I am classified by the Health Ministry in the category of ‘post-advanced age’. I satisfy myself, therefore, with just looking at Mt. Fuji from my balcony. Truly, Mt. Fuji has myriad faces. Sometimes it looks far away, at other times very near indeed. Sometimes it looks gentle and mild, at others, very severe and gloomy. Its colour changes, too, from pure white to light blue, and again to deep red. It is quite impossible to describe all the changes of Mt. Fuji throughout the year. It is no exaggeration to say that we can never see the same mountain twice at any time. Mt. Fuji is truly a wonder of natural creation.

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At home with Fuji

Spring, summer, autumn, winter

For the past four years.

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Spotless like silk cloth,

Mt. Fuji purifies my heart

Through and through.

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Mt. Fuji afloat —

A line of geese above it

Departing in the mist.

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The long rain lifting,

Mt. Fuji emerges from clouds

In its light-blue garb.

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The winter solstice —

Sun drops down to Mt. Fuji

Sinking behind its peak.

Things spring

Went to Niagara Falls and Washington, DC last week with 18 Japanese, as their translator and America-interpreter: “What is that building over there?”, “Why doesn’t this place have chopsticks?”, and more. Pleasure first at the Falls, then work in the capital. In Canada, I saw no sakura, and the Niagara River down-falls was frozen into huge blocks of ice. Cold indeed. However, in Washington, it was mid-National Cherry Blossom Festival, and them pink things were everywhere. Fabulous. A lot of rain, but none of it in the downpour mode, thank goodness. I couldn’t find the time to write, so on the flight back (13 hours, not one movie worth watching, so it was United’s channel 9 all the way) I penned these, then reworked them at home.

Lincoln and I and rain;

he’s gone, I anon,

sakura forever

Indeed, the Lincoln Monument is fantastic, a must see.

pink views in raintime

the Mall, the art, the power

all bow to sakura

The Tidal Basin is the place to see ten million petals in one glance, but the view from the Mall is equally amazing.

Here is a haiku of the sort which can be read in any line order you please:

in the pink

a light rain

my heart sings

my eyes shine

springtime sakura.

This haiku could take place anywhere in the world where there’s a cherry tree:

petals whorl ’round me

wind caressed, rain kissed,

look up, pink turning to green

It marks the end of the pink season. Returning to Kyoto, I am just in time to see its version of the season, and found this on my lips:

old capital’s, new capital’s

sakura, awesome

all the same

spring blues

the cherry blossom party rescheduled. the trees aren’t cooperatingーthey haven’t come to a consensus. the city has hung lanterns in the supposedly good locations; but for now, the decorations look better than what is expected of the scenery.

morning rainー

wild ducks standing

in the shallow river

Haibun-in-progress

WHEELS INTO WINGS

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First breath of spring. Cycling down the Katsura River; wisps of green willows coming out. I’m winding through a stretch of illegal allotments when, descending from above towards me, it zo-o-o-o-oms over my head: a motor paraglider! Banks twice sharply … and drops down into an empty ground. I turn my bicycle around and race back.

A crowd of five – one, a dog – has gathered there. We watch him switch off the fan motor on his back, unclip and then lay out the red and white sail. 35 kilograms for the motor pack, and not much extra for the parachute and strings: this is what I’m told. His name – he dropped into my life – Mr. Fukiage, meaning ‘Blown Aloft’. I receive a card from a smiley face with greyish hair and give him mine. He immediately seems to expect of me discipleship. He’ll call me before the next paraglide rally, so I can try it out. I thank him and cycle back upstream, imagining I am flying along above myself looking down.

Outside the homeless person’s hut

both cat and crow asleep -

spring dust

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~≈~

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A fortnight later, at my computer, editing photos of a fly-tipping site: the phone rings. Mr. Blown-Aloft says he should be at the river ground at 3:30-ish. The spokes of my bicycle wheels glint in the sun of a cherry-blossom day. I’m almost there, when suddenly, as an angel with long, long wings slightly bent, he swoops out from behind a tree-top, and rises fast over my head to 100 feet. Did he see me wave? I cycle on. When I get to the ground, he’s already on his landing approach, specially for me.

Straps are tugged and adjusted to better fit my larger frame. And now I have all the strings in my hands, coded into clusters of red and yellow and blue. Through tugs of the inflating sail I can become my own marionette! But what of the wind? Mr. Blown-Aloft has planted his own pole-top windsock on a grassy bank at the edge of the ground. “Watch it!”, he says. It begins to swim. But B-A tells me too much and all at once – and, time and again the nylon fills, tugging me upwards, only for one tip of my wing to inexplicably wilt, upset the balance, causing the parachute to rear up on its end, before collapsing to the ground in a limp tangle, which my teacher kindly realigns.

Then, once – just once – the sail fills evenly, and with a tug on the blue ropes, I hold it straight. What young eagles on their cliff-side eyrie must feel when they stand with their downy wings open testing an updraft, I now feel leaning back with all my strings tautened by the wind. It would only be a hop to travel 50 yards or more. One hand on my harness, Mr. Blown-Aloft holds me back.

Cycling over the bridge

… the lights turn green:

… … it sped on ahead,

the first swallow!

heisei 20 blues

the traditional-style japanese houses on my block seem to be quickly demolished as soon as they’re sold. reduced to lots big enough to squeeze two or three prefabs onto them. young familes are snapping them up.

in the unfriendly neighbor’s yard

the plum blossoms

have fallen

expat blues

the raw fish can be simply mouthwatering when it’s eaten in the right season. white rice and noodles are among the staple foods. certain rice wine, when it’s chilled in the summer, and warmed in the winter, can be heavenly. six years ago i got married here; started a family…

the pacific ocean between us

phone calls to my parents

fewer & fewer

Longing for spring

This Ides of March warmth bids us to awake at last, accompanied by the nightingale’s mating song, to the Season Most Desired. Years back, remember? In April, Kyoto had snow. Amazingly beautiful, for its unusualness as well as for its briefness: melted away in hours. Loved it. This year, I will view the cherry blossoms as usual; but not in Kyoto by the banks of the mighty Kamo. Because of business in America’s capital, will be sipping Milwaukee’s finest beneath the boughs brought from Meiji (?) to Washington. (From Korea, if truth be known.) They had some very nice cherry saplings to give away.

Am reading a book now about when Japan was a colony of Paekche, in the 5th and 6th centuries. No haiku then, so here is one to make up for it:

horseriders we were;

fearing none, gave iron for land

and disdain.

Well, it’s a start. Not much reliable information from back then, tho we can guess that the natives were somewhat glad to have the visitors around, teaching how to throw pots, smelt gold, bang out brass. Poetry is everywhere.

Amanohashidate Redux

last november a few members of the hailstone haiku circle took a weekend trip to amanohashidate. though i was unable to join them, i reminisced, in spiritual companionship, about the experiences i had when i visited this place, which is thought to be one of the top three scenic views in japan. a clunky train got me there.

the sky darkensー

deep snow

in the mountainside cemetery

after a short walk to get a preliminary feel of the atmosphere i found a cozy room at a ryokan, ate dinner, drank lots of warm sake.

rotenburo for twoー

talk of the distance

between the stars

the next day i began my exploration…

new crutches

for a towering pineー

the bridge to heaven

Winter visitations

Two days ago, I returned to Kyoto from New Zealand. Suddenly, the sultry southern-hemispheric days have been replaced with an insidious chill that I only notice when I set out on my bike to replenish my larder, and decide it is too late to return for a pair of gloves.

Someone has been using my house while I’ve been away, and although they have made an effort to remove the traces of their presence, my house as it was five weeks ago remains like a snapshot in my head, and I notice with a start where the lamp has been unplugged, the sofa moved back, a curtain caught in the sliding window. And in the garden there are traces of another visitation:

returning to my Kyoto garden

long stalks bowed to the hard ground

the long-gone snow