"Reader's Digest"

I know it's a bit too late to say "Happy New Year," but I haven't yet greeted you here in 2014, so, a happy New Year to you all! It's been long actually, but this year, I will be able to post more often, I mean, seriously.

So here is my first poem of the year. As usual, it landed on where I didn't expect at the beginning, but a poem too "takes off on its own once it’s started" so I couldn't help it. By the way, it's kinda symmetrical, like many of my other poems...*sigh* I wish I could fly from arrogance to reverence within just 20 lines or so in a real life, but it ain't so easy, right? Well, I hope you will enjoy your own assigned "reading" this year!

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Reader’s Digest


In my arrogance,
I thought this was a second time reading
Of a book I’ve already read.
As if it was just tracing over
An already-known plot.

However,
I crashed against its storyline
As I tried to follow my own prediction.
Every time I faced unpredictable pages,
I got upset and confused, laughed and cried.

At each reading, I’m made a novice.

There is no book alike.
Once it’s opened it takes off on its own.
No going back or skipping allowed.
Only swallowing one page
At a time.

How a story will unfold
May depend on my digestion.
There must be a writer somewhere,
I suspect, reading on
With reverence.

Dear Japan II

Dear Japan II


When I saw you hurting
I finally realized
How much I actually
Loved you

When I felt your pain
I assuredly knew
You were a big
Part of me

No matter how far you are
No matter how long it’s been
You are still my country
My roots

(A true world citizen
Would feel as much pain
When other countries are suffering,
But my heart is not so borderless…)

So your body moved eight feet
Towards me
So my heart moved across the pacific
Towards to you

I want to be
Beside your pain
Now

I want to
Lift you up
In the future

As to
Pay back
For raising me
In the past

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So I started writing this poem and realized I've written one titled "Dear Japan" already. (It hasn't been translated though.) So this is number two. Anyway, I must be into my country, seriously! I've written several poems about Japan, but only written one about the U.S. I haven't used personification on her either. (And I haven't made it public.) Sometimes we don't realize its worth until we lose it. Likewise, we don't realize its worth until it's damaged. Taking for granted she was. But I can no longer take her for granted...It's about time you lean on me a little, Japan.

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(Added as of Nov.12, 2011)

You know, I found out that Japan moved eight feet eastward instead of eight feet westward! That's my bad. Let's blame it on my directionally-chagllengedness.

I originally wrote:

"Though you moved eight feet
Away from me
My heart has grown
Much closer to you"

But of course this is not true to the facts, so I had to rewrite the 5th stanza. Sorry about that.

Feast

Recently, I was touched by my friend’s kindness. Then I wondered, “How can I care for others like this? How can I love others like this? I’d like to know the secret.” But even if I get the secret, just copying someone’s method, tracing others’ track may not be the real kind of love. So I wrote a poem to figure it out.

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Feast


What a feast!

Not at all.

Really,
it was a feast.
I’d love to
give a feast like this!

Sure,
you can too.

Really?
Then give me
the recipes!

It’s easy to
give out the recipes.
But you can’t
make a real feast
just like that.

I see.
What can I do then?

Savor well
each flavor.
Then imagine how those
flavors came to be.
Then cook
as you have imagined.

Can I duplicate
the same flavor?

Enjoy many feasts.
Then as to repay
the great flavors,
you do your best to
spread the flavors around.
As they spread
with rippling feasts,
the flavor will be
enriched and deepened.

Wow,
thank you for the feast.

You’re welcome.

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Among many Christians I respect, Hachiko-san was the one that came to my mind after I wrote this poem. Then I remembered her blog entry (Thank you Meg, for translating) about the recipe metaphor. (Did I take-off on her?) “Recipe” represents God’s principles of love. “Bread” is the actual life lived out of love. “What people are drawn to is the smell of freshly baked bread… However, we often give starving people the recipe, instead of the bread.” (Ken Gire “Windows of the Soul” (a great read, btw)) In other words, you can’t fill a stomach with a recipe. She ended her entry with a prayer, “May each of us cater bread, not recipe, to this world. May we embody Christ with our own flesh.” I say amen to that!

Sometimes I feel like, “Just hand me the recipe!” Yeah, like great lesson plans, rules for romance, and outreach programs. Then I really get into just collecting the “recipes”, feeling like I’ve done the job. But the real way to go is going after “What a feast!” smile one by one, through a trial-and-error process myself, baking real breads.

By the way, I rarely use recipes in my kitchen to cook. I’m an ad-lib cook. Can’t make a same dish twice. So I am not really good at baking breads or cakes. Recipes can do some good too.

A Cassette Tape

My friend in college once told me, “Guys look for a new love like dubbing a new song on a cassette over an old song to get over it. Girls wait till they get over it, then record a new song after a blank period.” Interesting, huh? If you agree, then click on “like” below...Oops, this wasn’t Facebook! Anyways, I don’t think it’s a guy or girl thing. We all have rushed to the next thing when we were not really over it, right? (The so-called rebound) Yeah, I have gone for the second serving after saying, “I’m sooooooo full!” Oh, that's just called a pig out! lol. I was young back then, haha. Anyways, repeating this stretches out and wears out the spool, the stomach, the heart, or whatever. Instead, take a deep breath! Enjoy silence. ...So came another poem to share.

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A Cassette Tape

How do you get past
A song you no longer listen to?

Do you cover up the broken tab
And dub a new song over
As to forget the old one?

A faint noise remaining on
A stretched spool
Never moving on forward.

As for me,
I would hold the cassette
On the palm of my hand and
Cry over its levity.

When the melody
No longer rings in my head,
Then I bring in a new song
After an one-deep-breath-long blank.

If a life allows only one tape,
Then I rather run it all the way through
Instead of wearing down
The same spot over and over.
Filling the tape
With songs well-selected
Interleaved with dense silence.

Is Japan a Far, Far Country?

It already has been seven months since I started teaching Japanese as a heritage language for kids somehow linked to Japan in this heavily Japanese/Japanese-American populated area. Before the school year started, I researched about the heritage language education, went to see the experts in the area, made my own curriculum and everything. Yet actually teaching them was really different from the desk theory. As expected, of course. Through such an experience, a poem came along. I would have not written, or could have not written such a poem if it wasn’t for this job. Special thanks to my students!

I am shy about reading aloud my poem to people, but I read it to my kids yesterday. They were so quiet like they have never been. I’ve been looking for good reading materials and being picky in choosing them too, but this made me realize it’s so important to send out my own voice sometime. Again, thank you kids!

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Is Japan a Far, Far Country?


Is Japan a far, far country?
A whole half day away by a plane
A whole half month away by a ship
Returning less than once a year

Is Japan a far, far country?
No, no, it’s not really so
Put it on a dish or in a bowl
Then you can eat it every day

Is Japan a far, far country?
No, no, it’s not really so
Put it in a pocket or in a bag
Then you can play with it every day

Is Japan a far, far country?
No, no, it’s not really so
Put it on a tune or on a verse
Then you can sing it every morn

Is Japan a far, far country?
No, no, it’s not really so
See it in a book or in a picture
Then you can visit it every eve

Is Japan a far, far country?
No, no, it’s not really so
Talk with it over the phone or a letter
Then you can befriend it every week

Is Japan a far, far country?
No, no, it’s not really so
Wear it on Shogatsu or in Obon
Then you can wear it every year

Is Japan a far, far country?
No, no, it’s not really so
Hold it close when the August comes
And pray for peace every year

Is Japan a far, far country?
Just a second away in your mind
A generation long with your child
Though away, not far, far away

Spring Summer Fall Winter

Spring Summer Fall Winter


Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter

Another spring is here
Another summer is here
Another fall is here
Another winter is here

Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter

A spring unforgettable
A summer unforgettable
A fall unforgettable
A winter unforgettable

Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter

No spring is alike
No summer is alike
No fall is alike
No winter is alike

Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter

How many more springs
How many more summers
How many more falls
How many more winters

Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter
Spring summer fall winter...

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I wrote a new poem, fresh out of the oven to share!
A quite simple poem, actually.
So simple that it lends itself to as many interpretations as it finds readers.
There are as many four seasons as there are people and
there are as many four seasons as the years they have lived.

So, please don't read the repeated part thoughtlessly.
Read it slowly and let those spring summer fall winter
come back to you...

Under the tree of love...

“On Love”
By Tatsuo Tonooka

How good it is
To have a memory of being loved.
Like a green treetop
It’s swaying gently
Somewhere up high
Always.

How good it is
To have a memory of having loved.
Like a fragrant breeze eye
It’s winking secretly
Towards my way
Always.

With a cornerstone of love,
Oh, fellow humans,
We sure encounter so many things.

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“When Tree Barks are a Little Warm”
By Junko Takahashi

When tree barks are a little warm,
They are singing a gentle love song.
A song which they could not sing
When they were humans.

A satellite

A satellite

At a steady speed,
a small satellite
is crossing the sky

As I stare,
a linear line
is leading my eye

I know you are not a star

Once my eyes let you go,
never will I spot you
never will you cross my mind
again

Poetry is much like love

I've been reading Chiyo Uno's book and it's inspiring me to write well and love well. (It also makes me laugh and empowered!)

So here I wrote another poem.

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Poetry is much like love


What makes a poem a poem?
How different is it
from other writings?

What makes love love?
How different is it
from other feelings?

Changing lines,
as to appeal visually
Rhyming words,
as to please audibly
Using metaphors,
as to paint a beautiful imagery

All that would give it an
appearance of a poem
...but is it really?

Dressing up,
as to appeal visually
Sweet-nothings,
as to please audibly
Making nice promises,
as to paint a future imagery

All that would give it an
appearance of love
...but is it really?

When a real poem finds you, or
when real love finds you,
the more like yourself you'll become
than you ever have before then

May my poems be much like love,
may my love be much like a poem

Poetry comeback

I have not written any poem in a while, I know... The longer I put it aside the less I waned to write. Actually, there lies a certain fear inside me. (You'll see.) But when I started my first line, the rest of it showed up. So there... This poem put me at ease, but I shouldn't be at too ease. I gotta hit my poetry home more often...

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Poetry comeback


My fear is this:
One day I will wake up
unable to write a poem.

No such fear for drawing,
no such fear for singing a song, but

as I live my everyday life
so away from poetry,
without a notice
it may depart me
for good.

The prodigal son is
finally home, but
no one's home,
no poetry's at the door.

The empty house is
ringing with my voice,

Let me write you once again
For the very one last time!

I will wait.

Perhaps there are times when
poetry wants to be the
prodigal son, and
when he longs to come home
too.

What came first?

Sorry, long time no leaf.... But I’ve been alive, don’t worry. Here is a little update: This is my second year teaching at the Christian boarding high school. Last summer, I got a new visa, a religious worker visa. So my friend calls me a missionary now. A missionary, huh? That’s actually cool. Well, I’m teaching a Bible class this year which is something new. So dear friends, please pray for this little missionary-me.

By the way, I have not written poems lately...for a long time actually. Since I started working here. Well, I wrote that Christmas Gift for our school. Then I wrote a few in last April. That’s it. Until one of my students in the Bible class inspired me this week....

“Teacher,” he said, “it is impossible. How could light exist without the sun? Why the light on the first day, then the sun on the fourth day? I can’t understand.” I can’t understand either, I wanted to say. So I was thinking about it later in the evening, then a poem came to me....

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What Came First

We are so used to having
the sun first
then the light
The egg first
then the chicken
The baby first
then the grown-up

God seems so backward creating
the light first
then the sun
The chicken first
then the egg
The grown-ups first
then the baby

We the creatures process cause and effect
A light source
causing light
A single cell
evolving into complex life
An embryo
growing into mature beings

God the Creator produces products as-is
The light
all by itself
The chickens
already grown up
Human beings
with a will to choose

Even before someone claimed
that the sun was God
that all creatures came from an egg
that human reproduction can occur from a single being
He had foreseen our backward ways

The mystery of creation
has no formula
The power of the Creator
exceeds His creatures’ logic
He is the ultimate “I am”
We are the simple “as-is”

The Christmas Gift

I was asked to write a poem for the Christmas Concert at the high school where I'm teaching. So here it comes. The poem itself is a clumsy wrap, but I hope you get the content. Merry Christmas!


The Christmas Gift

A Christmas gift was all wrapped up
Dressed in a paper, a colorful skin
Unseen was the gift inside it, so
The visible wrap spoke, “Come and see.”

Hungry hands ripped the innocent wrap
Thrown on the floor, its role was done
Inviting the hands, only to be torn
So that the gift may be received

So did Christ come down to earth
Dressed in a lowly, human skin
Unseen was the gift inside Him, so
The visible Man spoke, “Come and see.”

Hungry hands ripped the innocent Man
Thrown in the darkness, His role was done
Inviting the hands, only to be torn
So that salvation may be received

Be a Christmas gift yourself
Dressed in a visible, human skin
Unseen is Christ inside you, so
You must speak up, “Come and see.”

Let us share the Christmas gift
Inviting the hands by godly deeds
Share the gift that you have found
So that He wasn't torn in vain

Poetry Reading Night

A year ago from now, I was taking a poetry writing class and used to post more “leaf of poetry.”(Do you remember?) Since then, I have been writing quite a few poems still, but haven't put them in public as much. However, there was annual poetry reading night on campus last week, so I got to read some of my original poems again after being a “closet poet” for a while.... We used to read aloud our poems in front of the whole class every week then, but reading aloud my poems and listening to others read again after a year made me realize that poetry is truly a visual and audible art.

You need to have a sense for placing words and making spaces on a paper as well as a sense for creating rhythms and patterns of sounds and silence. And there is a way to read aloud that enhances the effect. One may write a fine poem, but not knowing how to read it aloud well is pretty unfortunate. At the poetry reading, I encountered some quality poems, and some were so well read aloud as if they were given wings! I must admit it feels funny to read my own poems upfront, stranger than having someone read it silently in front of me, yet it really is a good learning experience. Moreover, Ms. H (Language Arts teacher) once told me that a best way to understand a poem is to listen to the original writer read it. If that is true, I might as well learn to read them well.

After the poetry reading night last year, someone came up and asked me why I didn’t read the original poem in Japanese. So I read both Japanese and English versions this time. A professor told me afterwards, “When you read the Japanese poem, I could feel the rhythm of it like listening to music, and it was really nice.” Of course she did not understand Japanese, but I relearned that a poem read aloud can convey something beyond its meaning that a language tries to communicate.

So long was the introduction.... Let me introduce to you a new poem, finally. This is what I read last week, “Four season blues.”


Four season blues

Watching sakura petals fall,
I see shredded clouds coming down
Forsaken by heaven, lost in the wind
Are they dreams,
Past,
Or regrets?

Watching the burning sun blaze,
I see black and white swapping
Melted by heat, soaking the eye
Is it blood,
Tears,
Or sin?

Watching the autumn tree shed,
I see a sky-color puzzle remade
Replaced for a leaf, filling between branches
Are they void,
memoir,
Or tomorrow?

Watching the night snow fall,
I see myself flying through the galaxy
Revealed in the dark, passing right by
Are they today,
Hopes,
Or you?

Three fall leaves

I went a little up north today. Though it was still Michigan, I was taken back by its deepened fall colors around. As I drove through falling leaves, a poem came falling to me.


Autumn Leaves
by kuriks

Departing the tree
They fall
Dancing, swaying
In the air

Returning to the ground
They crush
Slowly, quietly
Back to soil

Pressed in a book
They fade
Crisp, fragile
In their shape

Some scenes may be forgotten
Some memories may be kept
Nonetheless, both will
Feed your soul

Leaves falling in your heart
Are your treasure
Your power
They are yours
Forever more


Let me also share two other leaves by others.
(Sorry if something got lost in my translation.)


Falling Leaves
by Yoshiko Hatachi

Why trees let go of
What they will no longer use
After beautifying them so

Making them glow like a flame


A Haiku by Ryokan

Showing its back, then
Showing the front as it falls
A red maple leaf


Nature teaches us so much. So I thank God for this beautiful fall!


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(Thank you for your comments! section)

Brother Whitt,
How are you!? Thank you for dropping a line here! I'm glad you liked it. Well, I know I haven't been writing in English lately. I've written some poems and also shared others' poems here on my blog, but too much would be lost in translation. Those poems are about kanji characters, looking into smaller parts, finding meanings, and applying them to life. Pretty interesting stuff. Maybe I'll try to translate, but it won't be the same. Well, any translated material is not exactly the same as the original anyway. We can wait till we get to heaven when nothing will be lost in translation but gained! Take care!

A poem too noisy

I’ve always enjoyed writing poems, but as I look back, I really got into it since I went to Africa ten years ago. But they were written for nobody, kept only to myself, like a boiled-down diary.... Well, one day, I decided to have my mom look at one of my poems. (It was my proud piece - a very, very long one.) After reading, she simply commented, “Your poem is full of ego.” At that time, I was like, “How critical!” But now I understand what she meant. A blog I read recently brought it right back to my mind - her remark, so sharp, yet so truthful.

In this blog, a part of Shuntaro Tanikawa’s dialogue on poetry was quoted. Let me try to translate his words here.

“It’s only by my guts I can tell if words in a poem are established as a piece of artwork. One thing is that those words must stand independently apart from their writer. No matter how chattery the words are, such independent words set themselves apart from the writer’s noise, settling quietly on their own.

There are poems with only three lines that are too noisy. The poem does not work well without artistry, so the independent words crafted with artistry can convey themselves more effectively to their readers. Merely saying, “I’m suffering so!” does not communicate the essence of suffering to the audience as much as you’d think. The main source of noise today is that everyone is trying to express themselves, crying out loud, ‘I this, I that!’

In contrast, noiseless words or words with silence within are born from anonymity, a kind of collective unconsciousness, instead of belonging to a particular individual, I think.”

So now I realize I was writing poems too noisy. Not that they are so quiet now, but they were shouting, “I this, I that!” chorus back then.... Words are not only produced to convey our ideas and emotions for ourselves, but also to create space where others’ ideas and emotions can be brought out and be wrapped up. Not only my poems, but in my everyday life, I use noisy words with noisy attitude, so I’m sorry. (sorry if this blog has been noisy too.) I guess my way of living is reflected.... Words are such a raw property. I was struck by reading another blog, of a Christian music teacher, on the way of living. To sum it up, he was quoting E.G.White, “Jesus lived for this purpose since His childhood, to bless others in His life,” and how a principal at his Christian school made that his motto in his youth. I too, aspire to live to bless others, create blissful poems, drawings, and a blog....