Finding poetry in Kanawaza, Japan

Of note

That some of them write clearly, so Google Translate can reveal their poetry

And others, a cursive not unlike my own that will never reveal to a Westerner

Their hidden wisdom, 

Of note 

That several poets wrote this one trove of sage advice

How many Americans poets can share their moment in the limelight

Even when the light is so dim as to be non-existent

Of note

Is that saying "All of you are true in your heart" but 

Followed by "the truth of the matter is that the work is not done

In the name of wisdom, goodness and diligence"

Two different opinions adjacent to one another

Peacefully.

Yesterday,

I learned eight reasons why Japan is so peaceful, clean

And the trains run on time.

Kaizen, Ikigai, Hara Hachi Bu and the others

But let us start with every day with the intent to 

Make the world 1% better, finding a reason for living,

Forest bathing and endure with dignity.  

What happened to our country

In its quest for power and money?

We have no trains, litter is everywhere,

We are rude and barbaric, 

We have lost our souls

In America. 

 

Sumo wrestler turned restauranteur in Kanazawa, Japan

Wait, wait a minute, that face in front of me, the guy, the cook,

That's his face up on the TV, sumo wrestling, yep, that's him, check, double check.

Ahah, that's him on the posters on the wall in his ...what do they call that

Skimpy little outfit that barely covers their enormous bulk.

The outfit whose sole purpose is to hold the jewels and provide a grabbing 

Strap for their opponent, so we can watch, in fascination, the ripple of their bare 

Flesh as they barrel into each other, one heaving the other off the small platform

Onto the laps of the adoring crowd.

Wait, wait a minute, I would not want to be sitting right next to the ring

Where it's possible that a 300 pound man, skimpily clad, likely slippery,

Might fall on top of me.  I place myself back in my seat at the restaurant counter,

The restaurant that has room for eight, maybe ten.  

While slurping sumptuous ramen noodles in a fish broth, I could not stop

Moving my gaze from the screen, to the man in front of me, the cook and owner,

In a back and forth, kind of a disbelief, but why not, after all.

This is Japan, the land of the sumo wrestler, the land of Ramen.  

 

You can never experience this with Google Maps, honoring the dead in Tokyo, Japan

It's hard to tell on a Google map what a place really is, how it feels,

Who is there, what they are doing and so we go to see for ourselves.

We go to read, to learn and to explore, and to respect their grief, their losses,

In spite of our own, in addition to our own, we see the Japanese bowing 

At the entrance to the shrine which holds the spirits of all those who have died 

In war, protecting their country, their people. 

We watch them, and do the same, bowing at the entrance, and clapping twice,

Before turning away.  There is no one clapping on Google Maps.  

there is no one walking away, then suddenly turning back to face the shrine

Again, and again, under the gateway that reaches hundreds of feet into the sky,

Bowing, or to tell us that people are mourning their losses in the building over there,

The one that says "serious prayer only", no, gaggles of tourists are not welcome there.

Google maps does not show the etched lithograph of a photograph of Tokyo after 

300 B2 bombers flattened the area, the area where we were standing yesterday.

So, to those who say that travel is not needed anymore, that there are no surprises,

Google Maps can never show humanity, our tears, our joy, those standing to honor their

Dead, grieving their dead, and moments later celebrating today, chocolate ice cream dribbling

Down the chin of the small girl as she grips the leg of her mother. 

 

Peace among the cherry blossoms

Was it the rain or the falling cherry blossoms tap tapping

How many colors of pink flooded into my eyes (my soul) seeking 

The gentleness of a cloudy, cool day in Tokyo, 

A city where steel towers overlook colorful clusters of umbrellas

And crowds murmur as they gaze upward, shuffling carefully 

Along glistening paths and bridges that seem to bow before such beauty

The ponds dance in the rain, a percussion of droplets falling into 

And bouncing up, the clouds gather and release them this 

Cloudy day in Tokyo, this day come and now gone,

My cheeks already drying in the sun.  

 

The food! The food! Eating in Tokyo, Japan

She welcomed us in to her tiny cafe, behind a curtain,

Behind the wizened man selling tourist trinkets to passersby,

One other couple at one of the four tables and us,

A menu for breakfast, a hard boiled egg, some impossibly delicious

Soft grilled bread cut into rectangles the precise size to wrap the egg,

Steaming coffee and a small cream on the side, for 600 yen

(That's $3), 

But it's the feel of the place, the peaceful yet warm and welcoming

Tiny little place, and how do they manage to keep afloat with so few

Of us maybe wandering behind the curtain,

I'd wander there every day, yet there are thousands of them,

Like the one called La Beauté, where we found ourselves 

At night, us alone with the restauranteur, (watching in fascination

The bowing ritual amongst the clientele having just exited the

Restaurant below), and this one, 5 tables and us basking in

His attentions between chopping and broken friendly English 

(And yes, he is planning to travel to Mexico City and Bolivia for 9 days,

And no, he does not speak any Spanish either, he smiles)

And the food! The food! 

The art of the vegetable arrangement on a platter, each then to be placed

Into a boiling hot pot of tomato elixir on one side, basil on the other,

To magically create in front of us a succulent feast.

And it's all for us, no rush, just smiles, delight, peace,

This is no flash in the pan restaurant, 17 years in, 

How do they do it, the simplicity, the grace and yes,

The food!!  

 

Hanging by a thread in Tokyo, Japan

He's hanging by a thread, dangling, swinging

Squeegee in hand, gracefully, so delicately pressing 

Against the windows so impossibly high, so far from the teeming

Street scene, I watch in fascination and disbelief

From where does this thread hang, such a tiny bracket secured

To the rooftop, and yet

He seems so serene, as if dancing in flight was 

All in a days work, or maybe not even a days work,

But a days pleasure to be free of earthly troubles, suspended

Aloft, above all the troubles and grime of life.

He's free. 

 

No more stumbling in the dark

I'd thought about this new path on the west side of the house

Next to the blackberry brambles that insist on growing east, lazily east

Over the river rock path that has steadily sunk, unevenly, into the dirt,

Threatening to break the ankles of the elderly in the darkness of night.

I'd thought about this new path but was waiting for the right person to show up

On a spring day, or maybe fall could work, or summer, the one who understands

The old and infirm, the vagaries of an old house that endured the indignity of 

The flood in 1894, someone who would be just the right person.

The years drifted by and the stone path became yet another bed of weeds,

The stones yet more uneven and I waited for the right person who did not 

Flinch at lifting out all the old stones and laying even flagstone, tightly 

Spaced to keep out the weeds. 

One day he appeared, his wizened face framed by wiry black hair, someone

From the South, from Peru,  he appeared at my front gate and said he 

Could do the job, in spite of his old bones, he could make a new path

On the west side of this old house, that knew floods, hail storms and fallen trees.

I'd thought of this path for so many years, one that I could walk along, at night, 

without stumbling, a small reassurance in these unsteady times.