Monday, May 30, 2011

434. A Chinese Poem



As a young man listening to the girls
in a tower, I heard the sound of the rain,
while the red candle burnt dim in the damp air.
In middle age, travelling by boat on a river,
I listened to the rain falling, falling:
the river was wide and clouds drifted above.
I heard the solitary cry of a teal borne on the west wind.
And now in a cloister cell I hear the rain again.
My hair is grey and sparse: sadness and happiness,
separation and reunion, all seem one, they move
me no more. Let the rain come falling, falling

on deserted pavements until the day dawns.

-- Jung Jeh, 10th century

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

433. The Conversion to Islam of Conor Mac Art (part 5)


Tá sé an mná nach olc, na mná go maith,
a dhéanamh, dar leat mar fear


November, 1563

Yardım et, yardım et Effendi! Genç kız ağrısı vardır!!
O for God's sake, what now? Yardım et, yardım et !
She was a young girl, trembling, not unattractive,
the principal handmaid to the alluring Yasmin Nur.

I swore. Ne diyorsun? Never mind. Is she sick?
No, no, she has a terrible pain in her little white foot.
Her little white foot. Seven hundred people in this caravan
and this girl has a pain in her little white foot.

Onu bana getir! Şimdi Şimdi! ... Evet, evet. B'duymak ve itaat!
Bring her to me, now. Yes, yes, go away ... . I have enough bloody
trouble without these silly women, the pair of them
tacked on to this serious mission at the very last moment.

This serious mission. Just what in the hell am I doing, tell me?
The Sultan called me in, spoke softly, opaquely, sent me off
in charge of 300 camels, said he would send messengers
and so far hasn't done so. Bert sharpens his killing sword.

I didn't want to bring him. I never wanted to see him again,
but here he is, leering, growling, grumbling, fussing about,
picking his nose. I give him a lash up the arse, distractedly,
just as the women walk in. Two young women. Silence.

She is ... like nothing I have ever seen before
in all the days of my young and nerve-plucked life:
she is covered of course as custom demands
but the fall of her robes sets off a perfect figure.

A slight embarrassment occurs between my thighs,
so I sit down abruptly, cross my legs (ouch!),
and attempt a very lordly masterful languid tone
which to my shame comes out as a squeak:

Nerede acı nedir? ... where, pray tell, is your pain ?
Ağrı benim ayak bileği içinde ... here in my ankle.
Ah, the ankle. A very delicate portion of the female anatomy,
and then I remember my Granny, by God I remember!

Suí síos le do thoil!
... no, sorry, I mean Lütfen oturun!
and immediately she sits like an obedient child,
a child with a burning blaze in her greygreen eyes.
Greygreen? Warning!! Circassian, a concubine?

Granny, ah, yes. Bert! Sah! Bring in a female goat!
One goat, as ordered, female, present and correct, sah!
Milk her into this bowl then slit her throat. Sah??
Give me your blade, poltroon, I'll do it myself.

He hands me his sharpened sword with cautious eyes,
knowing he could do this killing business a lot better,
but I do it myself, and mix the blood with milk in the bowl,
now I need to piss into the mixture, according to Granny,

but how can I do that with this goggle-eyed murderer
staring at me? Jesus! Not to mention the two women.
Depart please, all of you, I need privacy and time to pray.
Out they go. I piss like a racehorse. That should do.

Now, the next thing is to lick it on. I stir the mixture.
God, it looks vile! Out, out, please, we must be alone!
I take a firm grasp of the lady's ankle, slap on a handful
and start licking the mixture home. Ooooh, oooh she says.

That should do it! I smile. Yarın daha iyi hissedeceksiniz!
You will feel better tomorrow. She trembles, she smiles.
Bert comes bursting back in to reclaim his razor sword
and the handmaiden hustles the limping Yasmin Nur away.

Wanna wotch that koinda thing, sir, know what I mean?
Get out of my sight you grinning reptile. Go, disappear!
But I knew he was right. Omigod that slim lovely ankle.
I knew I would dream about it, dream of all of her as well.

Eileen was gone and long forgotten. Her and the wee children.
Ireland seemed distant, so very far away in time. Damn your soul,
Shane O Neill, damn your black and murderous soul. I wept.
In a little while I felt only slightly better. We moved into Syria.

And then: Yardım et, yardım et, Genç kız ağrısı vardır!!
Bring her to me. Goat, milk, knife ... slice ... get out! Piss.
The pain is a bit higher now, my knee. Oh, your poor knee?
Let's just see what we can do. Oh, Hakim, nice my doktor!

Don't like the feel avit, mate, not this country arahnd.
I am not your mate. Orright, orright, keep your shirt on!
Bangin that little Circassian bit, then, the boss's little bint?

What the hell has come over you, you little shit?

Oooh, sorry, sorry, boss. Gonna be havin' a bit of a do then?
He's right. We are going to be attacked. All the signs are there.
The pain is moving up beyond my knee, yes, here ... and here?
O Granny you never knew what you were leading me into ....

They came down at first light, as usual, attacks on the flanks,
Bedouin horsemen, misaimed muskets and lots of noise.
I called for a circle, shouted commands, Bert was fast and efficient
and it was only the edges they over-ran, and they threw the heads

at us, the heads of our unfortunate comrades, their tribal way
of putting the fear of God into their enemies. I called for the cannon
which took a time to unload from the spooked braying camels
and then we blew them to bits. A touch of modern warfare.

In the middle of the confusion, before we were sure we would win,
Bert looked at me with a devilish smile and stroked his blade.
I knew of course what he meant. I had fought and done what I could.
I could have done more but I made my way to her tent

for I had but a single thought in my mind if I was to die,
or at least in the last few minutes if I really had to die,
I was going to ... and it turned out she had the same idea as me,
and in the end we did not die but achieved... a separate victory!



But if the Sultan finds out, or if anyone finds out ...
why is Bert, that bloodstained idiot, grinning?

Sunday, May 08, 2011

432. The Conversion to Islam of Conor Mac Art (part 4)

An Comhshó a Ioslam de Conchubhair Mac Airt



October, 1563

Is féidir le fir mór agus is minic a ríthe a bhás tú

'Tis a glorious great thing to be young and alive,
to be in possession of your heart and liver and lungs,
feet and hands, ears and eyes and lips and teeth, and ...
taking a quick glance at the blubbery Yoonix beyond,
some other things as well! Hup, get a move on, Bert,
arse in gear, yeh fat oul bowzy, get a move on!

Orrightorrightfackincominthenainttoi?
Trot, trot me oul' segoshia, earn your bleedin wages!
Wyjess? Wotfackinwygessthenseeinasowyounevah ...
Tut, tut Bertie Boy, you've been stealing me blind,
and look at the belly on you hanging over your belt!
Any lip out of you, and it's back to the galleys you go!

I gave him a kick up the arse by way of punctuation,
for I'd seen the way he'd chopped off heads on the slaver.
I wasn't about to give this murderous little tyke an inch,
for he'd be quick to go back to his lethal practiced ways.
I was his present saviour and he knew it, but even so,
I chained him to the wall each night like a rabid dog.

Being in fine fettle, I gave him another good boot
just to remind him what was what, then went strolling,
very large and wide, shoving all the civilians to the side
with a pleasant smile, benevolent in my yellow pantaloons,
my green crushed velvet jacket all festooned with pistols,
and a great white turban topped with a pink feather.

O God, wasn't I the fine lad, stepping high with a lovely smile?
'Twas a far cry I was from the sheep and the goats of Connemara,
and the way they'd be looking at you, the brown eyes on them,
with their jaws half-hanging down, just waiting for the Latin.
I was a grand scholar of the Latin, but it's the Turkish tongue
I'll need presently, at the stern request of the Sultan Himself!

You have six months within which you will learn our language,
he'd told me in his mildly diffident, cold-eyed manner, after which
you will be required to take an examination. It would not be
in your best interests to fail this examination, you do understand?
I understood him all too well, The Old Boy has a sense of humour.
He plans to let Bert wield the sword if I fail to meet his standard.

God knows it's a frightful bloody language, difficult and perplexing,
every nuance and modification tacked on to the same word root,
but none of the logical clear inflections of the Greek and the Irish.
It's subtle, not a bit like the Bearla (English) which is why fat Bert,
my probable executioner, after fifteen years among these people,
knows only gutter words for drink and whores. The Sultan knows this.

This frightens me. He is a more subtle killer than Shane O Neill, perhaps
more dangerous. A shudder passes over me on this bright sunny day
as I stride along the broad streets in my bright yellow pantaloons,
not the sort of thing (I smile) you'd be doing often in the County Tyrone
where even the sheep and the goats would be looking at you askance!
Here it's the most normal thing. I laugh. Cheer up. It will be all right!

My mammy always said I had a lovely way of soothing people,
even as a wee babby, when I'd be pulling the tail off of the cat
or shoving my sister into the fire. I had a way, she said, of making
evil people smile, so that they'd lose the urge and will to kill me.
That was before I had met mad-eyed Shane O Neill. The very thought
of him frightens me even now, never mind the cold-eyed bloody Sultan!

I had to run off to France because Shane was of a mind to kill me,
but I've already told you of that. Some poisoned words, even though
we'd been together at the court of the pale peculiar English Queen ...
and didn't he move like lightning, as always, and spear one of her lapdogs
with one of his hidden daggers (one of the many they never found)
and drink the blood of the poor squealing beast while looking at her?

He smiled at the Queen all the while, smiling through his red teeth,
and didn't she clap her hands, eyes locked, and smile back at him?
There was a pair of them in it. And I knew in that moment as the chill
froze my ears to my skull, that there would be cruel war between us,
and that I had no safety in Ireland while this madman Shane was alive.
I was on the boat from Galway, later, when his killers came calling.

Following certain events in France, I went to cousin Rodrigo in Spain
for a few healing months on horseback, roving around the estancia,
shared for several quiet centuries in a long entwined family connection.
All this ruaile buaile with the Turks might never have happened
if I'd listened to Rodrigo, and never taken the wine cargo to Sicilia.
But I did, and we were fallen upon by a fleet of Turkish pirates.

The Sultan suddenly calls for me in the morning. Bert! Sah? Coffee!
(This is a most refreshing drink; I think it would taste better with sugar.)
Is this the examination? I'm only three months in, where are my notes?
We hasten away. There are five circles of gates at the Topkapi Palace,
each more closely-guarded than the last. Bert was thrust aside, glowering,
ouside Gate Two, half-hoping ... hoping what? I was escorted inside.

Allah barış, sen genç adam olmak. Sana sağlıklı olacağını umuyorum?
Sire! I answered the Sultan nervously, in a highly polite form of language.
Not at all bad, Conor, but I think you still have some distance to go.
But, Sire, you said six months! ... a languid hand. Never mind that now.
I have something entirely different in mind for you at the moment.
Have you ever heard of an ancient city by the name of Yerushallem?

Yerra-what, Sire? Is ...is this some place you'd expect me to know about?
O, I think I would. We both know, Conor, you were once a Christian.
He smiled an icy smile. My mind started racing, I told myself calm down,
this is not Shane O Neill, Shane would cut your throat and then kiss you,
but ... but this fellow only has to lift his finger and .... a city? Yeru, yerra,
shallem, shalom, what in the name of God is he talking about?

I have a mission for you, said the Sultan. It is of the utmost importance.
I want you to go to this city.

(to be continued)

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

431. US Forces Murder bin Laden ... Does it Matter?


Probably not. The arch-criminal who has lurked behind the American state of frustration and psychological alienation from that fifth of the world’s population who follow the religion of Islam is dead. In a way that’s good. The Demon King is dead. That still leaves about a billion people who might not have the same reaction. Americans seem to be happy, waving flags and doing their mindless USA USA chants. That’s what people do when they live in America. Back in the 1930s the Germans used to do the same thing with different flags and different chants, in accordance with pretty much the same set of emotions. The difference is this: if you get politically over-excited overseas you are a nationalist (ever and always a bad thing), but if you get hysterical in America you are praised as a patriot.

So what does it mean? Not much, really.

What has changed? Is Al-Quaeda finished, the whole movement destroyed? The simple answer is no. Bin Laden has been no more than a figurehead for the last number of years. There is no evidence that he was the real planner behind the 9/11 attacks. The Taliban government asked America to prove it back in 2002 and America attacked the country instead. We don’t talk to ragheads.

They were after bin Laden for previous attacks on their embassies in Africa. Was he responsible for that? Yes, more than likely.

Was he an innocent guy? Absolutely not. He was at war with the United States.

Why?

Same stuff again and again and again. There was no secret about it. It’s one thing to disagree with the guy but it’s impossible to say he didn’t make his opinions clear. Nothing was hidden, he came out and said it.

He wanted to restore the Khallifat, the historical Muslim rule over the Mediterranean basin, including southern Spain (the lost lands) but with no sense of what those intelligent tolerant southern kingdoms had actually been all about. He wanted to bring in a Wahhabi blanket over the whole Muslim world, a thing that a lot of Muslims in outlying areas would rather do without. He wanted to impose Muslim rule over the world because Islam was the only true religion. He wanted to reverse the shame of the last two centuries in which European and then American power had overshadowed the Muslim world. He wanted to recreate an idealized world of the past that, historically, probably never existed.

The popular demonstrations and uprisings across the Arab world in the last few months are a total repudiation of nearly every one of bin Laden’s ideas. These are national movements for principles of freedom and democracy, entirely modern in intent, and with no throwback to any thought of an Islamic khallifat. None. Bin Laden remains a bit of a T-shirt hero because he stood up to the West, attacked them (when nobody else had the balls to do so), but very few young and not so young educated people in the modern Arab world believe in the weird old-fashioned world he believed in and wanted to recreate. They don’t. The guy is a hero, sure, in a setting where there are so few heroes to crow about, but he comes out of the 10th or 11th century : an amazing warrior, a shaheed, but not quite what we need now .... the fact that he died in a blaze of gunfire is going to add to his mythical status, his position in the pantheon of Arab heroes, standing slightly to the side of the great Salah-ad-Din: dead heroes are the best kind in every culture. Being dead they're not going to come up with something new, embarrassing, or unexpected


Salah-ad-Din. Saladin. Respect, awe, reverence. Dropped his clogs 800 years ago. A person of great charm and courtly benevolence but at the same time a shrewd and gifted general. He threw the Crusaders out of Jerusalem. This, not surprisingly, is part of the ongoing problem in a deeply unsettled and unstable political culture. Apart from Mustafa Kemal (Ataturk) viewed by many in the Muslim world as an apostate, with good reasons for doing so, it's tough to have to go back so many years to find a person everyone can agree to admire.

Next we need to take a look at the knotty question of "justice". President Obama spoke in measured tones in the wake of what was little more than an assassination, a calculated hit. This was better than what we could have expected from his predecessor who would have been punching the air, beaming from ear to ear, recreating his role as a Yale cheerleader. But this was not justice. Justice involves courts and laws, charges laid down, a defence, a judge and a jury. Osama was simply blown away and apparently dumped in the sea. This has nothing to do with justice. It’s just a question of getting rid of a guy you you don’t like. Back in the 1920s the Chicago Mob used to do this all the time.

So where does that place the US government? Hard to say.

Better to bump him off than put him in court? After all, who knows what he might say about CIA connections during the Afghan war. That’s probably why Saddam Hussein was turned over to an Iraqi kangaroo court before he could spill the beans on where the gas he used on the Kurds came from (Germany and the USA) and his relationship with Donny Rumsfeld. Certain things we just don’t need to hear about. The general public will never understand the ins and outs of statecraft, so better not to bother their potentially troublesome little heads.

Osama is gone. Blown away, in fact. I don’t think he was a very good man. He was an exceedingly dangerous character who, directly or indirectly, caused the deaths of a large number of people, most of them Arabs and Afghans. I am not entirely convinced he was the presiding genius behind the 9/11 attacks in the USA but he came out and approved of them in a video and for that reason alone he stands condemned as a killer. When he comes face-to-face with the God he proclaims to believe in, the God he claims to have been acting for ( 'Hello, God.' -- 'Hello, Osama,' : this could be happening right now as we speak) he might come in for a bit of a shock. God will haul off and slap him.

Guardian (UK) Obituary

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

430. The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt (Part 3)

An Comhshó a Ioslam de Conchubhair Mac Airt

Saol agus an chiall atá deacair.
Níl an Bás.



September, 1563

I took all the necessary vows
with my tongue held firmly in cheek
and thus became a bashibazouk.
I could see no other way.

From slavery and from chains removed
I became again a proud young warrior
with a devilish assortment of weapons
and, I fear, outlandish clothing.

I must confess I looked rather fine.
I would stop then and again by a mirror
and stroke my fierce moustachios
while striking a fearsome pose.

Restored to my natural position
it did not take me long to visit the docks
and search out that Cockney turncoat
who fell to his knees before me.

I was an officer, he was nothing, I had
a crowd of murderous troops around me
and he fell to whining: Omagawdsofackinsorrysir!
A laugh came unbidden: turns of fate are sweet.

Tell me your name, you frightful English cur!
Muggins, sir, Albert Muggins, sir, Bert for short.
Very well, Muggins, gather your kit,
you are now my valet and personal slave.

I must say he took it rather well. In the weeks
and many months to come he showed rather willing,
with a conscientious tradesman’s air about him,
until the time of his ultimate fatal decision.

One cannot really trust the English, of whatever class,
they bear the canker of the Germans from whom they descend:
in triumph they will murder your wife and children,
in defeat they will sob and groan and hug your knees.

They are dull doughty defenders but not real warriors.
We have seen this time and time again. They win and lose
their many wars, not from audacity, but from simply hanging on,
and this has proved to be wonderfully successful.

The world despises and dislikes them, as if it matters,
for they will never rise above their narrow island confines
nor mount any form of empire, the thought is entirely
ludicrous, beginning with a forthcoming defeat in Ireland.

Shane, if I know him, will bash their bloody brains out,
just as I fear, presently, he would treat my brains as well.
In the meantime I look upon this creature Albert Muggins,
give him a kick up the arse, enforcing our change in fortunes.

He is a weaselly, grovelling, dungbeetle of a creature,
often found in the environs of a London district called Ealing
where ailing grandmothers with coins under their mattresses
need iron bars on the windows to keep their grandsons out.

The Gibbard family of the area are well known for marauding
on the poor and the helpless and orphans and widows,
a greedy ferocious clan of depradations and occasional poetry,
handed down, it would seem, from generation to generation.

Albert Muggins – Bert – took a shine to his duties, crookedly-toothing
his smiles, saying, Tankgawdyewcymealongsirbloodywytingsooiwoz!
Then along before long came the delicate problem of Yasmin Nur:
almond-eyed young second concubine to the Captain of the Guard …


The decipherment process is going on steadily but slowly under the direction of Professor Uchiyama and his team, scraping and dissolving away the cowshit of centuries, but there is a real and catastrophic possibility of a reduction in funds and possible termination of the project owing to the March 11 massive earthquake in Japan. We can only hope the project will continue.



Thursday, April 21, 2011

429. The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt (part 2)

An Comhshó a Ioslam de Conchubhair Mac Airt



Creideamh ar ár n-aithreacha,
creideamh naofa !!

Beidh muid fíor dhuit go héag.

August, 1563 

There’s not all that much to it, you sad Irish infidel,
said Sullivan the Magnificent, his eyes twinkling.
He was a most remarkable man, of quite small stature,
but of great presence, eyes like a hawk, a mind like a razor.
From the Sirkeci slave market down the hill from the palace
I had been dragged before him in chains, bedraggled,
but considerably cleaned up since the trip from Cyprus.

It was the flute I had brought from dear old Connemara
that had caused hesitation in the hard cruel Turks,
who, like all cruel people, were maudlin at heart.
They cried copiously when drunk, mourned sadly the loss of love,
much as we do in Ireland. And this, I think had saved me
on that hellish bloody voyage after the pirates had taken us
and beheadings had become their daily recreation.

I take it you believe in God, said the Great Sullivan,
which is the only important matter. All the rest is mere
conformity to the customs and habits of the people around you.
I cannot relieve you from your present condition, nor can I
offer you a position and salary, even though I am the Sultan,
the Padmishah, the Ruler of the World, etc., etc., and you
my dear are not undeserving … unless you convert to Islam.

It’s a matter of rationality, he continued, precious little
of which exists in this world. Nevertheless, I tend to believe
you are an intelligent man. Your music is pleasant enough
but there are other reasons I have decided to save you.
I thought of Saint Patrick and the holy martyrs and the priests
and the more I thought of the priests, dirty beggars, the more
I began to listen to what this shrewd old man was telling me.

Religion is a form of celestial politics, a shadow of the real,
it exists in constant opposition to any humanly established State
which much find some accommodation with it to survive.
I stared at the old man, goggle-eyed. What was he telling me?
Although Islam is the true religion, he blithely continued,
I think all religions are no more than regional creations, otherwise
the whole world would have the same beliefs. And it doesn’t.

Conor, he said, not unkindly. You are a stranger in a strange land
(we were talking in Latin, the only language we both understood)
but I may have need of you. You will kindly convert to Islam.
Otherwise you will be of no use to me whatsoever. I will throw you back
whence you came (a steely gaze) and you will not last a week.
Well, that was true enough. The philosophical bit of the talk
shrank down by comparison. I was led away to a scented sleeping chamber ...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(The thoughts of our hero are still being deciphered from the recovered documents. Cowshit from the byre in Armagh has its preservative factors but it takes ages and ages to scrape and dissolve it away).

Suleiman the Magnificent: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suleiman_the_Magnificent
_________________

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

428. The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt

An Comhshó a Ioslam de Conchubhair Mac Airt

Páris, tar éis an tsaoil,
is fiú go mór Aifreann.



July, 1563

Satisfied, then, you bloody barstid?
said the man, a slip of drool running down his stubbled chin.
The weather is rather cool for May, I carefully replied,
in my newly acquired store of words in the clattering tongue
of the English, distressing sounds designed I believe
to make one's mouth feel unclean. I was aware it was July
and blistering hot, but I did not have the words at the time
to convey my sympathetic meaning. Bloody barstid, satis - THUNK
and his severed head bounced once or twice on the deck,
wild staring blue eyes, the bits of drool quite perfectly in place.
It was extremely well done, no hesitation or nonsense about it.
Fakkyehbleedinahrishkantya!
said the beheading Turk, turban slightly askew, his eyes
half-yellow, half-green gooseberries popping out at me.
The weather is rather cool for May, I informed him.
Wotchitmyteyawannabenekstorwotorright?
I realised the creature was speaking English.
Stonafakkingrowsgeddafahkahyavvit!
he growled at me, slinging me down into the hold below,
where I lingered, shit-stained, hungry and miserable,
for three or seven days, when we came to a place called Cyprus.

One of the things I grew to like about the Turks
was that they either kissed you or killed you,
and although not kissable, not then, they held off
on the killing and drenched me down with buckets of water,
there on the dock, in front of a gaggle of tittering hooded women
accompanied by great big blubbery characters
whom I later learned were known as Yoonix
having had their - their parts removed. I was beginning to think
the Turks could be cruel when they put their minds to the task,
and so I said to myself, I said, don't go playing the eejit.
I managed a courtly smile and an elegant bend of the knee,
rather well done under the prevailing circumstances,
but was brought to sudden order by a slap on the back of the head.
I was to learn you can willy the women to your heart's content,
but you cannot, MAY not talk to them, a rigid rule I was to break
on more than one occasion: Yasmin Nur, my soul, Yasmin ...

Yes, well, I'm getting ahead of myself as we say in Connemara,
where the sheep would be looking at you for forms of religious guidance.
I suppose you might be asking yourselves, and murmuring with your wives,
why a fine young buchaill like myself, a scion of the sons of Ulaidh,
sometime friend and companion to our late great chieftain Shane O Neill,
a gentleman of arts and parts, with pigs and cattle to his name,
(until they were robbed away from me, God blast the black souls),
should be shivering and covered in shit in Cyprus? Shrewd questions.
You will remember from a previous account my cousin Rodrigo ....

Here the manuscript abruptly ends. We are searching for the additional papers found only recently by Professor Takeshi Uchiyama and his team of researchers from Kyoto University, led on by hints in obscure Chinese imperial records. The successful search led to a cow byre in southern County Armagh, formerly a Norman keep of the 13th century, mined until recently by unsympathetic members of HM military forces bravely suppressing the local women and children.

Friday, April 15, 2011

427. The Temporary Exile of Conor MacArt

Tá an Deoraíocht Sealadach na Conchubhair Mac Airt

An marc an uasal na hÉireann é --
leagann an-bhreá ach neamhaird de bróga. *




November 1562 - February 1563

It was either murder or the cold shoulder
when one crossed the path of Shane O Neill,
and thus I hurriedly hied me off to France
before the latter became the former

in the twenty-third year of my youth,
with angry bailiffs battering at the door
and my wife Eileen was in floods of tears
as the cows and the pigs were driven away

and the children as well, not to be sold
or eaten, or not at once, but sent to the cousins
who would happily hold this against me forever
in the way all strongood Irish families do.

It was a joy to speak Latin in France
with the learned men of Rouen and Grenoble,
to discourse on Ariosto and the Nine Commandments,
the fifth never having quite caught on in Ireland

and to have blood-red wine not made from nettles
and cheese not pressed from the udders of goats,
and one slipped into one’s weary bed of an evening
warmed by the breasts of the live-in language teacher.

I made remarkable progress in their pouting tongue,
a slurry Latin spoken with fingers and shoulders,
and I rode in the Tuilleries with the haut de haut monde,
they on horses and me, well-shod, on a Connemara pony

for all the world to gaze and wonder and stroke their chins
so that even the King sent his young men to call on me,
as that foul evil knave of an English Ambassador
eyed me coldly, and sent over a cask of poisoned wine

which put an end to the language teacher, a pleasant wench,
voluble, affectionate, but a wee bit too fond of a drop,
and so I decamped thereafter for the shores of Spain,
to cousin Rodrigo and his sunny vineyards in the South.




* The ignored mark of the Irish nobility - a very fine set of shoes.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

426. The Diplomatic Mission of Conor MacArt

An Chuairt Taidhleoireachta na Conchubhair Mac Airt
Aisteach go raibh sí agus contúirteacha,
bean le fear éigin eile.



 January, 1562

I have a strong dislike for boats and the sea,
bare planks between your soul and perdition,
with wind and the rain adding to the sorrow.

Hours and hours we spent on the ocean
with the cattle moaning in childlike fear below
and myself moaning likewise above them.

We came to Bristol, a town of the English,
a marvellous great city of well-dressed people
very happy and pleased with themselves.

We had horses to hire for the road to London
on the further side of the kingdom, we stayed
at villainous flea-ridden inns all along that weary road.

London, my dear, makes Dublin look like a village
with all its tall houses pushed together, leaning
on one another, its sights and its sounds and smells.

We came to the court, at a place called Hampton,
a sturdy stone palace by the side of the river
and there the Queen came out to meet us.

She is a frail looking woman of middle years,
very white in the face and enormously prepared
in her dress and visage to meet the day.

Very grand did she look but quite kind withal
as her courtiers clucked and fussed around her.
We were asked to leave our swords and axes behind.

The discussion was long and polite but wearisome.
These people do not understand us; I think we
need to prepare ourselves for the coming war.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Not quite entirely fictional since there is a precedent with Granuaile, the pirate queen:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grace_O%27Malley#Meeting_with_Elizabeth
And, somewhat earlier (upon which this poem is based) the visit of Shane O'Neill in 1562:
Accompanied by the Irish Earls of Ormonde and Kildare, he reached London on 4 January 1562. William Camden describes the wonder which O'Neill's wild gallowglasses occasioned in the English capital, with their heads bare, their long hair falling over their shoulders and clipped short in front above the eyes, and clothed in rough yellow shirts.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shane_O%27Neill

Thursday, April 07, 2011

425. The Death Poem of Conor MacArt



An Dán Bás Conchubhair Mac Airt

Tá mo chroí bánú.
I bhfuil cónaí lá fada agus leisciúil.
I mo óige a bhí mé ghaiscíoch,
I meán-aois a bhí mé comhairleoir,
I seanaoise mé díomá.

My heart is fading.
My days were long and lazy.
In my youth I was a warrior,
in middle age a counsellor,
in old age a disgrace.

--------------------------------

The Japanese warrior class (侍: samurai) had a tradition of writing death poems known as Jisei no ku: 辞世の句, often before committing ritual suicide to expiate some breach of honour. In Ireland, as usual, we do things differently. This is not a translation (well, obviously it has been translated) but a first attempt to write an original poem in Irish. I'm waving at you, somewhat forlornly, before a mountain of outraged pedantry falls down on me .... but not here, I hope.

Link to Jisei no ku (Wikipedia): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_poem

Saturday, April 02, 2011

424. Child in Time


Four-year-old Manami Kon sleeps after writing a letter to her mother, who was swept away by tsunami in Miyako, Iwate Prefecture. The little girl said late last month that she would write to her mother, and spreading a notebook on a kotatsu table at the home of relatives she spent nearly an hour writing: "Dear Mommy, I hope you are alive. Are you well?" Manami's father and younger sister also remain unaccounted for.

Manami chan,
the sea took your mama away
and she lives in heaven now
with dada and your sister.

You are alive, sweet girl,
and I think you may not believe
in life, in your solitary survival,
as the years march on.

People will forget.
They always do.

You will think, many times,
better to have joined them,
to have shared their fate, why,
why should I be spared?

Was there a reason?
Probably not.

The gods of all countries
play dice with human lives,
inhumanly laughing. And so,
Manami, all of four years,
I think you will learn
to dispense with these gods

for they are not needed.

There are people in the world
you do not even know, people
from countries you have
never even heard of, places
like India, Australia, Luxembourg,
Pakistan, Ireland, Sikkim,
whose hearts go out to you.

They will try to send you money,
a thing nice people do, wringing their hands,
willing and useless, wistfully helpless.

Some Americans will try to adopt you.
Be sure to avoid that. Go to school.
Get a job that will help other people,
always stay in Japan. Have children.
Remember your mother.

Friday, March 25, 2011

423. Love, Rain on Me


When all the flash boys
have departed, packed up their
gutter language and departed the scene,
leaving behind those broken pint glasses,
discarded syringes, used condoms,
I will turn to you, my darling, here
in this graffitti-stricken car park
and speak of Euripides, the man
who foretold it all, the future world
he never lived to see. Your eyes
glaze over, you want to speak of love

as if a man and a woman
can lose themselves in each other
and set the world aside
now and forever.

Suicide, I think,
is one response;
marriage another.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

422. Japan Quake (with updates)


As usual it came along without any warning. I had left the house that afternoon to drive up to the Honda factory where I was teaching a daily intensive. The class was scheduled to begin at 2 pm. My student and I had settled into a tatami room at the Training Center and were 45 minutes into the lesson when the light fixtures started shaking. Soon we could feel the movement rising up through the mats but it didn't seem all that bad at the time. It did go on for quite a long time, though, about 3 or 4 minutes, which in my experience of earthquakes over here was far longer than usual. Generally you will feel a jolt and the movement will last 30 seconds or so. My student and I left the room for the lobby of the building where we immediately turned on the TV. All stations had switched over to emergency reports as they do in Japan: this country experiences something like 20% of all worldwide earthquakes and tremors and their response is immediate. My student made a few calls on his cellphone (the local networks had not been affected) and told me he had to report back to his office, and could I wait for him? He later called to say he would be held up and the lesson was cancelled. I drove home. There were no signs of damage anywhere and the traffic flow was the same as usual.


Back at the house I followed the reports coming through on TV. It soon became apparent that the quake had been a lot bigger than I had realized. Locally the quake had registered as a Level 5 on the Richter scale (which is not all that terrible by Japanese standards) but at the epicentre about 600 km to the north, off the eastern coast near Sendai, it was reported as a Level 8.8 which made it the largest quake ever recorded in Japan since records began about a century ago.


The images coming through on TV made it apparent that the destruction had been massive in areas of the north with fears of a tsunami to come. Casualties in the early reports were placed at 40 people or so, rising later to about 60. It was to get much much worse as the later tsunami reports started to come in.


Casualty reports soon mounted into the hundreds as reports of massive waves along the Tohoku coast came in as well as fires and collapsing buildings as far south as the Tokyo area. Pedestrians in some cities were shown dodging debris falling down from highrise buildings. A nuclear reactor in Fukushima was reported as severely damaged. Police reported recovering several hundred bodies from the coastline near Sendai.


Now several ships have been reported missing as well as four trains that were travelling along the northeastern coastal route. As news continues to come in the magnitude of the destruction and the numbers of those feared dead or missing increases by the hour. This is turning out to be one of the worst natural disasters this country has experienced since the 1995 earthquake that devastated Kobe.

-- Sunday 3/13, 9.52 am


The aftermath of this thing is becoming a very grisly affair for those poor people up in the worst hit areas. Hundreds if not thousands of people are still missing with little hope being held out for their survival whereas something like 200,000 people or more are bedding down in temporary shelters on extremely limited rations of food and water. Shops and other services are basically not functioning. The nuclear reactors are shut down and the electricity grid is severely affected with power from the Tokyo area being redirected up north, hence the Tokyo power cuts. Apart from the human tragedy involved this is a devastating hit on the still very sluggish Japanese economy and rebuilding and recovery will take months, possibly years ... and where some of those coastal communities are concerned, sadly, maybe never.


-- Tuesday 3/15, 9.44 pm

Oh, no! We've just had another one. It was about 30 seconds or so in duration starting at 10.32 local time and it was centred on our area, Shizuoka. It was mild but my God, I'm starting to think this is malevolent. I know, logically, that nature is a blind force acting according to certain rules and conditions, but I'm also thinking that poor old Japan is coming under the hammer.

-- Tuesday 3/15, 11.29 pm

This is a map I have borrowed, in fact stolen, from a friend (with his belated but gracious permission) which shows where we live. We exist and enjoy our generally pleasant social being more or less under the same yellow pin which, as you can see, is quite some distance from where the Friday earthquake struck: (please click on the photo to enlarge)


-- Wednesday, 3/16, 4.52 pm

If you want to help out, and I don't think the currently weak Japanese government is really able to handle this thing entirely on their own, Google has put a donation link to the Japanese Red Cross

Nothing much happening locally. Our area is pretty much back to normal, never actually departed much from normal even last Friday, but the mood is nervous. We had that tremor the other night which wound people up just that little bit tighter than they were wound up before. Foreign friends are talking about leaving Japan, often under pressure from their families at home. Friends from Germany expected next week have abruptly cancelled their travel plans. I can understand all this but don't extend much sympathy. This is a dangerous country (earthquakes, volcanoes, typhoons, you name it) so if you can't handle that idea why bother coming in the first place? I think of all my Japanese friends, not to mention the handful of people I would gladly see swallowed up by any disaster, natural or man-made, and I also think of the millions of Japanese with family and local roots going back for generations and even centuries. This slinky archipelago off the East Asian coast is their home, for better or worse, and over the years since my initial bumbling arrival when I could barely speak three words of the language, it has become my home as well. My wife is Japanese. My daughter is half-Japanese, a third American, and three-quarters Irish (makes perfect sense) so this is no time to cut and run. This is a time to stick around and do what you can to help. Some of the Pretty People will duck out ... as they always do ... but who cares about them?

Saint Patrick's Day tomorrow -- Beannachtaí na Feile Padraig! -- but no-one's in much of a mood to party. How can you with people half starving and living in tents?

Wednesday, 3/16, 9.15 pm.

The shops have started running out of water, toilet rolls and rice as the city's beleaguered citizens panic-buy and supplies get clogged in the country's transport arteries. Candles, facemasks and umbrellas have sold out too, after government officials advised using them to protect from fallout. "Leave the umbrellas outside your door when you come back home," said one. Many convenience stores have shut their doors after ending up with nothing to sell, a minor but telling sign of the disintegration of normal life in a city where the stores light up almost every street.
-- David Mc Neill, Independent March 16, 2011

This is Tokyo he's talking about, the capital, 90 minutes away by train. He goes on to say that thousands of people are streaming out of Tokyo just to get away from the (worrying) possibility of radiation fallout. People, he says, are carrying umbrellas to keep the radiation off. This is like Alice in Wonderland. Morale in the country is NOT falling apart. Everyone is understandably confused, worried, and thinking about leaving for safer areas. In most cases they stay where they are if their homes and workplaces are still standing and simply carry on as before. Where the hell would they run to, anyway, with the airports closed and many train lines down? Actually, the airports are open again. The problem was you couldn't get to them for several days unless you flagged down a madly grinning taxi driver who could shake you down for 2 or 300 dollars. In some cases the flight would have been cheaper.

The government says the nuclear reactors are under control but in this country everyone is sceptical about government pronouncements. Nobody quite believes them. On the other hand, it could be possible that the government IS telling the truth for a change. That would be an interesting development and I personally believe that they are not lying, for the simple reason that so many people from so many different official and semi-official agencies are involved that it would be impossible to suppress the reality of what is happening. This is an opposition party in power (beleagured from all sides) and not the usual LDP, the Liberal Democratic Party, the ruling elite for the last 50 years who were neither liberal nor democratic in any loose definition of those terms and ran the country like a family corporation. These guys lied big time and pretty much all of the time so that the public got used to thinking that governments could never be trusted. A possibly earnest & well-meaning & honest administration like the one we have now could be telling the truth but they are so politically inept that it really makes no difference. The Japanese public are suspicious about any government - albeit in a resigned sort of way. It's quite true that many foreigners are fleeing the capital, often at the urging of their foreign-based companies or families back home.

-- Thursday, 3/17. 2.20 am (get a life, go to bed: no, it's St. Patrick's Day, ye thundering heathen, so I'll have this wee little dram. Good luck to the lads and the lassies, cold and shivering but alive up in Tohoku. Sláinte, mo chairde, and may God be good to you, never mind if you believe in him or not.)

The damn thing goes on: more dead, more missing. I feel so bloody useless. I want to jump on a train and go out and help (doing what, exactly?) There are ongoing transportation problems north of Tokyo. Also, the last thing anyone needs is some eejit like me barging in needing his own portions of food and water when there is not enough food and water to go around. Send money? Been there, done that. What does it mean, though? Drop in the bucket. If a whole bunch of these people come down south looking for food and shelter (no signs of this happening so far) we could probably put up five or six of them in the tiny apartment we live in. Roof over their heads at least and the local stores and supermarkets are still in business, no probs, so plenty of food. Don't know how they'd take to my cooking, though, with this heavy hand on the garlic and chili. See what happens tomorrow.

Yoshikatsu Hiratsuka weeps next to where his mother's body remains buried under rubble in Onagawacho, Miyagi Prefecture, on Thursday morning.


I had to go out to Honda again today for a new class. Talk about deja vu all over again. I had been here when the earthquake hit last Friday afternoon and it was distinctly weird signing in with the same gate guards. The class went well, some poor chap being sent over the the Ohio plant for the next five years, having to leave his wife and three daughters behind. Normal Japanese company procedure. I don't really want to watch television any more. The disaster news goes on and on. Nothing else is on the telly. We're starting to feel earthquake overload, survivor guilt, just a whole load of shite. The thing is, as I said, it just keeps going on and on with no end or relief in sight. After hours and hours of it you go out for a drink with the lads and watch everyone trying to change the subject. We're just not designed to go into permanent grief mode. After a while you simply rebel against it. I know this may sound a bit heartless but put yourself in the same situation. It just won't stop.

Paul, an old friend from my battling JALT days (a Language Teachers national association), contacted me on Facebook. He was in town with his wife whose family comes from this area. They were "refugees" from the Fukushima district where those temperamental nuclear reactors are still bubbling. Their house survived but the ceiling fell down at his workplace. Yo, Bren, St. Paddy's Day ... what's going on? Well, I had an invite to a pub party down in Toyohashi but I had half decided to cancel. Yet disaster overload was taking its toll. Another evening sitting at home watching the news seemed totally repellent. Meet you down at the station at 5, how's that? We did, got the train, found the pub, met some lovely people and had a great old sing-song. There was a ¥500 cover for Earthquake Relief sort of to assuage the fact that we were trying to put the thing out of our minds and have a bit of cheer and human connection. And it was St. Patrick's Day which won't come along again for another long year. God knows what will happen in the meantime. Got home to the right city. Honda again tomorrow.

Thursday, 3/17, late

Several foreign governments are advising their nationals to leave Japan or at least the worst affected areas. The Chinese have already evacuated 6000 of their citizens and the British and the French are laying on special flights. We receive regular e-mails from the Irish Embassy and they stress that they are not advising people to leave other than moving to safer areas if they live in the Tohoku region. They ask people from that area to contact the Embassy if they have not already done so but there are no reports of missing Irish citizens. There are only about 2000 of us in the country and most live in either Tokyo or Osaka. Locally I have heard of about a half dozen foreigners planning to leave or who have left already. All of them were youngish single people with no real ties to the country who probably came under pressure from their families. Click here for a report from BBC News.

Emergency cooling procedures are still taking place at the Fukushima nuclear reactor complex with fears for the volunteer staff who have chosen to remain on duty to prevent the possibility of a massive radiation leak. Click here for a report carried in the UK Independent.

The mood overall seems to be stoic with few signs of panic. People have been evacuating the worst hit areas when possible to stay with friends and relatives further south. Tokyo is bearing up under a series of inconveniences caused by the rolling power cuts and ongoing transportation difficulties but there is little sense of imminent danger. The Japanese have faced both natural and man-made disasters in the past and have always applied themselves to the task of recovery with a sense of dedication and purpose that would be hard to match in most other countries. The country has been dealt a savage blow but it is by no means beaten down and the public seems determined to bury its dead, succour the injured and displaced, clean up the mess and work its way back to a full recovery. The economic consequences of the disaster will be enormous but there is little sense of the country feeling defeated or totally overwhelmed by it. Click here for more on this story.

Saturday, 3/19, 2.20 pm

Life Goes On Department ...

Ireland Thumps England 24-8 in 6 Nations Rugby


Verrrrry satisfying ... !

-- Saturday night/ Sunday morning, 3/19 - 3/20


Daughter Siobhan got back to Japan after her holidays with friends in Hawaii. She was well out of it but naturally concerned until we got through by phone and e-mail. Her flight was redirected to Osaka, she caught the train up and I met her at the station about an hour ago. We sort of fell in one another's arms. She'll be staying for a few days before (maybe) returning to Tokyo on Wednesday or Thursday.

-- Sunday evening, 3/20, 10.40 pm

Life goes on pretty much as normal here and further south. The electricity cuts have hit the northeastern part of Shizuoka but haven't come down to our area. Rescue work is still going on with little hope held out for the approx. 17,000 people still missing while the death toll has risen over the 8000 mark. A young man and his grandmother were found alive in the wreckage of their home after surviving for nine days. The road to Sendai in the north has been sufficiently cleared so that relief supplies are getting in; also several ports have been re-opened so that supplies can come in by sea. The problems at the Fukushima nuclear complex still continue. Many companies are considering halting production lines owing to problems with suppliers and transportation difficulties. My guy at Honda was supposed to pick up his American visa this week but has been told he will have to wait until the end of April or even early May, which seems to indicate that the consular service has shut down or cut down severely on staff. The Hamamatsu Festival has been cancelled for the first time in nearly 60 years - it's a 3-Day extravaganza held from May 3rd to 5th each year and goes back 270-something years. The overall mood is worried but resilient and there is a palpable determination among all the Japanese I have talked with to recover from this tragedy and get the country back on its feet as soon as possible. The outlook now is for months, perhaps even years, of recovery efforts. One local company I was teaching at has had to move in staff from a damaged affiliate company in the north taking up all the conference rooms and extra space so the teaching contract has been suspended indefinitely with some talk of (maybe) resuming in July. That may offer some insight into corporate thinking in terms of a time frame. Some foreigners continue to make plans for leaving, particularly the young and unattached, even if they live in areas such as this which have been hardly affected. Other foreigners are beginning to show signs of irritation if not downright anger at the contrast between the low-key factual Japanese TV news and the hyped-up reports coming through from the foreign media, as the two following local gaijin blogs, HERE and HERE will tell you in no uncertain terms!

-- Tuesday, 3/22, 10.25 pm

Rube, an old friend from those balmy JALT days (not so pleasant, come to think of them, when Gene and I had to push against the grain: poor old Gene is gone, a victim of cancer in 2009 but between us we saved the thing from going under) says don't be so optimistic. He has a point, as you can see from the following two articles:

Assessing death.

What's really going on at Fukushima.

It's not a question of not believing. I don't think it's possible that everyone locally has been lying to us. They couldn't suppress what is going on with all the various people involved in official and semi-official capacities, including the US military.

None of us plan to leave, whatever happens. Even if things get worse there is no way we can run away and desert our friends. Think about it. No-brainer.

-- Thursday, 3/25, 11.40 pm

I met Frankie down at the Schloss and we had a few jars. We talked things over. He says why the fuck do you trust the US military? That's got me thinking. Frank, bless his soul, is Canadian. I point out to him that Canada will shortly disappear off the face of the planet, absorbed by Amerika. He glares at me. He knows it's true. We order two more. The news continues bad: at least 10,000 dead, up to 20,000 missing.

Saturday, 3/26

Been down for the last three days, not feeling so well. It's been a physical as well as emotional reaction to the last few weeks when I found myself talking to dozens and dozens of people, most of whom I'd never met before, drinking in consequence a bit too much. The hang-in-there spirit (allied to a crashing hangover!!)is tremendously strong but the truth is we are all finding it hard to deal with the rising death tolls -- 12,000 now with 16,000 still missing -- and there is an underlying sense of deep depression. We are entirely with the Japanese and have no intentions of running away. Our friends and acquaintances have known that from the beginning. The strangers recently come in touch with (so much more readily open to talk) seem to appreciate it when they hear it. But what are we actually doing, apart from contributing to the Red Cross, and throwing in coins to all the collection boxes that have sprung up nearly everywhere? Not much, unless refusing to leave is a statement in itself.

Wednesday, 3/30

Four-year-old Manami Kon sleeps after writing a letter to her mother, who was swept away by tsunami in Miyako, Iwate Prefecture. The little girl said late last month that she would write to her mother, and spreading a notebook on a kotatsu table at the home of relatives she spent nearly an hour writing: "Dear Mommy, I hope you are alive. Are you well?" Manami's father and younger sister also remain unaccounted for.

-- Friday, 4/01

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

421. traditions


A hidden ancient passage
under these tufts of uneven pasture
leads to a stone-lined tunnel,
uncovered, not by scholars,
but by the local IRA
intent on hiding weapons.

Traps for indigent robbers
have been worn away by decay,
and in the core of the inner sanctum
three large and separate open graves,
lie carefully, reverently surrounded
by treasure and homely objects:

combs and knives,
little personal tools,
for even kings need things
in the Other World.

Under rain sodden fields above,
the generations of philosophic cattle,
and hidden for more than a thousand years:
this golden torc, jewellery, six crumbling swords,
seven exquisite little silver drinking cups
of meticulous execution, shoved off
to the side now by rifles.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

420. now I lay me down to sleep



Careening down the mountain
on the one remaining rail
of the broken railbed,
gathering speed, my arms
spread wide, hunched-up,
tensing for the crash

is when I shudder awake,
many times already,
in this cold white room.

In Hungary, before Trianon,
Nem, nem, soha
life was likened
to licking honey,
to licking sweet honey
from a thorn.

I have seen the future
and don’t want to go there.
Like a reversing van,
a pantechnicon, very
very slowly backing in.

.......................................

Nem, nem, soha
: No, no, never -- the Hungarian rejection of Trianon, the treaty that took away two-thirds of its land and people after the Austro-Hungarian army was defeated in the Great War.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

419. poetic language


Poems, you know
have little to do with fancy language.
There is no need to use
special words which you would
never use in daily speech.

You would not say, 'Hark, the dawn!'
to your mama, nor would you remark
that the raiments of night unfold the stars
as you talk & laugh with the boys,
so why the hell do you do it now?

----------------------------------------
Post-poem:

Keep language simple. You need to keep close
to the smells, and to the brightness and shade,
to the colours, the sublety of changes,
the roughness and smoothness of touch,
to the sudden sound that turns your head,
the tang of the pickles and mustard,
to the shapes and the sudden movements,
the instant flash of a blade, the way time
stops. It does in a crisis. That split second of disbelief
is what military training aims to dispel. And so,
when in a suburban MacDonald's that deranged stranger
slits the throat of your companion, just like that,
you shoot him (American version), or you knock him
on the head (European version) and call the police.
The police come in and put up crime-scene ribbons;
the colours may vary, but this is what they do.

So, anyway, you don't proceed or glide down to the Mall.
You go there. You don't partake of light refreshment,
you have a coffee, a snack, or lunch. Likewise, you don't
'sincerely' regret the effects of collateral damage, you admit
you've killed hundreds of innocent women and children.
Language can be dangerous, misleading, often a total lie,
in the sense that verbal markers completely lose their meaning
when connections are lost to the things they describe.
I am no great fan of 'heightened' language, I have seen too much
of it put to abuse. Elections, for example. I would say to young poets
(and to the older ones, also) that there is no need for any special
poetic language, and that it is generally better, ever and always,
to employ the demotic, to write in the way you think and talk.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

418. A Japanese Poem in the Chinese Style


Winter winds
invade from the north
scouring and blasting
the inner walls, rocking
the heavy dark posts
of the temple gate

Last summer
under cicada sounds
and falling blossoms
we sat apart on green
tatami mats, sipping
fresh new tea from Uji

You have gone
to Tokiwa in the north
to the home of your uncle
and I have gone
in duty, as I told you
far south to Kagoshima

Many many leagues
separate our dwellings
and there are no more
blossoms, nor tea from Uji
but the moon understands
and smiles upon us both