Hawaiʻi Review Number 10, East West Issue: 1980

HAWAII REVIEW EAST/ WEST ISSUE

路u ~tBE R

SPRING/ FALL 1980

10

EDITOR

Anita Povich

POETRY EDITORS

Laurie Kuribayashi Gary Tachiyama

FICTION EDITOR

Valentino Ramirez

MANAGING EDITOR

Miche lle Aschwald

POETRY READER

Se ra Nakachi Messing

FICTION STAFF

Roger ~illiken Chris T . Shigenaga

ADVISORY EDITORS

Pete r H . Lee Ian MacMillan Rob Wilson

ADVISORY BOARD

William Huntsbe rry Phyllis Thompson Robert Onopa

PRODUCTION STAFF

Beau Press

HAWAII REVIEW is a stude nt publication of the Board of Publications , University of Hawaii at Manoa. Subscriptions, manuscripts and correspondence should be addressed to HAWAII REVIEW, University of Hawaii, Department of English , 1733 Donaghho Road, Honolulu, HI. 96822. Manuscripts should be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped e nvelope. Single copies, S5.

The HAWAII REVIE W would- like to thank the ational Endow111ent for the Arts for a grant which made this issue possible, and the me mbe rs of the Board of Publications for the ir continuing support .

The HAWAII REVIEW is a member of The Coordin ating Council of Lite rary Magazines.

Ql 980 by the Board of Publications, Unive rsity of Hawaii at Manoa.

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CONTENTS

COVER

STEVE SHRADER

FICTION The Neighborhood Angel, My Angel The Surfer Maui Lifts the Sky The Children Three Stories Barney's Leg

5 13 18 22 31 39 54

NINOTCHKA ROSCA DAVID NELSON ASABABER STEVEN GOLDSBERRY MARJORIE SINCLAIR AZIZNESIN VICTORIA NELSON

DRAMA Yoshitsune

59

MILTON MURAYAMA

POETRY FEATURE

74

CONTEMPORARY EAST ASIAN POETS {Pien Chih-lin, Ts'ao Pao-hua, Wang Hsin-ti, Ai Ch'ing, Hsin Ti, Kaneko Mitsuharu, Ono Tozaburo, Ishihara Yoshiro, Cho Chi-hun)

2

POETRY What For The Man From Buena Vista Poem Epigrams from the Prakrit Claude Glass Three Haiku Three Poems Two Poems Two Poems Looking For Yesterday Two Poe ms Two Poe ms East/West Poem Tearing Down A Plantation House Island in Autumn Chinatown Two Poems What Is Quiet Inside Leaving My Bones Behind A Rebirth Two Poems

109 111 112 113 115 121 122 126 132 134 135 137 140 141 142 144 147 151 152 153

161 165

3

GARRETI KAORU HONGO CHARLES EDWARD EATON RAMPRASAD SEN HALA MICHAEL ONDAATJE ISSA MIROSLAV HOLUB ROBERT SWARD GALWAY KINNELL JIM KRAUS SERA NAKACHI MESSING ERIC CHOCK WINGTEKLUM VICTOR TALERICO JOHN UNTERECKER CATHY SONG ALAN CHONG LAU PHYLLIS THOMPSON PAT MATSUEDA KERIHULME FOROOGH FARROKHZAAD DANIEL KANEMITSU

ESSAYS Disappearing Into the Text: Dithyramb and Nome in Keats's Odes The Cantos of E zra Pound: East vs. West

166

DANIEL STEMPEL

173

RICHARD HAMASAKI

178

ROB WILSON

181

MARJORIE SINCLAIR

1~

JEFFREYCARROLL

186

MARVIN BELL

REVIEWS Celebration of Continuity by Pe te r H. Lee The Stone ofKannon by Ozzie Bushnell The Snow Leopard by Pete r Matthiessen Poetry Hawaii , edited by Frank Stewart and John Unterecker

Notes on Contributors

188

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NINOTCHKA ROSCA The Neighborhood

The women would come out of their homes, survey the lower end of the and sigh , proclaiming that the neighborhood was going, going to the dogs. of course, wasn't true . The slum houses had always been the re, squeezed in a sliver of land near the railroad tracks. Gomburza Street began here, , which was no road at all, me rely the intimation of one. This was the of our world, anchored in poverty and the melancholia of red dust, grass like seaweeds, the shell of a bus and three electric posts taking counsel from other. Walking away from Tambakan, one e ncounte red a measure of relief; incestuous houses, mushroom-pale with desolation , were left behind. The posts straightened the mselves out, lost the ir fear of open spaces; they to come singly, at regular intervals, with wires taut between them . The hardened beneath the feet; the road was sudde nly a flat asphalt surface. A ign named the street's metamorphosis from Tambakan to Gomburza, the from dumping ground to the acronym of three martyred priests of the birthyears having no reason for being. But this was the way the neighborwas: one began with the dumping ground and e nded with he roes.

The accessorias came first : two-story buildings of wood and concrete , divided small rooms and flats re nted out to families. Their owners were invisible but WPrvrmP knew who owned what and who rented which from whom . In the first listed under the name of an old senator, we knew that the most interresidents were the Santillans, a mothe r-and-son family. They had arrived the neighborhood accompanied by a piano whose singularity had drawn out entire male population . In this manne r, the problem of hauling it to the floor had been speedily resolved.

Across the street was a wooden bungalow isolated by a white picket fence. was the Santos house, the Santoses being a middle-aged couple. Three pounds and caparisoned in a bright orange housecoat, the woman sat on porch rocking chair and fanned he rself with an analww leaf, her forearm slap, slap against a monster breast. With iron eyes, she watched over the faucet where the women washed clothes in the morning whe n the accestaps belched without wa ter.

Detergent boxes, plastic basins, piles of clothes and transistor radios barnthe women. Between wry comments about things in general, they listened their favorite vernacular dramas of virtue threate ned and triumphant in a

5

hostile world. Mrs. Santos kept vigil, the tobacco box on her lap growing heavy with coins and old bills. She was benefactor for a price--one reason for her hatred of Mrs. Santillan and he r habit of storing water in plastic drums.

The widow Santillan was an alien. She taught at a near-by public school and suffered from her own presence in the neighborhood. Her conversation was limited to memories of the concise life she had led with her late husband. Her apartment was renowned for its fanatical neatness. Whenever the widow came down to the street, her eyes annihilated the Tambakan's skyline with implacable hostility.

Her sometime beauty was confirmed by her son Victor, who had curly hair and the delicate skin of a Chinese mestizo. When his mother was home, Victor stayed indoors. When she was out, he would appear before the small store tucked in the building's right corner. He would sidle towards the circle of boys and just-about men who drank coca-cola, beer or plain rice wine the whole afternoon. He was ignored with a nonchalance more cruel than hatred.

He had to stand there gaping. The tiniest boy could challenge him to a fight and get away with it. Victor would not raise his fists; he would stand there, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish's snout. We knew the slightest cut on his hands would send his mother into hysteria. That morning, after their move into the flat, we had discovered his secret. That early morning, while the widow Santillan was throwing pailfuls of water on the cement landing of her front door; while she was scrubbing this with a coconut husk; while Mrs . Santos was mentally rifling through her collection of curse-words; while the women were gathered about the garden faucet and over the radio-the villain Ramon was threatening to rip away Esperanza's veil of chastity-while all these were happening, three musical notes jumped down the Santillan windows, described an arabesque on the road before fading away.

The concert of water and electronic tears receded. The woman stared at the Santillan apartment. From the windows came a music of complaint, then a raging akin to the flash of heat lightning. The anger stopped. Out of the silence walked a cool melody, stepping with the tread of moonlight.

Mrs. Santillan, head bowed, listened. When the music broke and wavered, she raised her face. Her eyes glittered, her lips moved. She said a name so strange it hovered gold and baroque in the air.

"Chopin," her lips breathed out. After a while she added, "Victor. Victor and Chopin."

She placed a forefinger on he r lips and withdrew, closing the door so reverently an impulse to cross themselves came over the women.

The monsoon season was upon us when a flowering was noticed in the neighborhood. Victor and his piano had lost their novelty. Whenever the music began, the women would simply whisper Chopin to each other, lift their hands from the suds-filled basins, flick away the soap-foam and turn the knobs of their radios.

Victor's melodies no longer drowned out the heroine Esperanza's pleas with villain Ramon.

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Mrs. Santos's hawk-eyes snagged this unfolding, one morning when the sky overcast. Tiagong Itak was mending the picket fence. Tiago, the carpe nter, with his daughter Flordeliz in a one-room shack at the Tambakan. The was a manifestation of Mr. Santos's commercial spirit. Constructed from remnants of a dismantled stage in the government office where he clerked , it supposed to augment the couple's income with re nt money. Unfortunately, Itak was a poor man and more often than not, had to pay with labor. He a master carpenter, one of a vanishing tribe , who could turn out anything handcrafted furniture to rough walls.

That morning it was the picket fence which required attention and Tiagong his machete roped to his waist, was hammering in the rails already dancing the wind. Florde liz squatted near the paint cans, playing with them while . Santos, still on the rocking chair, fanned herself, her arm going slap, slap her bosom.

"Oy, Tiago," she said suddenly, her voice hoarse from the crop at the base of neck, "Oy, Tiago, your Flordeliz is already a young woman."

Flordeliz lifted her head. She must have bee n frightened for she shifted he r to the garden faucet. Her glance ricocheted against a wall of eyes.

"You'd be tter give her to me ," Mrs. Santos called out. " Before the boys start around her tail, like flies after molasses."

The wome n laughed ; Flordeliz flushed. Tiagong Itak nodded and beamed.

Santos had been after Flordeliz for a long time now; she needed a servant pay.

"Manang," Tiago said, "let her be. She's my only child."

The woman's arm speeded up; she spat at the daisies struggling to grow near porch.

"What do you wish to do with her?" she demanded , "Marry her off to a Forbes millionaire?"

Tiago grinned , the women laughed. A strange light shone in the carpenter's "No, no," he sang out, his hammer tapping on the wood. "Not even a millioncan marry my Flordeliz. He r late mother left her to me."

A chorus of snickers erupted from the women. The girl, red mouth twitching every word, lowe red he r head .

"Not a millionaire, certainly," said Mrs. Santos, le tting loose another volley at daisies. "Someone will pinch her tail one of these days. Bad luck for you ifhe r path crosses that of a tall, dark stranger with pomaded hair."

Tiagong Itak frowned . With an efficient palm, he caught a raindrop.

"It's starting to rain," he said. "Go home, Flordeliz, and attend to the roofleaks in the house."

The women followed the girl with their eyes. Beneath the short girl-skirt, her hips curved full and heavy. She had dusky thighs and slim , golden brown legs.

The women looked at each other.

"Oy, Tiago," they called out, "Flordeliz is already a woman. Soon, with your

7

newly-honed machete, you'll be searching for a handsome stranger with pomaded hair."

Ay, Flordeliz, stray beauty. How unlucky for you that the women's words were true. Soon, the neighborhood was entertaining itself with the sight of her turning pale , dreading the corne r store whe re the young cocks spent their youth drinking coca-cola, beer and rice wine. Her legs tre mbled , not knowing whether to go forward or run away, whenever that shrill , teasing ululation split the neighborhood's silence. It warned everyone of her approach.

They sang out at her from the windows, from the store, from behind garbage cans, from 'round the garden faucet. Even the tiniest child falling in and out of the Tambakan gutters knew enough of the refrain to sing out at her: ay, Flordeliz, tell us what kind of fly stuck his hairy leg into you r molasses.

Only the Santillan windows re mained shuttered. No piano notes competed with the pleas of the steadfas t Espe ranza threatened by the villain Ramon in the endless radio soap opera. Mrs. Santillan, whe n she slipped in and out of the building, nailed he r eyes to the earth and mutte red grimly about the world's end.

Once, she passed through the aureole of a streetlight and it was seen how resolutely her chin reached downwards for he r chest.

Victor, the neighborhood's pianist, had disappeared, taking with him two pairs of pants, three t-shirts and all the money in the kitchen drawer. The women, foreheads nearly obliterated by their raised eyebrows, hailed each other with the question: who would have thought that the sissy, curly-haired and darkeyed Victor would be capable of it?

Only Tiagong Itak, as he never tired of repeating. Mrs . Santos listened to the story with the shy pleasure of a winner. Tiago had been commissioned by the widow to make two kitchen stools and thus had had the honor of entering the Santillan apartment. The way he told the story, he was planing the wood when he felt this unnatural silence behind him. He turned around. Victor was on his knees beside the toolbox, his left hand caressing the saw, his right fondling a piece of wood. His nostrils we re dilated , siphoning in the fragrance of new-cut lumbe r. Tiagong ltak nearly crossed himself at the boy's beatific look. Sympathy flew between the man and the boy like lightning. At dusk, Tiago could only charge the widow for one stool, Victor having finished the other. Not as wellmade nor as well-polished as the carpenter's handiwork but good enough for someone who had touched a carpenter's tools only that afternoon.

The widow had take n one look at Victor's face , another at the stool held up by his proud hands, a third at his fingers. Pieces of chalk, a blackboard e raser, two notebooks and a handbag dropped to the floor; Mrs. Santillan screamed-a long, thin scream which turned Tiagong Itak into an instant celebrity. The widow had seen the cuts and bruises on her son's hands. Tiagong Itak was anathematized forever fro m the Santillan residence.

Since then, Tiagong Itak had known that Victor would run away someday.

The boy was a born carpenter and had no heart , no soul, no liver even for tinke rin g with the piano. Tiago had known it, he would say while shaking his

8

head ; the boy was such a tragedy, forced to be a pianist whe n he could be, with help from Tiago, a maste r carpenter. A maestro, Tiago breathed out the word in awe.

But Tiagong Itak's wisdom was limited, as Mrs. Santos snicke red to her husband. She covered he r mouth with a fat hand lest he r laughte r be too loud. To whom, she asked, would the carpenter's daughter turn if not to the would-be carpente r? Their exile from the neighborhood brought the two together on after'noons when both the carpenter and the widow were at their respective jobs.

Flordeliz would bring one or two carpenter's tools and odd pieces ofwood. These Victor shaped and re-shaped into geometric forms.

It didn't take very long for Victor to discover the sawdust scent of Flordeliz' body. Then, something more: an elusive odor of rain forests and moss-covered rocks. The refuge she gave to him was so pleasant that he returned to it over and over again, losing himself in its quiet paths and by-ways. Alas! It wasn't very long before Flordeliz was telling him that she was pregnant. That evening, Victor ran the treadmill of nightmare, pursued by Tiagong Itak with his newly-honed machete roped to his waist.

And so on, and so forth , until the widow's unhappiness echoed from the upper floor apartment whe re she now lived alone. Victor disappeared, taking with him two pairs of pants, three t-shirts and all the money in the kitchen drawe r. This was why the neighborhood sang out at Flordeliz and even the tiniest of children, falling in and out of the Tambakan gutters, knew enough of the refrain to tease her: "Ay, Flordeliz! Tell us what kind of fly stuck his hairy leg into your molasses.

Ay, Flordeliz!"

Mrs. Santos did nothing but listen. She listened to the ululation; she listened to Tiagong Itak. She waited for him to come to the fullness of his grief. She sat on the porch and fanned herself with an ana haw leaf, he r forearm going slap, slap against her breast. She sealed her lips and swore to outlast the patience of old crocodiles.

The rains came in needlesprays, no gentler in the afternoon than in the morning. In the neighborhood's houses, the laundry lines drooped with the weight of clothes exhaling the odor of mildew. There was talk of the siyam-siyam among the women: nine days of rain followed by nine days of sunshine . To drown out the noise of the raindrops, all the radios we re turned up: the virtuous Esperanza defended he r chastity from the villain Ramon and shrieked above the incessant drone of the rain.

The silver air of that liquid afte rnoon ripped before the frantic dash of a housemaid up the road . She reached her maste r's front door, screamed twice.

The spasms of her legs threw ofTher rubber Japanese slippers. She collapsed at the landing while the eldest son opened the door and dragged her into the house.

Here she made several stabbing motions with he r right forefinger, shouted the wordjuramentado twice , and fainted.

9

The thud of her head on the cement floor was ignored. The mother leaped for the door and snapped on all the locks. Her shriek pointed the family to the upstairs rooms. As they retreated, the eldest barred all the doors and blocked the corridors with furniture .

Up and down Comburza Street doors slammed, shutters banged down, furniture was dragged from room to room. Knives were distributed among family members while those without weapons knocked the legs off tables and chairs.

They held these like clubs. Children were locked inside closets, girls and ladies were thrust into bathrooms and told to barricade themselves. The houses of Gomburza settled down, waiting for a seige.

Stepping without haste down the middle of the road, as though the whole world belonged to him, came Tiagong Itak. His chest was pare, his trousers clung to his thighs while the rain ate the mud of his feet. Tiagong Itak stopped before the Santillan door. He began to bang on it with the hilt of his machete. The neighborhood sucked in its breath. The unsheathed blade was awesome in the false dusk of the rain.

The door remained closed. A cat slithered out of the rain and took refuge in the narrow dry space beneath the eaves of the Santillan door. Tiagong Itak's hand came down in a solid arch. The cat yowled; it rolled over and streaked away, smoky red drops in its track. The rain fed on the blood. A shudder ran through the neighborhood.

From the safety of her rocking chair, Mrs. Santos caught sight of Tiagong Itak.

The picket fence stood white and inviolate between her and the world. No one had ever crossed it without her permission. She had seen Tiago pounding on the Santillan door; she had not seen his face. She had seen the cat; she had not seen the red drops on the asphalt's blackness. She covered her mouth with one fat hand lest her laughter be too loud.

"Oy, Tiago," her voice rasped out. "What did I tell you? It took you a devil ofa time to find out though."

Tiagong Itak's head swiveled. His left hand made a gesture of denial.

"I told you the boys would be after her like flies ... " Mrs. Santos had no chance to complete her satisfaction. The carpenter had leapt over the fence and was even now moving towards the porch. Her mind snagged on that leap: a man, left hand on the top of wooden post, legs apart in the air, describing an edgewise arch towards her. A curve, narrow flash followed the flight of his body. Mrs. Santos half-rose from her chair. An instinct for life blew through her three-hundred-pound mass. The neighborhood had never seen her move that fast.

Too late. Tiagong Itak caught her half-way in and half-way out of the living room door. With a neat stroke of the machete he took off her right arm. A scream more wet than the rain blanketed the neighborhood. It pushed the men a step away from the windows; the women collapsed, saints' names on their tongues.

Tiagong Itak hacked three more persons that afternoon of his short career as an amuck. Unfortunately, the end came abruptly for him with the arrival of six

10

blue-and-white cars, their red flashing lights almost merry in the gathering night . The carpenter hid himself in his shanty, but the problem he presented was speedily resolved by two dozen policemen. Pointing their weapons- 45s, M16s, carbines, BARs-at the shack, the policemen emptied one ammo clip after another for half an hour.

With the occupants of the forest of houses as audience, Tiagong Itak was dragged out of his home. His head, turning this way and that, went bump, bump against the wooden planks which functioned as waiks over the brackish waters beneath the Tambakan. Two policemen held his legs and pulled him like a cart towards a white wagon marked CITY MORGUE. Tiago's chest was black with shadows, red with blood and shredded flesh.

Flordeliz stood at the crowd's rim. She waited until the last blue-and-white car disappeared . Then she began her long walk away from Tambakan, towards Gomburza and God only knew where. The women, watching the odd way she walked, whispered of more blood and miscarriages. Since the women's words had always been true, it was possible that Flordeliz did suffer another misfortune . No one would ever know. Perhaps, she too died that night, for we never saw Flordeliz again.

Tiagong Itak's death did not appease the rain gods. Nine days passed and the sky remained overcast. The monsoon continued to fall. Men, weak or strong, suffered a common rainy fate. In the midst of the hammering of raindrops, the radios blared out warnings of a tropical depression east of the city. The typhoon nourished its strength as it crossed the ocean, its path tracked by broadcasts cutting through Esperanza's pleas with the villain Ramon. The women called out to their men and pointed to the ceilings nervously. Some men climbed to the roofs and piled adobe blocks on the corrugated, galvanized-iron sheets.

In the Tambakan, the typhoon was a pleasant topic for chains of women hunting lice in each other's hair. They sat on the bare floors and catalogued in detail the preparations they would make for the typhoon. Their weapons against the natural disaster were so intricate and so many that the women felt themselves bathed by an amber satisfaction. Nobody moved; they knew the Tambakan had always been there. Typhoon after typhoon might level it to the ground and still it would rise again: a monument to life's tenacity.

The typhoon hit the city edgewise. It sliced into electric and telephone wires, strewing them all over the road. Those that survived vibrated like plucked guitar sbings. Black posts danced themselves askew while water poured into the city canals, ran down the streets, toppled over the garbage cans and lifted cars to smash them on the sidewalks.

What a typhoon that was, ramming into the city at the tail of the monsoon clouds. The windows had to be opened before the relentless pressure of the wind set the walls and roofs exploding. Men, wet to their crotches, tossed ineffectua} rocks at the roofs to keep them from flying. But the wind crowbarred the galvanized-iron sheets and let the sky anti rain peep in. The earth, sick with water, vomited torrents which knocked down fences; carried off litter, a hundred

11

garbage cans, three ice cream carts, three men and one woman.

In the Tambakan, freed corrugated iron sheets were sailing the winds. As soon as the first house had exploded into wood splinters, the residents had risen as one. Stampeding down the wooden planks, they had jumped over the canals and battled the currents of Gomburza Street. The Gomburza residents saw the wet and bedraggled horde pass by. Babies, riding on their parents' hips, opened their toothless mouths in screams snatched by the wind. The mob passed, headed for a place of safety only they knew. In their wake, pots and kettles, frying pans, pieces of paper, clothes, and a hundred objects of living floated on the water which had begun to rise by the inch every minute and which was, even now, licking the doors of the accessorias.

For two hours, the typhoon's uproar dominated the day. The silence that followed it was so sudden the neighborhood was convinced it was the end of the world. The sun came out looking like a broken yolk, its light a strange pale orange. The calm lasted for half-an-hour; nothing was heard but a single cockcrow and the waters' lapping. Abruptly, the other side of the typhoon struck and turned everything the other way 'round.

A crash from the Tambakan told us of its disappearance. House upon house sinking into the brackish waters, perhaps to the very ooze and filth beneath. The wind howled on; the rain poured. A demon roosted over the neighborhood.

Gomburza's residents fell asleep after a cheerless supper by candlelight.

The morning after was a mockery of the night before . Though the sky was still pale and a moistness hung in the air, the flood was gone. Only black slime coated the road. Rising from their beds, the Gomburza residents hailed their survival with demands for breakfast.

The first woman to open her house's front door found a street heaving, still gasping from the night's exertions. Her scream brought the others to their own doors. Up and down Gomburza, women shrieked while the menfolk cursed and shouted.

For the waters, blocked from reaching the sea through the Tambakan, had backed up and carpeted Com burza with filth and more. Millions of worms-pale, blind to the sun, three to six inches in length, some as thin as rubber bands, others as thick as a man's little finger-crawled up and down the road. They had nowhere to go but crawled nevertheless, contracting and lengthening painfully, as if trying to dig into the asphalt and throw a blackness over their frailty.

Poor worms. To be dazzled by the light and stripped of the protective slime.

They had no cause to be left here before the public eye. Millions of them swept into the open by the monsoon rains and the typhoon waters. Millions of soft, white worms.

12

DAVID NELSON

Angel, My Angel

By the end of his first class in ninth grade, Angel Lopez had decided that he would no longe r respond to anyone who failed to pronounce his name correctly: AHN-hell. Mispronouncing someone's name , he had become convinced, was a sign of disrespect, even contempt. What convinced him was the way Mr. Newman, ninth grade Spanish teacher, whitest-skinned , blondest-haired, bluesteyed of the Anglo teachers, pronounced his name during roll call : beautifully, correctly. AHN-hell.

Angel was unable to answer immediately, swollen with pride as his chest had suddenly become. He had to clear his throat before he could finally respond in the appropriately strong, confident voice, "Presente." Mr. Newman seemed pleased with Angel's correctly formal response. He paused for a moment in his calling of the roll, looked up from his roll book and let his eyes meet Angel's. A flicker of a friendly smile crossed his face before he looked down again and continued to call out the names. As he reached the e nd of the roll he paused almost imperceptibly before he called out, as loudly and confidently as he had called out each of the other names, " Hector Yrrizarri ."

Angel had never before heard an Anglo teacher pronounce Hector's last name correctly. Hector also seemed aflected. He too paused an extra moment before answering, "Presente." Angel and Hector exchanged quick, smiling glances, and Angel knew they had shared a unique experience.

During roll call in the second period classroom, Angel began to realize how special the experience in Mr. Newman's Spanish class was becoming for him . He listened to Miss Christopherson, the algebra teacher, mispronounce the names ofall her Mexican stude nts, and he knew that he would answer only to AHN-hell.

Miss Christopherson paused only a moment when Angel did not answer her mispronunciation ofhis name. She looked quickly around the room in a scolding way, over the top of her glasses, extinguishing the few nervous giggles brought on by Angel's silence. She mispronounced his name once more, loudly, impatiently, then moved down the list.

Several of the students, both Anglos and Mexicans, gave Angel puzzled looks. Miss Christopherson had finished calling the roll, but was shaking her head and counting the students. Angel felt a twinge in his stomach when he realized he had passed a point of no re turn and could be in for some real trouble.

13

But he remembered the proud feeling of hearing Mr. Newman pronounce his name correctly, and he felt strong enough to endure whatever it was that he was going to have to endure.

Miss Christopherson completed her recount of the class. Behind her jeweled pink plastic glasses frames she looked cross. "Apparently there's someone here," she said, "whose name I haven't called. Whoever you are, you obviously are in the wrong room." Good, Angel thought. She didn't know who he was.

He knew, of course, who she was. By the time they reached ninth grade all the students had heard about Miss Christopherson's enormous bosom, which she used as a storage place for kleenex. Eve ryone in the classroom must have been anticipating that first experience of watching, as so many of their older friends had watched, Miss Christopherson unselfconsciously rummaging inside her blouse, inside her huge brassiere, shifting all that flesh around in search of kleenex.

Angel wondered about something else he had heard: could Miss Christopherson possibly be a virgin? He had heard one of last year's ninth graders call her one, holler it at her from a hiding place on the playground. Angel had been troubled because he could not find anything about Miss Christopherson that remotely resembled his idea of the Virgin Mary. When one of the older boys explained what virgin meant, it was a revelation to Angel. He wondered how, at her advanced age, Miss Christopherson could possibly be as virginal as he.

His ruminations were rudely interrupted by one of the Anglo girls in the front of the class, whom he accused in his thoughts of being as opposite from a virgin as he could imagine. She was telling Miss Christopherson that Angel (she also mispronounced his name) was the Mexican boy in the t-shirt at the end of her row. Miss Christopherson looked at him over the top of her glasses. "Is that so?" she demanded ofhim.

Angel wasn't sure how far he intended to carry his silent protest. Hector Yrrizarri had answered, even though Miss Christopherson had mangled the pronunciation of his name. Angel looked across the room at Hector, who was looking back, smiling in anticipation. Angel decided he couldn't give in.

Miss Christopherson was walking down the aisle. "Are you, or are you not, Angel Lopez?" she snapped.

Everyone in the room was looking at him. But something in the Anglos' looks was strikingly different: the Anglos were practically leering, almost unable to control their gleeful anticipation, Angel realized, of his being the first member of their class to receive Miss Christopherson's famous punishment. Just then he recalled the other thing he knew about her: she punished students by forcing them to walk around the classroom asking each of the other students to forgive them for disrupting the class. Had he disrupted the class? The class was obviously disrupted, wasn't it? But was that his fault? Angel decided it wasn't his problem .

But then he noticed the looks in the eyes of the other Mexicans watching him.

Theirs was a frighteningly different anticipation: they knew something was about

14

to happen that could make things in Miss Christophe rson's class tough for them

all. He saw that look particularly in Hector's eyes. Hector, of all people, afte r the experience they had shared in Mr. Newman's class! Hector, who only mome nts earlier had been smiling when Angel refused to answer to the mispronu nciation of his name. Angel knew what he must do, the only thing he could do.

He stood up, and Miss Ch ristopherson stopped a desk short of where he stood. She was flustered. She shifted her roll book from one hand to the othe r and started to speak. But Angel spoke first, in a strong, confident voice, the one be had discovered in Mr. Newman's class. "I am AH N-hell Lopez," he said . • AHN-hell."

Miss Christopherson looked puzzled. She looked down at her roll book, the n back at Angel. Although he was taller than Miss Christopherson, he r bulk made him feel vulne rable. A memory flashed through his mind: anothe r buxom middle-aged woman (what was her name?), the second grade teacher who had spanked him with a rule r whe n she overheard him speaking Spanish on the playground. Eve n his fathe r never spanked him with anything but his hand.

But Miss Christopherson did not spank, he remembered. She began again to say something, and Angel once more spoke first. "AHN-hell," he said very softly, very slowly, e mphasizing the correct pronunciation. Then he stood as tall as he could, feeling an unusual tenseness in his shoulders and hips, a tingling in the ends of his fingers and toes, and a slight tightness in his chest that made him short ofbreath.

The look Miss Christophe rson gave him was, he often re membered later, one of the most condescending, patronizing smiles he had ever seen . "I see," she said. He knew she did not see. She turned and walked briskly to the front of the class. She turned back toward him, still smiling that awful smile, and said, in a very controlled manner, "You may take your seat. " He had forgotten that he was standing. He sat down quickly, too quickly. He felt a thrill rush through him, a slight dizziness. Perhaps she did see! Hector caught his eye, and they both smiled as they had smiled in Mr. Newman's class.

Miss Christopherson broke in on their silent celebration. .Jo that there will be no further disruption of this class," she began, "I want you all to understand clearly that when I call your name , you are to answer immediately, or be counted absent."

No, she didn't see. The thrill that had mome ntarily filled Angel was replaced by a disgust that, though it may not have had its beginnings in that moment, was thereafter always associated in Angel's thoughts with that moment. It was not transitory, as most disgust is, but lingering, festering disgust. And although the focus of his disgust seemed at that moment to be Miss Christopherson, Angel soon realized that his disgust was far too broad to have any single focal point. It included Miss Christopherson and everyone like her; and it included Angel and everyone who was like he had been before the experience in Mr. Newman's class.

"We are all Americans in this classroom," Miss Christopherson said, "and we

15

will all he known by our American names. Is that clear?" She looked around the room , that condescending smile still froze n on her pasty face. Then she looked directly at him . The smile left her face. Her eyes looked hard. "Is that clear, AINj el?''

Ange l stared at he r with as much disgust as he knew how to inject into a stare.

And he began to see not Miss Christopherson's face at all, but the face of Gloria Garrett, the Anglo girl with whom he had e ngaged in so many stare-downs durin g seventh and eighth grade band classes.

From his chair in the trumpe t section Angel had a clear view of the mischievous-eyed Gloria, who sat in the flute section. During rests, and later even when they were playing, they would stare at each other, always observing the unspoke n rule that the first one who looked away or blinked had lost.

When they saw each other outside of the bandroom, which was seldom, Gloria always looked away. H e had never spoken to he r. Anothe r of the unspoken rules: Mexican boys did not speak to Anglo girls unless first spoken to.

Re me mbering the last time Gloria and he had tried to stare each other down made Angel feel sad . For some reason they had been able to stare without outside interruption (which , according to another of the ir unspoken rules, would have meant a draw) for so long that tears were running down Gloria's cheeks.

Ange l's eyes were burning so from dryness that he prayed she would blink soon or look away, or that they would be interrupted. The n , though he continued to stare, a strange feeling overcame him . He began to realize that Gloria, too, must wish that their staring would end somehow so that her eyes could stop burning and she could wipe those embarrassing tears from he r face. Then he began to imagine that Gloria actually felt empathy for him too, and that the tears were really coming because she realized the futility of their situation .

Angel had never thought of Gloria as anything except the flute player he stared down during band class, but now he began to allow his imagination to follow whatever course it would, and Gloria's face, with tears flowing from those mischievous eyes, became suddenly dear to him. As the tears began to roll down his face as we ll, he longed, the poignantly vague longing of adolescence, to hold Gloria, to comfort her, to wipe away her tears. "AHN-hell," he imagined her saying. "AHN-hell, my angel. " And then , when inte rruption had become the last thing he wanted , he heard someone whispe r, "She's making him cry."

"I will not stand for whispering in this class!" Miss Christophe rson snapped.

Gloria's tear-stained face gave way to the pudgy, pasty, ugly, mean face of Miss Christophe rson, eyes filled not with tears but with malice. "You," she said to Angel, "whoever you are, leave the room. " She looked around the room as if to be sure that no one had failed to recognize the gravity of her last statement, or what comple te authority she held in her classroom . "Crybabies only disrupt the class, and I won't tolerate any further disruption of my class," she said , staring again at Angel. " Do you understand?"

16

Angel was confused. He understood that he had been ordered out of the but he couldn 't unde rstand why he was crying. He wasn't crying because Miss Christopherson; he was no longer the least bit afraid of her. In fact he felt Wonderful. As good as he had ever felt in his life!

He watched with detached fascination as Miss Christopherson's rage grew.

He didn't move from his seat. He saw he r face becoming more and more red; he beard her voice rising to a more and more angry pitch, but paid no attention to her words. He was thinking.

As Miss Christopherson began to walk toward his d esk, Angel began to smile.

After class, he thought, he would search the halls until he found Gloria. He had some very important things to say to her.

17

ASABABER

The Surfer

During Rabbit's last weeks, when he knew and I knew that he was going to die, I sat with him at night.

I charted the times he was supposed to take De merol and I gave him Thorazine when he needed it. The Thorazine was for the hiccups, which came when he tried to talk too much .

At night , Rabbit kept hearing a voice on the ridgeline at the top of the valley. I do not think the voice scared him so much as it interested him . He thought it was the spirit ofhis father calling to him .

Things like that happen in Hawaii.

Then one night I heard the voice, too, although I tried to pretend that I did not. "You're stoned," I said to Rabbit when he asked me about it. "You've got too many pills in you." But I jumped again when I heard the voice clearly. It sounded like the call of a wolf.

"That 's him , brah," Rabbit smiled . He called me 'brah'-Hawaiian lingo for 'brother'-not cheaply, like the mod crowd in Waikiki, but with love.

"It's just a dog or something," I said.

"That's Seki. He knows. He's waiting for me, Bobby. He's waiting."

Seki, Rabbit's father, had shot himself through the heart with a .22 pistol ten years ago. That was right after Lowell, Rabbit's brother, had been killed in a chopper crash in Laos. Right after the burial ceremony in Punchbowl with flags and rifles and a full bird Colonel and the smell of smog and ash in the slow Kona wind.

"Seki doesn't want you to die," I said.

"Yeah , I know," Rabbit nodded. "But if I have to die, Seki's saying he'll take care of me."

I did not know what to say, so I went back to talking surfing because that helped both of us .

For a short time we were not in a shack in Palolo Valley with a tin roof that rattled in the wind and a ball of opium in the saucer on the table. We moved out of there in our minds, leaving the pain, and we got back to the water where we belonged, where we had grown up together.

I told Rabbit what he already knew: that the summer waves were good on the South Shore and that there was sewage and sharks off of Sand Island and that Kaise rs was as crowded as Publics and that Secrets had some long, heavy lefts

18

with real power.

"You been to Cunahs?" Rabbit asked.

"Not this summer," I said. " It needs five feet to show. I'm working Cliffs mostly."

"You hotdog," Rabbit said. His eyes were closed but he was smiling.

"Hey!" I said. It was one of our old jokes. I surfed Diamond Head but Rabbit had never liked it there. The tour buses stopped at the top ofKuilei Cliffs on the wide part of Kahala Avenue and all day long the tourists watched us through binoculars as if we were toys on exhibit.

"You haole hotdog." " Howl-lee, howl-lee," I exaggerated the word. "How come you always call me a haole, huh? I was raised here, too. " Rabbit was having trouble swallowing, so I kept talking to cover for him. "You call me a haole? OK, gook. Rabbit the gook. Here he is, folks . Rabbit the shy gook who surfs Secrets so nobody can see him. Awww." I pinched his thin cheeks. He tried to smile. His face was cold and there was something going on in his throat and chest that I did not understand. I waited to see if he was going to be sick but he got things under control. He was sweating.

"You think I could have anothe r hit?" Rabbit asked later. "I don't know; maybe I shouldn't go out so stoned, huh? What do you think, Bobby?"

"It's been four hours," I lied. I propped him up so he could swallow another Demerol. As I helped him lie back on his pillows, I thought for a moment that he was one of my sons and that I was a full-time father again, nursing my children through the flu . It was a good feeling.

Sometimes I took a pill with Rabbit to try and float out of my own kind of pain.

It was not Rabbit's pain of a diseased pancreas and a toxic bloodstream. But I missed my kids and I was losing my best friend and I had wasted my life. I was thirty-five years old and I should have been dead nine times over and I was burned out, wasted, like a spent shell casing. I knew there were as many kinds of pain as there were plants in the world, or trees or rocks or fish, and I knew that I was not coping with my pain as well as Rabbit was with his.

During those last days, as I watched Rabbit die slowly, I learned all over again that I am a racist and that I think there are genetic patte rns, not in weaknesses but in strengths. Most Orientals handle pain better than most Caucasians.

Rabbit may have been a Sansei, the grandson ofTatshusho Harada and the son of Seki Harada, but there was a reservoir of Japan in him . Maybe he was part samurai or part priest. Maybe sometime back in the 16th Century one of his forbearers had left Kyoto and gone into the mountains to practice calligraphy while he waited to die.

I do not know the exact history of the Harada family, but I do know that Rabbit was able to rise above his pain.

Towards the end, he decided to go without pills.

One of the best surfers I had ever seen, Rabbit had shrunk to a skeleton's weight, two operations in five months, the victim of various exotic therapies, but

19

he sat up in the middle of what was to be his final night and he handed me the Darvon and Demerol and Thorazine and Vitamin B Complex and Maalox and he said, "Wipe these out, brah."

"OK," I said. I moved the tray across the room .

"No. I mean out. Get rid of them ." Rabbit waved his thin hands. He looked both old and child-like, the quilt around his shoulders, the gray sweatsuit covering his changed body, black felt slippers on his feet. He could have been a Montagnard or a tribal chief; say a chief who had signed a bad treaty and knew it.

"You sure?" I asked him . He did not answer. I took the tray into the kitchen and pretended to throw the bottles away. But when I walked into his room again, he was smiling at me.

"Bobby," he said, " I want them out ofhere. So do it. " I felt apart from him , and I knew that he had a special intuition now, something granted only to the dying, perhaps, and I did not argue with him. I walked through the garden and towards the road where I dumped the drugs in the trash pile.

It was past midnight and I stared up the valley towards the headwaters of the Waiomao Stream and I thought that I was on the moon, an astronaut in a deep crater close to the dark side of the moon, and I was almost dizzy as I tried to track the clouds crossing the ridge.

The thought that I was praying did not occur to me then , although I suppose I was, at least in my way: prayers to all the dead, of course, and to Buddha, to Jesus, to anything that might help, mixed with quick memories of the life that was passing in review.

Me, I am so twisted and scarred that I could not stand out there in the dark like that without also checking for trip wires, watching for ambushes, monitoring the ridgeline for the flash of tracers, and yes, I know it was peacetime Honolulu, 1977, but for some of us it is always other times and other places, too. Always.

"Roberto," I said to myself, "you were present just before the destruction of a whole people."

That line came to me without my asking. It was delivered to me, and it was an awesome thought. So was the fact that Rabbit was passing into certain shadows as I stood in his vegetable garden. He had planted these flowering, budding things but he would not be around to harvest them . 路路The destruction of a whole people," I said to myself again, remembering Kroong as he listened to the sounds of the prowling tiger near Sar Lang and Baap Can weeping at the funeral of his son and Maang-the-Deputy slicing the tendons on the hocks of the buffalos before he cut their throats.

"Moi," the South Vietnamese called the Montagnards; "savages."

They are all gone now.

I was thinking about that when I heard the voice on the ridgeline again and I knew that Seki was telling me that Rabbit needed company. I walked back to the house.

"Bobby?" Rabbit whispered as I came into the room. He reached out for me.

20

His eyes were closed.

"I'm here," I said. I held his hands. It was as if we were children in Manoa again , skipping school and planning where to surf for the day.

"Thanks, brah ," Rabbit said .

"It's OK, brah ."

"No pain," Rabbit said quietly.

I squeezed his hands. "All right."

I did not know what else to do, so I talked surfing again. Rabbit nodded sometimes.

I told him how next winter we would rent a house in Haleiwa and surf Sunset and the Bay and how he could ride the winter juice in The Pipeline and how Kapono, his sister, could come with us and surfVals Reef and break the skeg on her board again at Kammieland. I took him all around Oahu one last time, even after I could see he was not breathing any more.

"Goodbye, brah," I said. "You did good. Number One." I hugged the stick figure that had been my best friend. I felt sad and tired, but I was also relieved that it was over.

After a while I walked back to the gate and hiked down to the dealer's house to use his phone. I called Kapono at the hospital. She said she would come right up but I told her to finish her shift. "I'll stay with him until you get here, lady," I said.

"He wouldn't want any fuss. " I went on to tell her we would take Rabbit's ashes out in the Hobie Cat the way he wanted, and we would sink the urn somewhere past the reef.

When I got off the phone, the dealer offered me a joint and we smoked it in silence.

"You want me to go with you?" he asked me as I got up to leave.

"No," I said, "that's OK. I'm not afraid of dead people. Some of them are my best friends."

The dealer had a poster of Jimi Hendrix on his front door and he had a vegetable garden in his yard with huge cabbage heads that looked like seaflowers in the early morning light.

I walked back up the path, past the grove of papaya trees and the palms and the high grasses. I was thinking that I was very old and that I probably did not deserve to be alive.

I decided that I did not want to be around when the valley was bought up and turned into a resort and the path was paved for tour buses and there were building cranes standing like metal birds on the tops of new condominiums.

Sitting on my Lightning Bolt tanker in the front yard, peeling old wax ofT the board, I heard sounds on the ridge line.

There were two voices this time.

21

STEVEN GOLDSBERRY Maui Lifts the Sky The following selection from the novel DEMIGOD describes how the book's hero, M aui, pushes the sky away from the earth. In the chapters that precede the two printed here the reader learns that Wakea, the sky god, is lowering to mate with Papa, the earth . When the sky and earth join they will crush mankind between them. The highest chiefs in Hawaii have dreamed, however, that a hero will emerge among their people and save them. Hekumu , the chief (Mo'i) of Maui's island, has heard ofMaui's great feats and he challenges the boy to push back the sky, which has already lowered enough to touch the rim of the volcano.

The teller of the tale is Loke, M aui's older brother.

Maui rolled from the sleeping platform before the first gray light of morning had drifted through the thatching. He filled a calabash with dried fish and sweet potato paste, offered a prayer and sacrificed a basket of red fish to our aumakua.

Then he started up the summit trail of Haleakala. For six days he was gone , the . clouds still heavy and dark as skinks, the long belly of Wakea lowering to crush us.

In Hana the Mo'i had remained afte r the end of Makahiki celebration, moving from hut to hut in his great, shining feather robe like a sun bird, laughing and looking for women .

"Now that I have tasted your best food ," he had said at the final feast, "it is time for your best women." So Akalana sent his guards down through the village collecting cowry shells from women willing to rest with Hekumu. Many were pleased at the honor, and the guards returned with a small gourd so crammed with cowries it did not rattle. " How many have agreed?" Hekumu asked my father.

Akalana shook the gourd. No sound.

Hekumu's eyes widened, the n narrowed. "None?" he growled through his teeth . "Then blood ... "he began, but Akalana's smile made him stop. "I see Maui is not the only one in your family who enjoys tricks," Hekumu said, chuckling softly. "Give me the gourd ."

The cowries clicked as he poured them into a heap on the stones. He stared at them for a while, tried counting, but quit. Then he looked at Akalana, smiled and sighed as some voyagers do when they push their canoe from shore at the beginning of a long journey home, and said happily, "Where do I begin?"

On the sixth night of Maui's absence, however, Hekumu's love making was interrupted. One ofhis retainers lay prostrate in the doorway of the hut. "Great one, I would more willingly cut parts from my body and eat myself to nothing than disturb you at this moment," the man said. " But the guards have seen

22

A light in the sky."

Hekumu grunted fiercely in the darkness, the n stumbled slowly to his feet. as you are," he told the woman.

Outside, the Mo'i's closest retainers argued. "It is Wakea's navel," one said, another, "No, it is the eye of a giant eel coming to feed on our bodies once has crushed us ."

The Mo'i was suddenly among them, naked, scratching his crotch, his dark leading him like a dead moon. "Where is this thing?" he asked. One of his men pointed toward the ocean, while the others fluttered about, hastily draping bpacloth over their chief's shoulders. H ekumu peered at the horizon. " I cannot see it," he said.

"It is there, great one, a hand's length above the water."

Beneath a rolling bank of black clouds that pitched like the black sea below them, an area of spectral gray, like a smear, held in its cente r a tiny glittering light. Hekumu let out a sigh. "Have the clouds ofWakea threatened us so long that you have forgotten what a star looks like?" he asked. "Go and bring Iki to me.

He will explain this."

"I am here," a voice said, a hiss like weeds .

A retainer held out a stone bowl with a candle-nut burning inside, and it illumined the bare, ancient face of the Mo'i's priest. He stepped from the gloom ''"""'""',""the trees, a kahuna staff in his hand. He shivered with age. "Of course it is a star," he said. "But it is not necessarily a sign. If Wakea wishes to copulate with Papa no mortal can stop him . Maui will be killed, I am certain."

"Mo'i, there is another!" a retaine r said, pointing at a second star glistening brightly. Then another gleamed through the darkness, and another, like dew on rotting peat, until the horizon was edged with stars.

"A slight clearing," hissed the old kahuna. "Wakea shifts his position is all."

But suddenly a great explosive wind roared at them, bending back the trees, tearing the leaves to spinning tatters, flattening the bushes. It knocked over the hut. The woman inside screamed . It stripped Hekumu of the kapa and sent him huddling to the ground with the others, his huge naked bottom high and obscene, like a ripe, split breadfruit. A stinging salt spray blew up from the ocean and howled ove r the rocks. 路 Then, as quickly as it had risen, the wind dropped . The woman whimpered inside the collapsed hut. The trees stood silent and tall. And the sky, a deep, smooth, cloudless black, open and distant once more, was spatte red with stars.

"Oh gods, he has done it," muttered Hekumu , as he gazed at the star-filled heavens. From the closest temples a faint chorus of voices could be heard shouting " Mauil Maui!"

No one slept that night. All the people stood outside their houses, watching the cold, shimmering fires of the stars. Some recited chants about Maui. At dawn everyone in the district lined the shores, standing on the beaches or cliffs, in trees or on surf-sharpened lava flows, waiting. When the orange rim of the sun broke above the waves, everyone cheered. The sky was clear and high as it had iantToPth,in<J

23

been before. Later in the day a kite flew from the top of the mountain, just a white speck against the rich blue of the sky. It was Maui's kite, his signal that he had flung Wakea back to his distant home.

Hekumu ordered a great feast prepared in honor of my little brother. He could do nothing else. He was jealous of our family, it is true, and I think he began to fear Maui already, but he knew a wise ruler did not show these emotions. Instead he acted as happy as everyone else, smiling continually, practically dancing wherever he walked. He had the best pigs slaughtered for Maui, and wandered the feasting site with his kahunas to bless each bowl, cup, and leaf, every scrap of food.

Maui returned in the middle of the next day. Runners spotted him in the hills above Hana, and by the time he appeared from the rainforest the feast was ready.

Kapu was law again and the powerful Mo'i once more held sacred. Maui crawled across the huge feasting mats to Hekumu's feet.

The men in our family sat silent in a wide half-circle on each side of the Mo'i.

Kahili-bearers knelt behind them, as still as wooden gods, the feathers at the tops of the kahili poles trembling yellow in the windy sunlight. The rest of the ali'i and the kahunas of Hana gathered at the far ends of the mats. The women set their bowls away from us, out of our sight. They waited a safe distance from our concentrated mana for whatever food we left.

The men did not move or speak. Hekumu would speak. Steam floated from the hot kalua pig, the taro leaf and the whitefish on the platters before us, but Maui noticed none of this. His face was pressed to the mat where Hekumu stood, and he smelled only the sun-warmed sweetrot of the hala leaves. The long silence made me think of what Wawena had told me, how no one ever knew what Hekumu might do next. Maybe the Mo'i had been so insulted by Maui's pushing back the sky that he would have him seized and then sacrificed, standing behind the executioner himself to better see my brother's head smashed open beneath the heavy club. But at last he spoke.

"Maui-of-the-sky!" he proclaimed, raising both his hands. "You should walk your natural height before me. The mana of one who can lift the body ofWakea and restore the blue color to the heavens is great enough for him to walk among the highest chiefs. " Maui looked up . "It is said that lizards walk upright in the forest," he told Hekumu. " But when men are near, they crawl."

Hekumu's belly jiggled with a silent laughter that soon shook his chest and shoulders. He wheezed, trying to control himself, and slapped his stomach like a dancing gourd. "You delight me, Maui," he said. "You are as wise as you are strong. A young sage." But he paused, suddenly serious, and said, "Haiki tells me to beware of men whose words I admire."

Maui rose to his knees. "A chief does not fear the sandals he walks on," he said.

A fit of laughter again rocked Hekumu. His whole body quaked, and a squealing, odd laugh finally burst from him, sending a flock of birds in a tree

24

behind us clattering into the air. "Good, good, excelle nt, my boy! Now let us hear from this low sandal, this tiny lizard who has struggled with a god who is the entire sky!"

Maui stood slowly. His head was bowed with deference, but from where I sat I could see the grin on his face. "What would you hear, great one?" he asked . " How you have accomplished this feat," Hekumu said.

"There is little more to say than it is done ," Maui said with a shrug. "And the lava vents of Haleakala are plugged. I dropped boulde rs into the holes."

The Mo'i lowered an eyebrow. "Runners from the south island tell me that Pele is quiet the re, as well. Above Mauna Loa her white smoke spins into the air.

That is all. Did you plug those craters, too?"

"Who can tell what Pele did when I threw the rocks in on he r roof? Maybe she ran through the earth and sealed the othe r craters in fear."

The re was a stillness then. A few palm leaves rattled in the wind. The women's voices floated up from the bottom of the hill. Hekumu stared at Maui for a long time, and at last said in deep, sombe r tones, "I hope you have not made an enemy of the goddess, Maui. She would prove a more vicious oppone nt to you than Kaua did."

"I have made no enemies by what I have done," said Maui. He smiled . " He has, Mo'i," exclaimed Iki. The old high priest came forward, trembling as he always did. The kahuna staff he held waved high in the air, as if it were alive and wanted to fly to the clouds. He pulled it down with both hands and knocked it on the ground several times until he seemed to have control of it once again.

Then he glared at Maui, his eyes black and round as pipipi shells. "Maui has insulted Pele and her clan," he hissed, "and many other gods besides. He will answer for his sacrilege."

Akalana leaped from his place in the row of chiefs. "Do you curse my son ?" he asked .

Iki looked at my father with hatred in his eyes, but he said nothing. A ball of spit rolled between his teeth. He was a terrible , frightening little man, dark and crooked as a root, nearly hairless as I am now, and so old even the n that he seemed ageless. His power came from deep inside him, a mana of blackness, an intense evil that burned beneath his lizard skin . He looked at Hekumu and the n at my brother. "You will answer," he told Maui.

Akalana was be hind Iki then, and I thought, as angry as he was, that he might grab the kah una's head and snap it ofT that small, brittle body. But he me rely repeated his question. "Do you curse my son?"

"I interpret the signs," Iki said without looking at him .

"What signs?" Akalana asked. "The blue sky? The wind's return? Maui insults no gods, kahuna. There have been no ominous signs."

"The signs you do not know," said Iki, the color in his face rising. "Do not doubt a kahuna, Akalana. I have spoken. " The Mo'i stepped forward with a broad smile and clapped his arm around Akalana's shoulders. "These have been difficult days for us all," he said. "They

25

confuse us. I do not understand how a mere boy, even one with the strength and cunning of Maui, could force a god to retreat as he has done. You do not understand the mysteries of my kahuna. If Iki really had cursed your son he would be quivering like a speared fish at our feet. But he is well." Hekumu hooked my father's arm in his and pulled him a few steps away from the kahuna. "Iki is sensitive to things we are not," he said. "Every time I ask him to explain how he knows something, he refuses. But I will tell you something else," he whispered.

"Sometimes he is wrong."

Akalana knew what Hekumu was doing. There had been another ali'i on the west slope of the mountain. Hekumu, during one ofhis visits, wanted the man's wife, and by custom could have requested her. Instead he asked for her retainer, a woman so ugly that men claimed birds fell dead out of the trees she walked under. The ali'i's wife was beautiful, and Hekumu's choice made her seem worthless. Naturally, the ali'i was insulted. He questioned Hekumu about it and was put to death for doubting the wi"sdom of the Mo'i. Hekumu then took the woman and made her his own wife. He had wanted her for longerthanjustthefewnights he would stay, and this was the only way he could take her from her husband.

Hekumu was devious. In front of all the chiefs he had just taken the side of his priest, but the words he whispered to Akalana were meant to encourage the argument. Yet if my father said anything more, it would be against the Mo'i.

"Kahunas should be left to their secrets," Akalana said, and he returned to his place on the mat.

The Mo'i called after him. "But tell me, kalaimoku, what if they are wrongr "Only events can prove the kahunas wrong," said Akalana, "not men."

"Yes, yes," said Hekumu uneasily. He had not snared my father in his trap.

"Yes," he said again, standing where Akalana had left him, not knowing what to do. "You are right, of course." He crossed the mats to the platform where he would sit, but then turned quickly, his feathered robe swirling outward in a flashing circle, and he walked back to Akalana. "Stand up," he said.

Akalana rose.

Hekumu leaned toward him. "When the event proves the kahuna wrong, do we then raise our voices against the kahuna?"

"The event has its own voice," Akalana said. "It speaks so all may hear, even the kahuna."

Hekumu looked confused and upset. He scratched nervously at his chin.

"Yes," he said. "Well, I am certain Maui knows about both the good and evil that may come to him for what he as done."

He clapped his hands, and two retainers rushed to kneel at his feet. They removed his robe and helmet, and escorted him to the royal platform, where he sat down heavily and reached for a large cup of awa. He took a swallow of the liquid and gave a troubled look at Akalana. Haiki joined the Mo'i, folding his spindly arms and legs close to his body as he sat, like a marsh crane settling down in its nest. They drank together and talked a few moments, while the rest of us waited. Maui was sitting now, so his head would not be higher than the Mo'i's.

26

Again Hekumu looked at Akalana. Finally he turned to my brother and said, ~Now, Maui-of-the-sky, tell us of your struggle with Wakea."

What Maui told us, as we began the feast, has since grown with legend and is now many stories. In one of them Maui changes into a hawk and carries two snapping eels in his talons. The eels bite at Wakea until he climbs away from the earth. In another Maui is given a sharp adze carved out of one of the moon's bones. With it he chops at Wakea's body until he has hollowed out the great curving dome of the sky. In a later story Maui eats the glowing blue worms that live on the ocean surface, and this Hils his phallus with light, making it rigid.

When it has swollen to its highest point it erupts with what become the stars.

Wakea is shamed and disappears. Falling stars are said to be the last few spurts.

What nonsense. I will tell you the truth, as Maui told it. After Hekumu had asked him to begin, Maui sat back on the mats, crossed his legs, and pointed toward Kaupo. "All of you know where the old lava flow comes down to the sea," he said in a strong, clear voice. "That is where I began my climb up the volcano.

The clouds were low, black and shining like dog grease, and I knew that somewhere within the dark mass was the great body ofWakea. I thought I could scale the ridges and chop down a tree to use as a lever against him. I climbed to a point just below the clouds. They churned black mist, darker than muddy water. I thrust my arm in and could not see my hand. I moved across the lava flow, hoping to find a break where the clouds were less thick, but they formed a solid wall of pitch as far as I could see. When I finally climbed inside the clouds I was lost.

Several times I tried to turn back, but as I started over my steps there were suddenly trees and rocks in my way that I had not seen before. I staggered about for days, getting colder and weaker, falling more and more often. I could not find Wakea. Then I stumbled over something, a root I suppose, and fell into a stream.

The water was red. I thought I had cut myself and that it was my blood I saw bubbling up around me. I was too weak to climb out, so I lay back against 路the bank, hoping some strength would return. I watched the red water splash over my legs. I may have slept, but when I looked again the water was orange. Soon it became yellow. Then green. I rubbed my eyes. The water turned a brilliant blue. Then purple. My curiosity strengthened me, and I pulled myself out of the stream and followed its swirling colors through the vines and trees until I came to a small hale."

"A hale!" Hekumu roared. The awa was having its effect on him . "Does anyone live that high in the rainforest?" he asked.

"It was not a normal hale, great one," said Maui. " It was the house of a goddess. The walls and roof were thatched of ti and fern leaves that were green and alive. The stream flowed from a spring inside the house, spilling out of the doorway in place of a path. I peered in, but even with the light the stream was giving off I could see nothing. Then a woman's voice, soft as a breeze, called to me. "Maui, you must rest from your jou;ney. Come in where the kapa is dry." ~Oho! " bellowed Hekumu. He laughed and his retainers laughed with him.

27

Maui bowed his head in embarrassment. "It is true, great one, that I made love to the goddess," he said . "I waded through the water into her hale, and once inside I could see everything clearly. She sat next to the spring, combing her long hair. She was singing a beautiful mele. When I stepped out of the stream onto the dry floor, she wrapped me in kapa and gave me a sort ofwhite poi to eat. Then she let me sleep. When I woke she was lying naked beside me, the colors from the light of the stream shimmering on her skin. ' I am Anuenue, the rainbow goddess,' she said . 'I will help you to protect your people .' She sat up and held out her hand. In her palm were five stones, each a different shade ofblue. 'This big one is the sky god,' she told me. 'The smallest is the kite you will sail between Wakea and Papa when you have pushed them apart. This stone is you, Maui, and the other is me. That they are touching means you will make love with me.' 'And what is the last stone?' I asked. 'You will know tomorrow,' she said, lying back down. It was difficult to tell when night came and went. The doorway see med to darken slightly for a time, but路 the hale remained illumined by the flickering rainbow colors of the stream . I held the goddess in my arms . When it was morning she fed me again, this time with mushrooms and lichens. She brought a shallow, open calabash ofwater and handed it to me. 'It is magic water,' she said.

'The other stone I showed you last night represents this water. It will give you the ability to find Wakea in the clouds and the strength to push back his horrible weight.' Before she let me drink, she took the stone and dropped it into the gourd. 'Watch it as it falls through the water,' she said. The stone sank deep, as though into a bottomless pool, becoming smaller and smaller and finally too small to see. 'Now drink,' she said. When I left he r house I found that my vision was sharper. I could see through the clouds, and I beheld almost the e ntire, gigantic body of Wakea, stretching across the heavens to the edge of the world. To the south, toward Kahiki, his legs floated , as wide as islands. His arms disappeared over the horizons to the east and west. His chest rested on the peak ofHaleakala.

The kahunas were right. The god was descending in his lust to couple with Papa, and I could see her body rising slowly toward his, her legs spreading for the dreaded union of earth and sky that would crush us all."

Hekumu stood suddenly, a cup of awa in each of his hands, and spoke loudly and happily about something. His words slurred so that none of us could tell what he said, but he talked on, grunting, moving his hips in and out, and it became clear that he was taking joy from the lovemaking Maui referred to in his story.

Hekumu approved. He motioned for Maui to continue, then thudded back down on the platform and filled his cups again.

"After dim bing steadily up the side of the volcano," Maui said, "I entered the broken bowl of the crater. It was almost night. Wakea's chest spanned rim to rim , a roof that made the open pit a black cave. Had it not been for the water of Anuenue my eyes would have been useless. But I saw well enough to identify the cinder cones on the crater floor, and when I found Puu Maile I scaled its flank and began to push against Wakea's body. I put my ear to what I guessed was a rib, and I heard , beyond the coarse, tight skin , the distant booming of his great heart and

28

the full tide of blood crashing through his veins. I felt smaller than an ant. I wanted to think about this, to plan something out, but the rumble of a rock slide somewhere in the volcano hurried me. I leaned my shoulder into the god and strained against the awesome weight. The loose rock I stood on gave way and I rolled to the bottom of the cone. I ran over to the wall ofKumuiliahi and climbed up to Kolekole to try again. The rock was solid there. I squeezed in under Wakea and braced myself once more against him, both shoulders locked tight to his body, hands up, legs and back tensed. When I was ready I sprang upward with all my strength, screaming beneath that weight, and shoved the god away from the earth. It felt as though every strand of muscle in my body had snapped at once. I fainted."

Maui stopped talking to look at Hekumu, who had just slumped into a faint himself. "It is only the awa," the Mo'i's chief retainer said. "Please go on with your tale." Everyone laughed, for it was plain that my brother's story held the attention of all, even of the servants, who should have watched only their masters.

Maui continued. "When I opened my eyes, the sun was burning high and silver-white in a cloudless blue. I felt as though my spirit had returned to my body after years of death. I eased myself up slowly and rested on my elbows.

Aches drummed my bones. I could scarcely hold my head up. Then I saw that my legs from the knees down were gone. It is strange how fear will give the weariest man the energy of a hundred, transform the dead calm of his body into a raging gale. I leaped up, cursing, trying to see where my legs had been torn off. Tears filled my eyes. I beat wildly at my chest, thinking that to save the islands I had given up my legs. Only then did I realize I was standing. I had pushed against Wakea with so much force that my legs were sunk, up to the thighs, in hard lava rock. I stood as though I were wading through solid stone. There is no more to tell. The holes my legs left are still there , by the rim path. If you climb the mountain you will find them . Before leaving I made the kite Anuenue had spoken of, the smallest of the five stones. She had given me a walking-net with the sticks, olona twine, and paperbark I needed. As I flew the kite I sang a kiteflying chant: Hear me, Wind, Full breath of Kane.

Move once more through your seasons.

I give you space to roam, Freedom to cast and squall, As turbulent as thought, As wild and raw as earth's blood.

In return I ask you, Clear-brother-of-ocean-currents, For your power and your magic.

29

Lift this kite Into the sunlight and air.

Sail the kite of Maui For all of our people to see."

30

MARJORIE SINCLAIR

The Children

I hadn't noticed the quick turn of the tide. Water eddied around the reef in great spirals which gathered into waves. They rose against the large flat rock where I had established my little station to watch the shearwaters. They began to spill over it. There wasn't much time. I threw my gear together in the backpack.

The old man at the village post office had warned me. "That rock no good for you.

More better you stay the beach. Tide come in quick some time." The tides did come in quick sometimes. But the rock was the best place to observe the shearwaters nesting in the cliff.

I hoisted the pack to my back. Then I heard it: the sound I had been waiting for. A strange moaning and wailing. The birds were announcing-tomorrow their eggs would be laid in the small cave of the seacliff. It was a great moment for me. I shouted to the sea. "Come on in! Tomorrow's the day!"

I slogged through water up to my waist. I crossed the wet beach sand to my cottage. It was good to take a hot shower and start the stew bubbling on the stove.

Then as I unpacked my gear, I remembered the moment ofpanic. Dark powerful water. The night coming swiftly to the valley. I had tried to shut out this moment of nightmare. This and the old man's warning.

After supper, I began to transcribe notes taken during the day. Around eight o'clock came a knock. I opened the door. An old woman stood there with a boy and girl. She asked if she could talk to me and she ordered the children to wait on the steps.

In the lamplight her hair was like seafoam, glittering white with yellow edges . Her skin was the gold-brown color of the Hawaiian. She sat in the old wicker chair and rocked silently. I offered her coffee . She refused. I told her my name. She said she knew it. I was bewildered. She was abrupt in manner yet seemed to be warn~. "You have seen the boy and girl," she said. "I worry about them."

She continued to rock, and I waited.

"If I should die, I want you to send them to their aunty in Honolulu. They are my daughter's children , my youngest daughte r. Poor child, she drowned about ten years ago. That tricky tide near where you work."

"Can't someone in the village send them to Honolulu?"

"They say you are a scientist. Something about birds. I know that a person like you will make sure they get to their aunty. " Her eyes, as darting as those of a

31

Hawaiian stilt, paused to study me. She saw my confusion. " I know it sounds ridiculous. The reason is simple . People here are easy-going. The children have strong wills. They might ne ve r get to Honolulu ." She sighed. "They have their own way."

She stood up as if all we re settled.

I protested . " I can't do this for you. In a month or two I will have to go back to the University."

"I know that. And 1 am askin g a great favor of you. Too great a favor. But it seems the only way." She took a step toward me. Her eyes, deep in their sockets, were clear. "You probably think I won't die. But 1 will. Soon ." She laid a hand gently on my arm. "It's not a big job. The re's plenty of money. Those childre n are special. " She went to the door and put her fin gers around the knob. " Really special. " 'Tm a complete stranger he re-it's not right," You h ave been chosen!"

"Chosen?"

She laughed . "By me, of course. " She ope ned the door and called the children. The boy was the older of the two, perhaps thirteen, the girl eleven or twelve-both had dark eyes and hair and strong bodies. With her hand she waved them ahead of her. I watched the m ope n the gate. They walked quickly to the curve in the road and we re gone.

I closed the door and leaned against it. 1 felt as if I had been running. It was like the moment when I saw the rising tide. What did it all mean? Why did she say I was chosen? For what? The word had a sound like the tide spinning around me.

I went to the rocker and sat down . Nothing had changed , really. It was as if the old woman had never come. I got up and went to my desk. The notes were the re, partially transcribed . I turned to the typewriter. E verything was quiet, except for the drip of rain . Had 1 imagined everything? Chosen! Because I studied birds. Two childre n!

It was easy to imagine things in this remote village whe re time was measured by the coming of the dawn and the coming of the night. The place was old; there were old Hawaiian house platforms still standing. The weather was rai ny. The trees dripped continually. Sea tides often sent fingers of water under some of the cottages. The cliff whe re the birds nested cut off the sun early in the afternoon.

We seemed to live in pe rpetual dusk.

1 kept a lookout in the village for the old woman and the children . 1 did not see them. I asked at the post office and at the store. Yes, everyone knew the old woman- they called her Tutu . The store clerk said she came occasionally to shop . I sensed a hesitation to talk each time I asked anyone. An anxiety lingered and I pushed it out of my mind. Fortunately the shearwaters took most of the time.

32

r

2 One day I came home from the cliff to fmd the children seated on my lanai.

They each had a small suitcase. "Tutu died," the boy announced quietly-as if it were a simple fact. I was startled. I had heard no news of a death in the village.

"Please come in," I said hurriedly. 'Til make some hot chocolate." In the kitchen I wondered at my lack of feeling. The children were beautiful, but they were very composed-they were not children who needed the reassurance of an embrace. Furthermore I couldn't quite believe that Tutu was really dead.

I carried the chocolate back to the living room . The children sipped it and ate a plate of cookies. They said the old woman had died in her sleep. The girl said she had gone into Tutu's bedroom in the morning and thought that she looked strange. She touched her forehead. It was cold. "I screamed. I screamed and screamed and hid my eyes." I reached an arm toward the girl , but she withdrew from my touch.

They said a week had gone by since Tutu's death . I asked where they had been staying. In Tutu's house . They had packed he r things with the help of some of the old "aunties" in the village and sent them to Honolulu. I realized as they told me all this that they were older than I first thought. The boy was about seventeen. The girl sixteen.

I asked if their Honolulu aunty had come for the funeral . They said no, that she had never returned to the village after the death of their mother. I told them I would have to write her and keep my promise to their grandmother.

"There is no hurry," the boy said.

"If you don't mind-we would like to stay with you for a while," the girl said.

"This has been so sudden. Tutu was not even sick. Not for one day."

Her eyes were clear and large like her grandmother's, but they had not settled into the sockets. They protruded slightly. This increased their shine.

"Ofcourse, you must get used to things," I said reluctantly. I told the girl that she might have the spare bedroom. But the boy would have to sleep on the couch in the living room .

"We will share the same room ," he said firmly.

Before I could respond, the girl put in, "We will be very lonely for a while.

We must be together."

I felt quite helpless against their gentle determination. They settled everything. They picked up their suitcases and carried them to the spare room. They closed the door. I couldn't stop them-I couldn't reach them . They seemed to make their own rules, like the birds. I remembered their grandmother had spoken of their will.

I went to the study to unpack my gear. Everything was as quiet as it had been before my strange guests arrived. I sat at the desk, I looked at the tangle of shearwater notes I had taken that day. The stillness throbbed in my neck. Then I remembered I must shower and get some supper on the table . But first, the letter to the aunt.

33

The reply from the aunt said that it was just as well for the children to stay a while with me. She planned to be in California on holiday. Her letter sounded as if she didn't particularly want the children . I wondered about this-and their obvious reluctance to be with her.

I would find it hard to say what they did with their days. I wasn't sure that they went to school. They made themselves unobtrusive. This seemed unnatural in children; but their grandmother had said they were "special." When I reached home late each afternoon, I usually found the girl in the kitchen preparing supper. The two quickly and quietly took over the running of the household; they shopped, they cleaned , they prepared meals. They even worked in the vegetable garden . They were no bother. They were even a help. But in being no bother they worried me.

Fortunately when I was at the cliff taking notes on the shearwaters I could forget them in the way you forget a worry: but it was always there deep down. On my homeward walk anxiety returned. I felt quite saddled and I could think of nothing to do. Tutu had reared them in a special way- I shouldn't meddle with her work. Yet they lived in my house. I couldn't take children in as comfortably as Hawaiians could .

I needed someone to talk to. There was the old man at the post office who had warned me of the tides. He was much respected, I knew. People said he had the old wisdom. I found him in his dilapidated chair near the mail drop. I told him something of my feeling.

"Why you worry?" he asked . ''I'll have to go back soon. And what will the children do then?"

"The children no trouble. They take care themselves."

"They are good, helpful children . But I can't be responsible for them."

"You no responsible. Tutu never expect that. Bye and bye the aunty come back to Honolulu. They go away then. Why you worry so much?"

He took ofT his hat and placed it on his lap. I saw for the first time the luxuriance ofhis white hair. He slowly stroked the feather hat band. "They're just two kids. Don't worry. Don't fill your house with sea fog." He looked up and smiled, then put on his hat.

3 One evening the boy was not home at supper. I asked Pua. "He can take care of himself," she said. She had prepared a delicious stew of beef with carrots, onions and seaweed , a dish her brother particularly liked . I noticed a curious smile of disappointment-yet a proud smile. She had not expected his departure.

At first we ate silently. Then I said, ''I'm concerned about Keala. He usually tells us."

"He'll have a good supper."

"Then you know where he is," "No, it's just that he likes to eat ."

34

That evening after the dishes were finished, Pua kept me in the living room.

She talked of village life, of the haggard old woman who had once been a great dancer and then had been crippled with arthritis; of the young girl at the back of the valley who had killed her baby and who was hidden from the police; of the old man two houses away who kept old chants he had recorded in a metal trunk. He bad prepared them for the Museum and then decided not to give them . I was surprised at her talk. Pua and Keala seemed always to keep aloof from village life.

I had a feeling that Tutu seldom allowed them intimacies with the villagers-she had a fierce conviction that they were set apart .

More than a week passed, and Keala did not return. Pua became restless.

One day she even followed me to the cliff. After supper on that day she said suddenly, "I'll bring him back."

"Please do. Tell him we miss him."

The next morning as usual I rose at dawn. I did my exercises and then paused at the window to breathe deeply in the early light. Pua was in the garden. She wore a black muumuu and a wreath offerns around her head. She was seated on a clump of grass, her hands in her lap. Nothing about her moved. I watched a moment, then turned away. I felt as if I were spying. I dressed and put my gear in order for the day's work. Before leaving the room, I glanced from the window.

She was no longer there.

She me t me at the kitchen door. She was in blue jeans; her face was pale. 路Keala's not ready to come home." I couldn't question her further.

In the evening she asked if I had noticed the clouds. I said no and she told me I should always watch cloud formations. They were a kind of language. I said I supposed she was right.

"Tutu would be displeased with you," she said firmly. "She would not like your doubt."

"I believe that clouds speak of weather-winds and rains, the temperature of the high sky and the ground. They have their own language."

"They speak to us ." She was vaguely sullen.

I felt as if cobwebs were being smeared over my face.

"When the clouds look like eyes again, Keala will come."

I shrugged my shoulders and sat down to a rather cold boiled egg she had prepared .

Pua's words about clouds as eyes must have gone deep-although I certainly didn't know it at the moment. That night I dreamed of the moon ; it was an eye painted on a stormy sea. The sea kept trying to drown the eye-and to drown me. The horror of it woke me. At breakfast I asked Pua about cloud-eyes. She said simply that they were a special formation; and then hurried on to talk about worms eating the garden lettuce.

Afew days later I came home from the cliffwet and tired. The tide had turned suddenly again and enveloped me before I could reach the higher levels of the sand. When I was on my garden path, I thought I heard a baby crying in the

35

house. I stopped, I listened. Yes, there was the wail of an infant. At that very moment I saw an illusion of the moon-eye painted on the sea. It seemed to be rolling ahead of me on the path .

I went in the house. I got out of my wet clothes and took a shower. I went to Pua's room. A baby was on her bed. She was holding a flower to distract it.

"Whose baby is that?" I felt my voice was almost too sharp but I couldn't avoid it.

"This is my sister Victoria."

"But I thought your mother ... " Then I remembered the Hawaiian custom of hanai. Tutu must have adopted the baby shortly before she died. And now the baby was in my household.

I stood at the edge of the bed and watched Victoria. Her large eyes came into focus on me. She stopped crying. She was beautiful. Pua might have been like this when she was an infant. I leaned over and touched her small fingers . She smiled. "She loves you already," Pua said.

"I hope so ... Pua, I'm worn out tonight. The tide caught me and I had to swim part of the way back. I'll just have a bowl of soup and go to bed." I added, "I hope the baby doesn't cry at night."

She put Victoria on a sleeping bag on the floor. "I'll make the soup for you."

She ran from the room. I sat down next to the infant. She was chewing her fist. I could see her diaper was soaked. So I changed it and rubbed her gently with powder. Pua had everything for the baby's care on her dresser. I picked up Victoria and held her close. An irrational love warmed my cheeks. I kissed her forehead and put her down. She clasped my finger with her small hand.

At supper I asked Pua about Victoria. "She belongs to Keala and me. Grandmother entrusted her to our care . We didn't want to bother you with her at first."

"Do you know who the mother is?"

"Of course. I am." Her face was closed. I did not ask who the father was.

4

Victoria's coming upset the tranquility of the household . She had to be cared for while Pua went to school and I was at the cliff. I learned then that Pua did indeed go to school. She had arranged for several of the many 路路 aunties" to take turns baby-sitting. Occasionally no one could come and I had to watch the baby.

It interrupted the regular chronicle I should have kept of the bird life at the cliff.

All these strange things happening-Victoria's coming, Keala's continued absence, and simply the presence of the children. I grew irritable. And more anxious. I wondered what I should do. I needed to talk with someone.

I couldn't concentrate on the shearwaters. I looked at my notes during the evenings. They seemed to be remote-like dusty accounts too long hidden in a museum drawer. I wondered what would happen to them after I was dead. I probably would never put them into shape for the little book which was to be the small climax to my career. I imagined that someone would stow them away at the back of a cabinet. It troubled me that notes which were an account of a flow of

36

life-sheaJWate r life and my life-should reach so total an obscurity.

The moon-eye dream came ofte n. I would awake n afterwards, my body hot with fear. Often I got up and let the wind blow over me at the window. The darkness outside was like a great heavy transparency. I could hear the surf and smell the odor of the dank village.

One morning when I went to the kitchen, Keala was there. He was frying bacon . This time he was not aloof. He put his arms around me and said courteous and affectionate things. I didn't ask where he had been-though I wanted to.

Pua said happily, "You see, he's back. He always comes back. " Victoria began to cry. She was in the basket Pua had rigged for her so that she could be with us at all times. Keala picked her up and threw her into the air. She was delighted and laughed.

'Tm glad you're back," I said.

He said, "Pua brought me back. She can always bring me back. She knows the words which fly."

I ignored his last comment. "I think it's time to write your aunty again. " I was suddenly very sure-I knew what I must do about the childre n. They were-so to say-drowning me. And I wasn't going to be drowned.

"Yes, I suppose you should write," Keala said . "Tutu wanted us to be with Aunty-though we'd rather be he re."

Pua put in, "You won't have to write . Aunty will come in two or three days."

"How can you be sure?"

"Pua always knows," Keala said . "She reads the clouds with eyes."

The bacon began to burn. Pua but a bottle of orange juice to Victoria's lips.

The next morning no baby sitter appeared. I decided to take Victoria with me to the cliff. I fixed a backpack to hold her and put my usual gear in a small bag. We set off through the village streets. The people came up to poke Victoria gently on the cheek. I told them she was going to help me with my work.

At the cliff I found a sheltered place for the baby near a naupaka shrub. After she was propped in the warm sand, I rolled up my slacks and waded through the shallows to the cliff. The tide was coming in ; the water eddied around the reef in great swirls which joined and flowed in a turbulent channel outward again. I perched on my usual rock. The shearwater chicks were all in their little niches and small caves. They had grown enough to be quite active; when their parents came with food , they squawked lustily. They were beginning to fledge, and I took out my binoculars to examine the new feathers.

I don't know how much time passed, but I noticed suddenly how cold my back was. The wind had risen. The sky was overcast. A wave washed over my knees. I turned to look for Victoria. She was floating seaward on my backpack. It made a little inflated raft for her. I dived off the rock into the open water and swam after he r. The tides had become quite turbulent and shifting. The winds lashed spray into my face. There were times when I could not see Victoria as she

37

sank into a trough ofwaves. In those moments I felt panic and hurled myselfwith a floundering energy through the water. A wave tossed Victoria within arm's length of me. I lunged. I could feel her tiny toe against my hand. A large sea slammed my face . In it I could see the moon-eye as clear as if it were some 路prehistoric fish .

When the water cleared from my eyes, Victoria had vanished. I started swimming frantically. Then a wave lifted her and I saw the baby laughing on her little raft. I lunged again, and again touched her foot. Just as I felt the warmth, a large wave pounded full into my face, it washed down my nostrils and throat. I couldn't breathe. I shuddered into blackness.

38

AZIZNESIN Once on Record, Always on Record

Arif Bey was sixty-two years old, chubby and of medium height, and rather expressionless, neither smiling nor frowning much at all. He lived with his wife in a two-story house, left to him by his father, in between Besiktas and N isantasi.

Arif Bey was one of those men that we sometimes regret not having more of.

Always honest, he never did anything illegal and was never involved in things that didn't concern him. He lived in his own private shell.

The two rooms on the second floor of his house were filled with books. Just being among his books, taking a little snuff, was one ofhis greatest pleasures. For years he had taught in high schools. At times, however, when his special knowledge was required, he worked at other government jobs.

One day a man came into Arif Bey's office at the government building. The man informed Arif Bey that he was a plainclothes policeman.

"There's a man named Yasar working in the secretary's pool," the policeman said.

ArifBey vaguely remembered Yasar. ArifBey thought perhaps the policeman was going to ask for some favor on Yasar's behalf.

But the policeman continued, "If you had known what kind of person Yasar was, I wonder if you would have given him a job. He's got a police record, you know." He smiled a characteristic policeman's smile. "Those people always think we'll forget about them , but we always catch up with them."

This news was very upsetting to Arif Bey. He thanked the policeman for the warning.

"It's up to you, of course," the policeman said, "whether or not you want to fire him. I'm just telling you so you know the situation."

After the policeman left, Arif Bey asked around the office and found out exactly who this Yasar was. He discovered that Yasar was a diligent worker. Still, he couldn't take responsibility for someone with a police record. When honest people can't find jobs, why give them to criminals? Arif Bey immediately fired Yasar.

A few minutes later, Yasar came to Arif Bey's office. He was a dark, thin man of about forty. Tearfully, he said , "I know why you fired me. I've been expecting this for a long time now."

This was the first time Arif Bey had ever been face-to-face with a convict. He was extre mely uneasy and didn't want to talk so he motioned Yasar to leave. Yasar

39

didn't move.

"Please listen to me," Yasar pleaded. "I was falsely accused. It all happened sixteen years ago. I may have been tempted by the devil, but I have paid dearly for it. " "Get out," screame d ArifBey. He didn't have one ounce of pity for a man with a police record.

Sometime after Yasar had been fired, another policeman came to inform Arif Bey that one of the janitors working for him had a police record. Again, it was entirely up to Arif Bey whether or not to fire the man. The policeman wasn't trying to tell him what to do. He was just warning him of what might develop into a dangerous situation.

ArifBey fired the janitor. The janitor came to ArifBey and begged him not to do it.

'Tm not de nying anything that happened those twenty-one years ago," said the janitor. "I was just a kid then and went along with my friends."

ArifBey answered , "Go find another job." " But whatever job I take the police always find me," he wailed. "May God preserve us from ever getting police records . I can't even sell candy on a street corner. My children ... " Arif Bey had the janitor thrown out.

Arif Bey was surprised at the number of people who had police records.

Almost every month one or two policemen would come to warn him about people with criminal records working in his department. The police never asked him to fire those people, of course. They just wanted to warn him of possible future consequences.

One Sunday morning, ArifBey's neighbor, Meliha Hanim, came over to ask a favor for her son Atilla. Atilla was in trouble. He had been involved in an incident when he was in high school. His mother claimed that he had been falsely accused, but Arif Bey didn't believe her. All criminals say they are victims of false accusations. Arif Bey had come to know this we ll. Meliha Hanim continued her plea and swore that Atilla had never been involved in any wrong-doing since that one unfortunate incide nt. Still, whe never there was a night burglary in the neighborhood, the police would always haul Atilla off to the station and harass him until the real thie f was found.

For the first time, Arif Bey began to feel some pity for people with police records. Atilla's father had been his good friend until he died eight years earlier.

All Meliha Hanim wanted was Arif Bey's help in getting Atilla's police cleared.

Crying, Meliha Hanim said, "May God protect even my enemy from e having a police record. My son can't get a job anywhere. He has started a many times, but b efore a week is up, he's fired. He can't even be a salesman."

ArifBey was truly sor ry for Atilla. Still , there was nothing he could do to someone with a police record .

The third night after ArifBey had talked to Meliha Hanim, a thiefbroke

40

home. The thief ate the food in the kitchen and took a pair of shoes from the . Arif Bey was puzzled by this because there were many valuables in house that the thief could have stolen.

Arif Bey told the police about the theft. He had no suspects for them. Three later the police asked him to come to the station. There, the police showed about sixteen men with records of theft. Meliha Hanim's son , Atilla, was them. The police asked Arif Bey which of the men he suspected . He was bewildered to say anything at all.

That same night, ArifBey caught the thiefhimself. ArifBey had gone to bed midnight but was awakened by noises downstairs. Without bothering to put his slippers on, he tiptoed downstairs. The noise was coming from the kitchen. peeked through a crack in the door. The thief was pale and thin, his age - ...~~~路~路 He looked as comfortable as if he were in his own home. He had lighted the stove and was warming a pot of stuffed grape leaves on top of it. He removed the pot, filled a plate with the grape leaves, and placed the plate on the kitche n table. He cut a loaf of bread into thin slices, filled a glass with water, and served himself a plateful of bean salad. Then he sat down and began to eat. After enjoying his dinner, he got up.

ArifBey, still watching, was extremely curious about what the thief would do next. In order not to be seen, ArifBey moved quickly and hid behind the living room door. The thief went into the living room and turned on the light. On a small table was Arif Bey's watch. The thief picked it up, and then he put it back down as if he had simply wanted to check the time.

Arif Bey recognized his own shoes on the thief's feet. He knew then that this was the same man who had broken into his house before. The thief was now on his way down the corridor toward the front door. Near the door was a coatrack full ofcoats and jackets. The thief took an umbrella off the rack as he opened the door.

Arif shouted, "Hey!" He had had a good look at the thief. Even if the man ran away, ArifBey could describe him perfectly to the police. The thief, however, was not disturbed. He calmly turned toward ArifBey, returning his stare.

"Are you going to the police?" the thief asked.

Taking courage from the thief's docility, Arif Bey answered, "Of course I'll call them."

The thief sat in a chair by the door and said, "Call them."

Arif Bey was very confused. His voice trembling, he asked, "Why don't you find an honest job?"

Dismayed, the thief answered, "Go ahead, call the police."

"Isn't it better that you work?" ArifBey persisted.

"Get off it," grunted the thief, "I've got a police record. You couldn't possibly understand."

There was a silence. The thief got up.

'Tm going," he said . He picked up the umbrella which he had laid aside. "It's raining pretty hard. Goodbye." He closed the door behind him .

41

Two months after this incide nt, there was a great change in Arif Bey's life. He had been appointed professor at Kabul University and would be living in Afghanistan for two years. He and his wife made all the preparations for going. They didn't want to leave their house vacant for two years, of course, so they rented it at a good price and then left for Afghanistan.

After teaching in Kabul University for his two years, Arif Bey returned to Istanbul. He discovered, though , that he couldn't get into his house. He found a red seal on the front door. He was puzzled and so after asking several people what had happened, he discovered some very upsetting news.

The tenants he had rented to had turned his house into a house of prostitution. The Department of Social Morality had apprehended several couples in the house, engaging in immoral activities. The house, therefore, had bee n locked up and sealed. Since no one had shown any interest in the house, the huge red seal had been on the door for the past nine months. Everyone who passed the house knew it had been an irreputable house of prostitution .

Arif Bey immediately went to the police to explain the situation. The chief of the Morality division had the record brought in. Afte r reading through the record, the chief said, "Yes, it's true. Your house has been used as a house of prostitution."

Blushing, Arif Bey exclaimed, " But I had no knowledge of it whatsoever."

The chief replied with a police-like smile and said, "Sure, sure. Your house has been closed by direct order of the court. The time is up now so you can have it re-opened."

ArifBey had his house opened first, and then he went to the office where he had previously worked. His friends all greeted him nicely, but they were all wearing certain meaningful smiles. He asked when he would be able to start working again. No one answered him . They told him he would have to wait for some red tape to be taken care of. There seemed, however, to be no e nd to the red tape. Each time he went to the office, his friends gave him strange smiles.

Finally, Arif Bey understood. He was on record as the owner of a house prostitution . All the smirking and whispering at the office was because of that.

He went to see many of his friends, some of them important people, some them his students, trying to convince the m of his innocence.

"You know me," he kept saying. " How can such a thing be possible?"

"Sure, sure, Arif Bey," they would answer. "We know a mistake has been made."

Arif Bey is working at his job in the government office again , but he has not been successful in getting his police record cleared. No power, it seems, can erase the slate. People say to ArifBey, "Everybody knows you, so it really doesn matter if you've got a record with the police."

Still , Arif Bey can't quite comprehend this record business. Now there is such as this: "The other day Arif Bey ... " "Which Arif?"

42

"ArifBey the pimp, you know. " Then everybody knows which ArifBey is meant.

ArifBey has never been able to get his record cleared. Even though a written statement declaring his innocence is also in his file , if the police one day start arresting all the pimps in Istanbul, Arif Bey will be among them.

Arif Bey talks constantly about his innocence and how he has been falsely accused. Even when he doesn't talk about it, everybody knows. Everyone smiles and whispers, "Arif, the pimp."

- Translated by Nadire Ozavar

43

AZIZNESIN The File of the Green Hat

He was waiting at the bus stop across from the Ministry building. When he saw the man in the brown coat and glasses, he greeted him with a hug. It was obvious that they were two old friends who hadn't seen each other for a long time.

Their exclamations of pleasure were punctuated by questions: "How are you?" "How have you been?" "What are you doing?"; and by answers: " Fine."

"Thank you." "Okay." Whe n the greetings were finished , the man in the brown coat and glasses invited his old friend to come home with him.

"Okay," the other said, "let's go, but I'm waiting for a friend, so let's go when he comes."

"Were you going to meet him here?" the man in the brown coat asked.

"We came together," the other replied. "We had some business at the Ministry, so he went in and will be back in a few minutes."

The man in the brown coat said, "Let's not wait. He won't come."

"What do you mean? Of course he'll come," said the other.

"No, he won't." " Do you know him?" asked the man angrily.

"No, I don't. But he won't come ."

"For somebody you don't even know,"- started the man waiting for his friend.

"I don' t need to know him to know he won't come," insisted the man in the brown coat.

"Sure he'll come. He went in right through that door, and there's no reason why he would stand me up."

"It's not because he'll stand you up," said the man in the coat. "Didn't he go into a government office?"

"He'll come. He'll come. He'll probably come out any minute," insisted the friend.

"No, he can't come out until the office closes."

"He's not the kind of man you think," protested the friend.

"It doesn't matter. Whoever enters can't come out," said the man in the coat.

"You mean while I wait here, he'll get attached to some other acquaintance?

For one thing, he doesn't know anybody in Ankara, and he's not a talker."

"Didn't he go in there on business?" asked the man in the coat.

"Yes, but it's all finished and signed. All he has to do is pick it up."

44

"Then he'll neve r come out before closing time."

"Can't you hear?" asked the friend . "I said the job is finished. All he has to do is pick it up and leave."

"He can't, friend. It's not in his power. " "You mean the officials will cause a delay.? But it's finished, and even if they did delay, he wouldn't let me wait. He'll come. " "I swear, he can't ," said the man in the coat. "Let's go."

"It'll be very rude," protested the friend .

"Listen," said the man in the coat. "The other day I had some business at a government office. Actually, it wasn't really business. My brother-in-law works there, so I went to see him to invite him to our place in the afternoon. Then I left.

As I was going down the stairs outside the building, the wind blowing in my face reminded me that I hadn't put on my hat. I had forgotten it upstairs. Before I had gone into my brother-in-law's office, I had hung my coat and hat on the coat rack in the hall. When I left, I had put on my coat but had forgotten my hat. May God make you believe that I hadn't gone more than four or five steps before I reme mbered and went back. I rushed to the coat rack, but my hat was gone. Good Lord.

I can't do without my hat because I'd catch cold immediately. And the hat was made in Italy. You just don't find the m these days. My uncle brought it from Italy.

You couldn't find such a hat even for three hundred liras. And I'd only been using it for a week or so. Anyway, I started running back and forth screaming for my hat. The hall was full of people there on business . They started laughing, seeing me in such a fre nzy. Of course, those who haven't lost the ir hats can't unde rstand the feeling of those who have. I catch cold without my hat. I can never take it ofT. As I was running around I started sneezing, and everyone else was laughing.

Nobody sympathized. I can unde rstand how ridiculous it must be to see a man running around a government office, screaming for a hat, but I had no desire to laugh. I dove into my brother-in-law's office and, after a sneeze, said, 'Oh, Brothe r. Look what's happe ned to me. I've lost my hat.'

'Calm down,' said my brother-in-law. 'We'll find it.'

"His boss got angry. 'Sir. Sir,' he said. 'This is a gove rnme nt office. Nothing gets lost he re. ' "Don't I know. Government offices!" continued the man in the brown coat.

"Sure, nothing gets lost. But when you look for something, you can never find it.

Even if you do find it, you can't get it.

"We went out into the hall. My brother-in-law called the janitor and asked, 'What happened to the hat that was on the coat rack?'

'Was it a green hat,' the janitor asked.

'Yes, yes, green,' I shouted.

'Did it have a feathe r?' asked the janitor.

'Yes!' 'Was it a big hat?'

'Yes, big!' I shouted again .

'Was the ribbon black?' The questioning continued.

45

'Yes , it was black,' I answered.

"At that mome nt my brothe r-in-law's boss came out of the office. He was angry at me again .

'Look, sir,' he said, 'this is a government office and nothing gets lost he re, least of all a hat. Eve n if it were a treasure, no one would lower him self by taking it.'

'Whoever mentioned such a thing?' I replied . 'All I want is my hat.'

"The janitor continued describing my hat: 'Were the edges rolled?'

'Yes,' I answered .

'Upward?'

'Yes.' 'Did it have two air holes on the side?'

'Yes! You've described it perfectly,' I said. 'Now tell me just one more thing.

Where is it?'

'I thought it was lost,' said the janitor, 'so I took it to Miste r Vicdani.'

"I rushed to Mister Vicdani's office. 'Sir,' I said, although I could hardly speak because I was sneezing so much , and those office walls are so thin that even if you whisper the whole building hears, ' I believe my hat was turned in to you as lost.'

'Where are the pape rs on that green hat that was recently found?' Vicdani Bey asked his secretary. ' I se nt them to be filed ,' answered the secretary. ' Sir,' I interrupted, 'what do you mean by files and pape rs?'

"Angrily, Vicdani Bey answered, 'You can't even keep track of your own hat and here you are making trouble for us. You have the nerve to ask us why it has a file. It was a hat found in the hall. What do you expect us to do?'

"I turned to the typist. 'Ah , miss .. .' but I was interrupted by a powerful sneeze that sent the pape rs on her desk flying.

Tve been trying to organize these papers since morning,' she cried, on the verge of tears. 'Now you've ruined it all . What's going to happen now?'

"Everyone blamed me for sneezing, but sneezing is beyond one's control.

"The secretary found the paper for my hat among the scattered papers on the floor. It was a thin pink sheet of pape r. They had sent the main copy along with my hat to the filing departme nt. I read part of the pink copy sideways: 'Summary: concerning the green, feathered, black ribboned hat with two air holes ... ' "The secretary wrote a number on a small piece of paper and gave it to me saying, 'Go look for your hat in the filing department.'

"I rushe d to the filing de partment.

'My hat!' I said to the cle rk.

'What's the numbe r?' he asked .

'59,' I answered.

"He looked through the files and asked , 'Is this about giving help to the needy?'

46

'What do you mean?' I said . ' It's my hat ! Green, feathe rs, has two air holes.'

'What do I know about the holes in your hat ,' said the cle rk angrily. 'Tell me the number.'

'I did. 59.'

'Numbe r 59 is a charity project,' he said.路 'Oh,' I said, surprised . ' Didn 't you ask me the size of the hat? That's what I thought. I'm sorry. Here's the file number,' and I gave him the piece of paper.

"He looked through the files again.

'Is it the one that was found in the hall on the coat rack? Green, feathe red , black ribbon, with two air holes?'

'Yes, Yes! That's it,' I shouted . 'Thank you so much . So you have it!'

'We sent it to the head of the department to be registered ,' he replied .

"I ran back to my brother-in-law.

'Don't you know anybody with any authority he re?' I yelled. 'Ge t him to use his authority so I can save my hat.' " He took me to the secretarial supervisor who rang a bell and called the head of the department.

'Wh y don't you return this gentleman's hat?' the supervisor asked the departme nt head .

'What do you mean?' re plied the department head. 'We're not keeping his hat. For one thing, what would anybody want with his hat? It's size 59, which is much too big for any head he re.' " It was an insult to the hat more than anything else. I sneezed . If I hadn't turned toward the wall, papers would have gone flying again .

'We received a hat,' the departme nt head went on to explain . 'We recorded it in the lost and found records and then sent it and the prope r papers to the filing department, Division Two.' 'Well, you can go and get your hat , then,' the supervisor said to me. ' But Sir, they won't give me my hat,' I cried .

'It's out of our hands now,' said the de partme nt head . 'We recorded it and transferred it to Division Two.' 路 "If it had been a locally made hat, I would have given it up. But it was a pure Italian hat . My uncle's present to me . You couldn't find such a hat even for two hundred liras.

"Well, I went to the Division Two office. People were piled up at the door, which made entering impossible . Eve ryone was asking each other about their problems. Mine was my hat. ' Have you been struggling with this proble m for a long time?' someone in front of me asked .

'Since morning,' I replied and explained the situation.

'I've been going back and forth for six months,' the man said angrily, 'and they are n't eve n halfway fini shed. Yours was done immediately.'

'You were lucky,' someone else ventured.

'What luck?' said anothe r. ' He must have found an 'in' and that's why it's been

47

done so quickly.'

"I guess having my hat filed was qui te an accomplishment. Finally, I got in side the office , but why I came , I don't know. They had sent my hat somewhere else. Concealing my anger as best I could , I asked the clerk, 'Couldn't you have kept my hat a bit longer?'

'God give me patience,' sighed the clerk. 'You do things slowly, people complain. You do things fast, they still complain.' ' But what was the hurry to transfer the hat?' 1 moaned . ' Do you think this place is a hat check booth?' asked the clerk angrily.

"You know how kids grab someone's hat and throw it around and the one who owns the hat runs around like crazy trying to get it back? Well, such was my case.

I just couldn't get ahold of my hat. The red tape on my hat was moving so fast, that by the time I got to one office, my hat had already been passed on to another.

Well, after chasing my hat for ten days, I finally caught it at the storage depot.

This time, though, the depot cle rk refused to give it to me.

'This is a big responsibility,' he said. 'I can't give it to you. How can I be sure it's your hat?'

"I desc ribed the hat to him : ' It's size 59. It would be too big for anyone else but me. It's green.'

'You think you're the only one in this world with a green hat?' he asked.

'It has a feathe r,' I said .

'Many a hat has feathers ,' he said. ' Do you have your picture in it?'

'It has two air holes,' I said wearily.

'Your description fits the file description,' he conceded. ' But what if someone else comes in tomorrow and claims the hat?'

"Finally I convinced him that it was my hat. He wrote out a new report and I signed it. It was time to finally ge t my hat.

'Whe re's your ide ntification?' asked the clerk.

'Identification?' I groaned. 'I didn't bring any with me.'

'Then I can't give you the hat.'

"I had proved the hat was mine, but now I couldn't prove that I was me . I rushed home and the n rushed back to the depot with my identification. My brothe r-in-law came along to help. So they gave me my hat.

"The two air holes had become two hundred because of all the reports that had been attached to the hat. I got my hat all right, but I couldn't wear it eve r again. So, what are you saying, friend? Before two minutes had passed , I went back into that building to re trieve my hat. After ten days, I finally got it. How do you propose that your frie nd will get out of that building?" " But,'' said the man waiting for his friend, "his pape rs are ready."

"He can't get his papers, even if they are ready, in less than te n days," said the man in the brown coat.

The othe r man looked at his watch and said, "It's almost closing time."

"We might as well wait, now," said the man in the coat. " He'll be out any minute. When did he go in?"

48

"At two o'clock."

The clerks and othe r employees we re beginning to come out of the building. the last to leave was the man they had been waiting for.

"I'll have to come back tomorrow to finish my business," he said.

- Translated by Nadire Ozavar

49

AZIZNESIN

Hello, Sir

This incident happened to me in Istanbul on one of the small ferry-boats that go back and forth between the districts ofUskudar and Besiktas. The gate leading to the boat opened and I was the first in line. There were not many passengers. I went to the top deck and sat in a seat. The other passengers went to the deck below, so there was no one with me on the top deck.

According to the schedule, the ferry would not leave for another fifteen minutes. A few more passengers were coming. An army officer, a lieutenant, came onto the deck where I was, clicked his heels, and saluted me. He then walked on by and sat with his back to me. His salute surprised me. I was sitting with my back against a partition of the boat. Still, I turned to see if there was someone behind me. No-no one else on the deck. The Lieutenant must have thought I was someone else.

While I was thinking such thoughts, a young, attractive woman ascended the stairs. Upon seeing me, she acknowledged me with a smile and sat in a window seat across from me. When she smiled she looked me straight in the eye. I could not return the smile because of my astonishment. Even though I knew it was me she had acknowledged, I looked around to see for whom she had meant the smile. "I must know her," I thought, but I could not remember.

While I was trying to jog my memory, an elderly, distinguished looking man came and greeted me very elaborately. The frown I returned must have seemed very rude.

When another elderly gentleman greeted me, my bewilderment increased.

It just was not possible that every passenger who entered this deck could know me. I wondered if a friend at the gate was putting me on by telling everyone to greet me. No. Not every passenger would agree to such a scheme. In order to avoid any more greetings from new passengers, I turned my head away and stared at the sea. Still, I kept on thinking about the situation .

After a few moments of thought, I suddenly found the answer. After all, I had served this country long and well: for the last two elections I had run for a seat in the National Assembly. I didn't actually get elected, but during the campaigns I gave excellent speeches, all for the good of the country. I always received great applause after I had spoken. So, the people who had greeted me on the boat must have known me from the campaigns. Of course, it was impossible that I should recognize individuals who had been in the crowds when I spoke.

50

There had been times when I felt desperate, thinking that nothing could get done in this country. Yet, I had been grossly mistaken. The favors done for a country are not forgotten. Words are not spoken in vain. The people who had listened to my speeches had not forgotten me.

I made eye contact with a tall passenger e ntering the deck. He greeted me.

Naturally, he would. After all, hadn't I worked hard for these countrymen? I returned his greeting.

Suddenly, my attention was diverted to the stairs. Three young women, who must have been students, were coming on deck. When they did not greet me, I was bothered. "Today's youth doesn't have any appreciation for the people who work for them," I thought. "Too bad for the country. Is it proper for youth to be this way?"

A fat, middle-aged man came on deck. He did not acknowledge me either.

Thinking he had not seen me, perhaps, I coughed as hard as I could. He looked me in the face but showed no acknowledgement. "Too sad," I thought, "for this country will get ahead only if people know how to appreciate truly valuable people."

Another passenger, after greeting me, sat next to me. "Good. That's how everyone should be," I thought. As more passengers came onto the deck, some greeted me, some didn't. I felt like grabbing the unappreciative ones and asking them, "Why didn't you greet me? Aren't you embarrassed? Don't you feel rude?"

Don't let this show of emotion make you think I was conceited. No. Absolutely no. It was not important to me personally whether or not they acknowledged me.

Yet, if we forget those who work for this country, then what will happen to us?

This was the issue. Otherwise, I didn't want anything for myself. I was becoming quite angry with the unappreciative passengers, but I greeted with a warm smile . those who greeted me.

The ferry started and the man who had sat next to me turned and asked me, 路 "Sir, are you still working at the Toprak Office?"

I was totally at a loss. I had never worked there. In fact, I didn't even know where the Toprak Office was or what it was for. Instead of answe ring, I gave him a smile that he could take any way he wanted.

The man continued, "I still remember your goodness to me. May God give you more for your goodness."

Still smiling, I said, "Oh. Think nothing of it. It's not worth a thank-you."

In order to cut the conversation short, I started reading my newspaper. The man must have gotten the message because he moved to another seat.

Then, the two young men who had greeted me came over and said, "Hi, Mister Salim. " "May God give me patience," I thought. "What's this now? Who is this Salim?" Reluctantly, I said "Hi." "Mister Salim , we don't see you at the games anymore . You used to be such a great football player."

"Yeah." I said. "That was in my youth. Yeah, I used to play."

51

"There's one time I'll never forget," one of the m said . " Do you remember the time the Australian team came? Do you re me mbe r that game?"

I have neve r played football in my life, nor have I been to a single game. Yet, what could I have done? I couldn't say "I'm not Salim." Therefore I said, "Sure.

How could I forget?"

"I had a sore throat from cheering for you. It was a fantastic goal. Come on Mister Salim . Tell us about it. " "Yeah, sure," I said . "Then ... yeah, I got the ball and ... ah, the good old days. My eyes grow moist when I re member. It's be tter to leave the old days alone."

I got up and left, pre tending to be sad from the re miniscing. The lieutenant who had greeted me earlier was up also. We met at the top of the stairs. The lieutenant, with much respect, said , "How are you, general?" " Fine, thank you," I replied.

"When did you retire?" he asked . " Eh, it's been some time now." If I had given him a definite time, perhaps he would have realized I was no general. Yet, obviously, he thought I was. The refore, if I had told him I was no general but was only a corporal when I did my service, the poor man would have been embarrassed.

"General, I guess you wouldn't remember me."

"Ah, sure, sure. Except I can't remember your name. You know, old age. My memory's slipping."

"My name's MuzafTer. I worked for you as a sergeant."

"Of course." I shook his hand and moved away fast.

When I reached the second deck, the elderly man .who had previously greeted me approached . "Greetings, Miste r Baha," he said.

"Greetings to you, too," I answered. " How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. And you?" I asked .

"Thank yo u. We're doing fine. Are you still a judge?"

I grinned in a way which was neither "yes" nor "no. " He continued, "With your help and goodness I have bee n saved from an unjust accusation ."

"Oh, no," I said. " It was not goodness. It was justice, and I was just a tool in applying it."

The fe rry had finally reached the landing, and before it could be completely docked , I jumped out, handed in my ticket , and started walking away. Before I could escape, someone touched me on the shoulde r, and I heard a woman's voice say, "Mister Sukru." It was the attractive woman who had greeted me on the fe rry.

"Yes, Madame," I replied .

"How is Madame Pakize?" she asked.

"She's fine, thank you," I answered.

"She was going to have an operation. Did she?"

52

"Oh, yes," I said.

"Well, I hope she is better. Do you still live in Altinbakkal?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, with your pe rmission," she said , and walked away.

"Good bye, madame."

All these mistakes in a single fe rry ride. Nobody would have believed me if I had told the m. I haven't even tried , and that's why I'm writing about the m. But the mistakes didn't stop there.

"Miste r Murat?"

"Yes," I said .

"It's been a long time that I've wanted to meet you. My luck is good today. I'm one of your fans."

"Why, thank you ," I responded .

"A few days ago I saw your latest movie. It was excellent. My family and I haven't missed a single one of your films and ... " Before he could continue I said, "With your pe rmission," and jumped into a minibus. I was angry now. Was n't the re one person in this country who knew me? The n the man sitting next to me said, "Hi , Mister Hasan."

Finally, somebody who knew me. I turned and looked at the man. Sudde nly, I felt miserable again . A long time ago I had borrowed two hu ndred liras from this man and was never able to pay it back. I looked at him again and said , .. I'm sorry, but I think you're mixing me up with someone else."

"Oh, come on, Miste r Hasan."

"But sir," I said , "my name isn't Hasan ."

"That's impossible," he re plied .

"Well , men can resemble one anothe r," I said.

"I don 't think this much resemblance is possible."

As I jumped from the minibus, I heard him complaining to the peop le next to him. " He is Hasan. I know. It's a trick typical ofhim . He hadn't be tte r think he has fooled me."

That day, out of all the people who thought they knew me , only one really did. And him I didn't know.

- Translated by Nadire Ozavar

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VICTORIA NELSON Barney's Leg The environme ntal factors influencing the course of reproductive events in the [crown of thorns starfish] are complex, but lunar cycles, daylength, food, salinity, and temperature may be important.

- J.S. Lucas, " Re productive Larval Biology of the A canthaster planci in Great Barrier Reef Waters"

Something was wrong with Barney.

A smooth flat high tide covered the Reef around Farnsworth Island. Robert, who had just stepped out to the beach, barely had time to notice. Barney's hind leg stuck out from under the quonset's raised foundation. Robert had been on his way to the storage shed when he had seen and remembe red .

The bulldog pup lay on broken glass and debris shaded by the low overhang.

He breathed heavily, jaws slack, eyes open and unfocused. Robe rt squatted down for a better look. Trembling, the dog lifted his head. Robert read reproach in the dull e yes; Barney had been an unwanted gift. Yes, I should have taken you to the mainland for diste mpe r shots. Shots and the n given you to the nearest fisherman.

Robe rt looked out to sea. The Barrie r Reef was cove red now, nothing but flat ocean , the haze of the green Queensland hills on the horizon, a few high islands in be tween. No, he corrected himself, I should have made Katie take him back, right off the mark. It was breaking all the rules to have a dog so close to Farnsworth's bird sanctuary, where he could dig up muttonbird nests and eat the eggs. Robert had meant to give Barney away before the next boatload of birdwatche rs arri ved from the mainland . Now the dog was sick, and his responsibility.

It had reached just the right point of high tide to feed his starfishes in their secre t unde rwater cage . Scrub a year's work if anything happened to this lot. He could dive now, or he could carry Barney across the island to Bingham Court, where he would have to make the boat ride from the hotel dock ove r to Cairns; he would have to stay on the mainland overnight before he could get back to Farnsworth.

Robert had held this debate with himself every day since last week, when Barney had first crawled under the quonset . It was pro f orma only. He wasn't going to take the dog to Cairns. Barney was reaching the crisis of his sickness. He

54

either get better or he would get worse; a vet could do nothing for him Barney had returned his head carefully to its molded imprint in the sand .

Indiffe rent now, the eyes looked away. Robert got up and walked around the set to the storage locker. He shrugged on his rubber vest, grabbed the tanks and regulator and his mask and fins, and trudged down to the shelf of eroded beach rock at the windward tip of the island . This was the best entry to the Reef, where he could swim directly out without having to step on the fragile coral polyps. Behind him the tiny research station-quonset, storage shed, defunct jeep with faded sign stenciled to the side : "North Queensland Marine Biology Field Centre"-stood out in shabby isolation against the line of casuarina trees, their delicate brushes of silver-green needles.

Robert's island was thickly forested right down to the ribbon of white sand that ringed it. A small, moon-shaped cay, Farnsworth was three miles long, half a mile wide, and twelve feet above the level of the sea at its highest point. Like a hairy scalp poking slightly above water it rose directly off the shoulders of Grunters Reef, a sunken territory of some 10,000 acres . Behind the station the bird preserve took up the middle of the island, a buffer between Robert and Bingham Court, Queensland's noted tourist hideaway, on the leeward side.

Six years ago, when Robert first came to Farnsworth, the Great Barrier Reef had been his passion, this vast loose ne twork of coral stretching twelve hundred miles along the Quee nsland coast, abutting the Coral Sea. Hundreds of islands rose off the continental shelf he re-some high and volcanic, the peaks of drowned mountains in a sunken coastal range, others low and flat, true coral cays like Farnsworth, an extension into the world of air of the Barrie r Reef itself: It had pleased him-then-to think of all these reefs , separated by deep-water channels, as One, a giant animal sleeping unde r the waves next to fair Australia's land. But the Reef, Farnsworth had lost their magic. The underwater world seemed sullen and ordinary now, the scene of his duties, like an office with a regulation me tal desk, filing cabinet, and potted fe rn.

Robert spat on his mask and rinsed it clear with seawater. He was a goodlooking man, regular features checked by impene trable reserve. Tall and slim , he did not have the pork-barrellook of other out-station chaps who swelled up on beer. Fit but not healthy, someone had once told him. Around him the gree n shallows of the Reef flashed, swallowing the darker strip of blue on the horizon that marked the deep ocean beyond the Outer Barrier. Unde r the surface lay his entry corridor, a network of sand highways riven into the massive coral plateau.

Pulling his mask down, he clamped the regulator in his mouth and lumbered into the water, a clumsy rubber-skinned beast.

Low-flying birds becaine smears on the bright plate overhead; he flew through a forest of staghorn coral sharply etched against the deep. Banks of anemones waved in the current. He passed a school of silver humpies, a lone parrotfish. The narrow corridor dropped into a valley between coral cliffs matted with algae. They were green, like mountains.

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The starfish cage lay in one of the deeper holes of the Reef, where it would stay submerged even at the lowest ebb of the tide, its wire frame securely fastened into the side of a twenty-foot coral shelf. Approaching, Robert could see his prisoners, fourteen olive brown pincushions, suckers tightly clumped against the metal floor of the cage. There was a divider in the middle of the cage; the males and females, who looked the same to the naked eye, he kept apart. The crown of thorns did not have the elongated and elegant bodies of some other starfishes. Their swollen midsections bristled with spines; they had short stumpy arms, like a child's drawing of a diseased sun. Robert unclipped the bag from his diving belt and路dumped a pound of coral pieces through the wide wire mesh on the top of the cage. Feeding time, my uglies.

The starfishes did not move as breakfast rained over their heads. Later, Robert knew, they would stir, crushing the coral in their mouths slowly and methodically, turning it into gruel suspended in the water before wrapping their stomachs inside out around the mas)l to take it into themselves. Ten years ago, enormous herds of them had appeared on the Great Barrier Reef, devouring huge patches of living coral. The infestation, the greatly increased size of the herds, remained a mystery. Right at the start, Robert designed a reproductive experiment. But season after season, none of his breeding populations did their duty.

Once a year, male crown of thorns starfishes lifted their arms and sprayed sperm into the water. Females responded by lifting their arms and spraying eggs back. In free conditions this occurred at a staggering rate; a single female could release 12 to 24 million eggs in one season. The crown of thorns multiplied in plague proportions here on the Reef, all over the Indo-Pacific, even in Petrie dishes in the labs in Townsville and Brisbane-everywhere, that is, but in Robert's cage, where they were supposed to. When he would dissect the mature animals back in his makeshift lab in the quonset, there would be the sperm and there would be the eggs; the starfishes had obstinately refused to release them.

Gently, he prodded each of the animals, easing two of the females over on their backs. Nothing. He could not even tell if the egg ducts were swollen, though it was December, the start of the summer gamete-releasing season. Of course, the whole business could have happened already, without his knowledge; that was the trouble with having the cage so far out. He hadn't been able to keep a batch any closer to shore. If he tried to anchor the cage down flat on the sandy bottom , shrimps and other predators would burrow up and tear the trapped starfishes to pieces-not that they didn't richly deserve it, the little bastards.

Giving one of the females a final, frustrated poke, Robert turned and swam off. A great green turtle, five feet long and barnacle-encrusted, sailed by, his blimp-like shadow placidly keeping pace along the bottom. Robert glanced at the turtle without interest and headed for the soft coral patches inshore. Soft coral blossomed on damaged surfaces of hard coral, a kind of secondary growth, he believed , in places where the crown of thorns starfish had taken its toll or where

56

tourists had stepped repeatedly on the coral organisms. A regular troll's garden of the soft coral had popped up on the lee side, ofT Bingham Court.

Privately, Robe rt loathed the little blobs of lemon pudding that glistened, obscenely wet, on exposed hard coral heads at low tide. Underwater, polyps plumply expanded, the soft coral were not so repulsive. Soberly he inspected the bulbous growths, noted where some spreading was taking place. Whe n it was time, by his Aqua-Vue watch , to return to shore, he swam leisurely back around to his entry point.

On land , the midday heat was stifling. Squinting in th e glare, Robert shoulde red his load and crossed the furnace of sand, his beach-calloused feet feeling nothing. The quonset's tin roof was a puddle of fire. Barney's leg lay where he had last seen it. At the storage shed he rinsed the salt water off his body and gear with the hose attached to the small catchment tank. Not until he had stowed all the equipment did the doubt surface in his mind.

He went back around the corne r. The sand, he now saw, had been kicked up around Barney's motionless leg. Robert bent down and then stood up quickly.

He looked out at the Reef. A white heron poked daintily in the shallows. Barney was dead.

He climbed the short stoop into the quonset and took a can of beer out of the tiny gas refrigerator. Ordinarily, he did not have a drink before sunset. The dive, he supposed, had made him thirsty. Sitting down at the scarred wooden table , he drank his beer slowly and stared out the window. Then he tossed the empty can into the rusty nail keg that served as his wastebaske t and got up. He changed into a pair of dirty khaki shorts and walked around the quonset to the storage locker for the shovel.

Digging a hole under the casuarinas was a hard go because of all the roots. An hour passed before he hit three feet evenly all around. Taking the shovel with him , he went back to the storage shed and drew out a piece of stilT, paintspattered canvas. He carried the canvas and the shovel around the side of the quonset to Barney's leg. Placing the shovel under the dog's head , he eased the body out onto the canvas.

Barney's final agony had frozen him in an awkward position. His white fur looked grey in the harsh sunlight. The saliva on his muzzle was still wet. Barney had worn a red ribbon around his neck when Katie had presented him to Robert the month before. Without shots. Gentle and playful, he had been always underfoot. Robe rt brought the four corners of the canvas together and tied them securely with a bit of string from his pocket. Hoisting the bundle in one hand and the shovel in the other, he went back to the trees.

After he had filled in the grave and tamped the sandy dirt down firmly on top, Robert returned to the quonset . He shoveled fresh sand on the spot where Barney had lain. Flies buzzed angrily away. He hosed off the shovel and stowed it.

He showered again and changed to clean shorts. It also seemed desirable to take a quick shave over the kitchen sink, something he had neglected to do this

57

morning. The mercury-streaked mirror returned his image without comment.

Thumbtacked to the molding over it was an old color photo of his daughter, Bitsy.

The snapshot had long since blended into the quonset decor, along with the dead beetle plastered on the outside of the windowpane and the single iron grey hair embedded in the soap sliver that lay on the sill. Even in that gross copy her eyes-their grey color, not their look-were the twin of his.

Crossing the kitchen to the refrigerator, he passed Barney's dish, a cracked plastic plate lying on the floor under the sink. Robert looked at the plate, hesitated, then threw it in the nail keg. He sat down at the table with a cold beer.

Starting the day over, so to speak. Through the grimy window he watched terns wheel over the Reef. It was low tide now. The waters had rapidly withdrawn, uncovering acres of coral heads. The late afternoon sun beat on the exposed Reef in the midst of a great stillness.

Robert looked away. This was not his favorite time on the island of Farnsworth. Low tide exposed the madness of the Great Barrier Reef, laid bare the fantastic shapes of coral outcroppings-blowsy mushrooms, giant brains, writhing snakes. He looked forward to the time, hours later, when the waters would return in darkness. Then the surf would pound harder on the Outer Barrier, the seaward edge of the coral shelf two miles to the north, where the Reef, at its most massive against the onslaught of the deep ocean, dropped hundreds of feet down like a fortress wall. Slipping over the wall, the waters would surge back quickly, filling the cracks and chasms, covering the domes and branches, rising swiftly until all was hidden again.

This daily drowning of the Reef calmed Robert-as, briefly, this morning, when he could stand by his quonset on the forest's edge and see the blue mantle of ocean spread out around him. He felt safer, yes, when the giant skeleton of coral polyps no longer lay open to the air, stinking of sun-baked algae.

Shifting in his seat, Robert slung the empty beer can into the nail keg, where it clanked against Barney's dish. Now, he remembered, was almost the time to stroll across the island for his evening drink at Bingham Court. Quickly, his mind called up a vivid picture: the big dark public room full of elderly tourists, Katie with her clinging, expectant glances behind the bar.

No. In view of his disrupted schedule, Robert believed he would not go to the hotel tonight after all. The sun dropped closer to the falling waters of the open Reef as he reached for his clipboard. Saying no was one of Robert's strong suits.

Now would be, he reflected, just the time to catch up on his notes.

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MILTON MURAYAMA Yoshitsune A Play in 13 Scenes Se t in Japan 1185--89

Scene 11 from Yoshitsune is the subject of a famous kabuki play Kanjincho.

After Yoshitsune, a military genius, annihilates the enemy He ike, he is se t upon by the head of his own house, his older half-brother, Yoritomo. He escapes to Oshu with the help of some mountain monks. Checkpoint Ataka is the final barrie r to safe ty.

Author's Note: I pref er a stark production, the fo cus put on interaction , not costumes or scene ry. Michael Cacoyannis' black-and-white movie ELEC TRA with Irene Pappas comes to mind. The themes are big and heroic, the playe rs should think big. Costumes should be kept to minimum , intimating rathe r than recreating; and easily movable props used f or scene ry. Scene should f ollow scene without pause , one entering as the other is exiting. Pace should be fast and lines 'thrown away' .

In legend Benkei was a warrior-monk , the personification of the nameless monks and warrior-monks who came to Yo shitsune's aid. I have split Benkei into Bempaku the fanatic warrior and ]okei the fanati c monk. Bempaku is explosive in speech and motion, but none of his moves should be s uperfluous. The re's a danger of playing him too busy and over-acting. ] okei is angry in speech but restrained in body movement . Shinobu and Shi::uka are like hummingbirds.

Munemori is a cry-baby extrovert , and his strength is he lets everything out.

Yoshitsune is the opposite-the too too noble samurai who is often restrained and silent f rom rigidity and habit.

Yoshitsune is the most diff icu lt role. He was brought 11p by nursemaids till 5 when he was sent to Kurama Temple to be molded into a monk without a past . He discovered who he was at lOandfled the monastery at 15 bef ore his tonsure. He's lost 10 years of childhood , and he acts with the impulsir;eness, innocence, r.; u[nerability and cunning of a child. He-and to a lesse r extent , Munemori andjokeigo through self-illuminating humbling changes.

It would be a mistake to play YOS HITSUNE small or slow. The movie TROJAN WOM EN with Katherine Hepburn and Vanessa Reclgrave was played small and slow . Too much care and close-ups were given to quive ring naturalistic gestures , it was padded , drawn out , and the he roic made neurotic and boring.

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SCENE 11: MOUNTAINS OF NORTH-EASTERN JAPAN . FOUR MONTHS LATER. APRIL 1187. (enter four monks in black robes under bamboo conical hats and carrying staffs from stage left) JOKE I There's a creek here. We'll rest he re for the night.

(Takes off hat. He has shaven head) YOSHITSUNE (taking off his hat) I feel like a rabbit after eating so much grass.

BEMPAKU (taking off his hat) My stomach keeps rumbling for a hot porridge of millet and rice and fish and fowl and cooked vegetables! With lots of salt!

YOSHITSUNE (to Shinobu) How are you?

SHINOBUE (who had slumped down earlier and now takes off her hat) Tired. I keep wondering about father and my brothers. Are they alive? Were they sent into exile or executed?

YOSHITSUNE They're civilians. They shouldn't be executed . Shizuka was two-months pregnant with my child when she was captured. It would've shown in another month if they'd detained he r.

(While they talk, Jokei has taken out a razor and approaches Yoshitsune) BEMPAKU Look out, my lord!

JO KE I I've taken a vow not to harm living things. I don't take my vows lightly. You need to shave your head.

YOSHITSUNE I refuse.

JOKE I As soon as you take off your hat , it's obvious you're not a monk.

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YOSHITS UNE What if I re fused to take off my hat?

JOKE I Then they'll behead you with your hat on.

YOSHITS UN E I refu se.

JOKEI I am in command here. (Bempaku grabs him by collar) Kill me and you'll all starve to death or be caught by Yoritomo's me n.

BEMPAKU Whose side are yo u on?

JOKE I Neither. It doesn't matter who wins. You warriors are equally oppressive. Well, do we shave your head or sit here fore ver?

SHINOBU What impertinence!

YOSHITSUNE With a hundred othe r mountain monks, why did Kanjubo select you?

JOKE I It puzzles me too. He knows I loathe warriors.

YOSHITS UN E Why? JOKEI Why? Abstain from killing, abstain from stealing, abstain from lust, Lord Buddha said. You warriors make it a business of killing, stealing and fornicating. The former civilian rulers, the Fujiwaras-they fornicated , and they might have stolen, but they didn't kill.

YOSHITSUNE It was in their self-inte rest not to kill. Sanction killing and you make the warrior supreme.

JOKE I They were obeying the higher voice of Lord Buddha.

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YOSHITSUNE Besides, I kill only my enemies.

JOKE I And for the attendant benefits of property, fame and beautiful wome n.

YOSHITSUNE My heart is pure.

JOKE I So were the He ike's.

YOS HITS UNE There's none more virtuous than he who does a good deed with a pure heart.

JOKE I There's none more cruel than he who does a cruel deed with a pure heart.

BEM PAKU You must be a Heike.

JOKE I I'm a peasant like you.

BEMPAKU I'm not a peasant!

SHINOBU That's all we need. To be stuck in the wilds with two loud peasants.

(Jokei goes to stream and fills alms bowl with water and approaches Yoshitsune) JOKE I We're a day from the checkpoint at Ataka. If we pass them, which I doubt we'll do if you don't shave your head, if we pass them, it's still two more months to Oshu.

Your precious hair will grow back considerably. (Yoshitsune is rigid) Hmm . .. you're so ar rogant you think nothing of jeopardizing th ree other lives . ..

YOSHITSUNE Oh, all right .

JOKE! (shaving) You should have stayed at the monastery and become a holy monk.

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YOSHITSUN E

I would've been a coward not to want to avenge my house .

JOKE I

The trouble is it doesn't stop with revenge .

YOSHITSU NE It does with me.

JOKE I

What about the battle ofYashima?

YOSHITSUNE

What about it?

JOKE I

You attacked the Heike at the height of the storm in the middle of the night and chased them into their ships. The next day they realized they outnumbe red you and tried to land and you fought them ofT time and again. Then the sun began to set and both armies began to retire for the night when the He ike sent a small boat rowing to you. It stopped ... what .. .

YOS HITSUNE

Yes, about 80 feet , and on it was a young girl about 18 who took a red fan with a rising sun on it and hung it on a pole tied to the gunnel of the boat. They we re daring us to hit it. I called on my best arche r, Nasu-no-Yoichi. He took a turnipbeaded shaft and drew his bow and let fly. It whizzed through the air and hit the an inch from the rivet and knocked it fluttering into the water. The re was explosion of breaths, the Heike beat the gunnels of their ships, we on shore our quivers. Yes, it was a glorious moment.

JOKE I

then an old man in armor jumped into the boat where the fan had been and to dance twirling his halberd . You ordered Yoichi to kill him.

YOSHITS UN E

JOKE I

old man excited into celebration by Yoichi's feat?

YOSHITS UN E

had tried to kill me earlier. My men formed a human shield around me , but Tsuginobu caught an arrow between his armor and died in my arms.

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JOKE I But the day's fighting was over.

BEMPAKU You're so damn holy, why don't you go preach to Yoritomo?

JOKE I Everybody says Yoshitsune is compassionate.

BEMPAKU Go preach compassion to Yoritomo.

JOKE I How can a warrior be compassionate? It's a contradiction. They must m ean he's compassionate compared to other warriors. Why shouldn't he be? He grew up in a monastery.

YOSHITSUNE I'll pray for his after-life .

JOKE I There is no after-life.

SHINOBU You're not a monk! You're a devil!

JOKE I Good deeds bring good results, evil deeds evil results, in this life, not in some vague former or future life. That's the true meaning of karma.

SHINOBU (puts hands to ears) I refuse to listen.

JOKE I Karma has become so fashionable. You lie down, give up, languish in sensuous sorrow, bathe in a sea of tears. It confounds the senses. It is suffering or is it pleas ure?

SHINOBU We do not suffer for fun! We do not play at being sad! What can be sadder than our present plight? To be forced to sit here and listen to your drivel!

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JOKE I (finishes shaving, steps back) There, now, you're no longer our sore thumb. Let's hope Confucius is right. Make a ritual of the form, and the content will follow. (to Bempaku) A shaved head would improve you too.

BEMPAKU I don't need improvement.

JOKE I No, you don't, you're a peasant, not a warrior. Go home to your rice fields. That's what the warriors are fighting over.

BEMPAKU What about you? I know your type. There was one in every village. The misfit farmer who can't stop talking long enough to till his field.

JOKE I What makes you think you can become a warrior by wearing a sword?

BEMPAKU What makes you think shaving your head makes you a monk?

JOKE I will be said, 'Though he was only a peasant, he was as brave and loyal as a . He followed his master into death'. Why don't you save yourself? Why you follow your master around like a love-sick dog? (Bempaku shrieks and staff down fast but stops it at Jokei's shoulder) The absolute loyalty you .,.r路rin路r~ pride yourselves in is sick and misplaced. Only Lord Buddha can comsuch loyalty. Don't you have a mistress? A loved one? Parents? Why not be to them? Save yourself. You're not in the fight. Your death won't go beyond own skin or at most your master's skin. If you're going to throw your life do it for a noble idea. Do it for gentle Buddha's sake.

BEMPAKU turn you into a martyr right this minute if you don't stop!

JOKE I are your parents? How can they manage without your strong back?

BEMPAKU about your parents? Why don't you go home and help them?

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JOKE I We take a sacred vow when we enter monkhood. We sever all family ties as cleanly as you warriors chop off heads.

BEMPAKU You can always quit the priesthood.

JOKE! An apostate monk?

BEMPAKU There've been monks who quit. Of course they didn't pretend to be as holy as you.

JOKE I Besides, my parents are dead.

BEMPAKU You're more qualified than any to pray for their ... but you don't believe in an after-life. You're good for nothing then . ..

JOKE I Yes, in a world over-run by warriors I am good for nothing.

YOSHITSUNE Mr. Monk, you said you were going to give us some elementary lessons on the teachings of Lord Buddha. In case they interrogate us.

JOKE I You teach them.

YOSHITSUNE I ran away before I took the tonsure.

JOKE! You remember the words.

YOSHITSUNE Just the words .

JOKE I All right (motions with arms, others form semi-circle around him) The first truth is the noble truth of suffering. All the world is pain and suffering. Physical,

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mental, e motional pain and suffering, but more so the pain of unsatisfactoriness.

Things turning out not what you expected, taking a vow of gentleness and being angry all the time, freedom bought with a loved one's slavery, and even nirvana becoming tainted with selfishness. This pain and suffering is caused by desire and craving ... (light dims and comes on slowly. Four monks are at stage left, their hats on. At center stage is table, behind which stand Togashi & two warriors, all wearing swords) TOGAS HI Who are you?

JOKE I We're ascetics from Kumano.

TOGAS HI Where are you going?

JOKE I Haguro.

TOGAS HI (points to Yoshitsune) Let him speak. Who is the abbot ofKumano.

YOSHITSUNE Keizo.

TOGAS HI Why are you an ascetic?

YOSHITSUNE Abstain from stealing, abstain from killing, Lord Buddha said. You warriors kill to steal, kill to keep what you stole. Your killing and stealing have made you the rulers of the land. I renounce such a world.

TOGAS HI Those are treasonable thoughts.

YOSHITSUNE Then Lord Buddha is a traitor.

TOGAS HI (to Jokei) What about you?

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JOKE I I withdrew because there's no hope of changing the world.

TOGAS HI (to Bempaku) And you?

BEMPAKU I'm an ascetic because I hate people. They ask too many stupid questions.

TOGAS HI (to Shinobu) What about you?

JOKE I He's a mute . He's an ascetic because he's a mute.

TOGAS HI (to Jokei) Whom do you sympathize with, Lord Yoritomo or his brother?

JOKE I Neithe r. But of the two, I think Lord Yoritomo the more harmful. Before he took over, there were no barriers like this. The more powerful he becomes, the less independent I become. Who knows, he might forbid pilgrimages next. The fear of reprisal was the only thing restraining him , now he has no earthly restraint.

(The two warriors have been looking over each monk. Now they concentrate on Yoshitsune, trying to look under his hat) TOGAS HI (to Yoshitsune) What about you?

YOSHITSUNE Lord Yoritomo demands too much obedience. It turns everyone under him into a petty tyrant.

BEMPAKU You can't even joke for fear he 'd take it for insincerity. He has no sense of humor.

TOGAS HI SHUT UP! I'VE NEVER SEEN A MORE RUDE BUNCH OF MONKS! I OUGHTA SE ND YOU ALL TO KAMAKURA! JOKE I I have nothing pe rsonal against Lord Yoritomo. It's the whole warrior class I

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object to. You used to be the throne's police force. For the past 30 years you've usurped the power of the throne till today the policemen are the rule rs of the

land.

TOGAS HI

The power had already been usurped by the civilian house of Fujiwara.

JOKE I

TOGAS HI

And incompetent and corrupt and over-refined and interested only in luxury.

Governing takes work.

JOKE I

But they weren't inhuman. I understand Lord Yoritomo even rejects Confucius.

The first duty of the vassal, he says, is to his master, not his parents.

TOGAS HI

Without him the country would still be at war, bandits everywhe re, intrigue and corruption at court, pillage, arson, starvation , epidemics, a country racked with a dozen diseases, each one fatal. Lord Yoritomo has established a new orde r based on hard work and common sense.

JOKE I

I don't know if I prefer a corrupt government which leaves me alone to an efficient one which controls too much of me.

TOGAS HI

You may pass after you write a statement of loyalty.

JOKE I

TOGAS HI

An oath of loyalty to Lord Yoritomo.

JOKE I

I refuse. I am not a warrior. My first loyalty is to Lord Buddha.

TOGAS HI

All right. Just write your name.

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BEMPAKU I'll write whatever you want. It's only words.

Ookei goes to table at Checkpoint and writes with Chinese brush and ink) JOKE I (to Shinobu) Come (motioning with hand and gives he r his brush while Bempaku is writing with another brush) YOSHITSUNE (taking brush from Bempaku) I'll write that stateme nt. I'm loyal within reason. (as he starts writing beside Shinobu, Jokei hits him on the right elbow with his stafl) JOKE I What sacrilege! How can you say such a thing!? Your first loyalty is to Lord Buddha!

YOSHITSUNE (holding elbow) I've pored over all the holy books, and I don't remember reading anything which said so. Lord Buddha is compassionate and his compassion e mbraces ever ybody, it's big enough to tolerate all other loyalties.

JOKE I That's the trouble! Tolerance of cruelty and oppression is an intolerable sin!

YOSHITSUN E I'll write what I feel. What the sincerity of my heart dictates. (writes as he speaks) I am loyal within reason. I am not a rebel at heart.

TOGAS HI (examines all the state ments again st one he pulls out from the folds ofhis kimono) It's obvious that you and you and you are not Yoshitsune. Your calligraphy don't match either. (drops three of them to the ground. Studies the last as warriors surround Yoshitsune, hands on swords' hilts) It's hard to tell with your shaky hand. What's your name?

YOS HITS UNE Kushaku.

(As soon as he answers, Jokei cuffs him from the blind side sending him sprawling and knocking off his hat, revealing his shaven head

70

and dirt-stained face. Shinobu starts and is blocked by Bempaku. Yoshitsune gets on all fours and be llows, pounding the ground. The two warriors recoil) JOKE I That's it! Spill your guts! Show your true self! Who are you? Monk or murderer?

YOSHITS UNE I am a murderer!

JOKE I Whom did you murde r?

YOSHITS UNE I murdered my parents.

JOKE I How? YOSHITSUNE I abandoned them to join the priesthood!

JOKE I Ahhh l (jumps, twirling his staff like a halberd and brings its end down at Yoshitsune's neck, stopping it at last moment) Wh y did you do such a sinful thing?

YOSHITSUNE So that I could dispense good deeds to strangers!

JOKEI Double-sinning snob! Noble hypocrite! Murderer of old men and harmless dreams!

BEMPAKU (joining frenzy) Which is more sinful? A lust for wome n or a lust for power?

YOSHITS UNE A lust for power!

BEMPAKU Wrong! When Buddha speaks of lust, he means the lust of flesh! Which is more sinful? Killing or lust?

71

YOSHITSUNE Killing!

BEMPAKU Wrong! They're equally sinful! Which is more sinful, killing in war or killing in treachery?

YOSHITSUNE Killing in treachery!

BEMPAKU Wrong! All killing is sinful!

JOKE I (on opposite side from Bempaku) How do you teach morality to the amoral?

YOSHITSUNE Teach him to act with a pure heart and all his actions will be above reproach!

JOKE I Fool! Show me a pure heart and I'll show you a blind man! Your heart should serve your head!

TOGAS HI There, there, you're being too hard on your pupil. A pure heart is a rare thing. A deed arising out of sincerity is superior to all your knowledge.

JOKE I To hell with your infallible sincerity! Sincerity is a blind e motion!

TOGAS HI What does Buddha say about 'anger'?

JOKE I Abstain from harsh language. But it's impossible! How can I hold my tongue while you warriors despoil the land! Everybody imitates you! Even the monks turn themselves into warrior-monks! It's a travesty! There's not enough anger in Lord Buddha's teachings to fight you. He did not envision a people so corrupt.

You make my life meaningless! You make my parents' sacrifice meaningless!

(Shinobu is helping Yoshitsune up, Jokei gives him his hat) I was the son of a peasant in arid Satsuma where even weeds have to be cultivated to grow. For every five peasants, there were ten warriors. The only way I could get you warriors off my back was to join the priesthood. May we pass or do you intend to humiliate us more.

72

(Togashi crosses his arm s) BE\1PAKU

Send us to Kamakura. \ Ve want to convert Yoritomo.

TOGAS HI

He'll behead you first.

BEMPAKU

We'll convert him first .

TOGAS HI

Getaway!

(F our monks exeunt stage right)

73

POETRY FEATURE A Selection of Contemporary East Asian Poets

[Chinese] Pien Chih-lin (1910-) Ts'ao Pao-hua Wang l lsin-ti Ai C h'ing (1910-) HsinTi

Translated by Wai-lim Yip Round je\\'el-Box Untitled Sail Afte rnoon in Autumn Snow Falls on the Land of China Translated hy Ching-hsien Wang Parting at Night Lake Pomegranate The Dream of the Strings Ele!-'Y Word>of the Wande rer Outside the Door

[Japanese) Kaneko Mitsuharu (1895- 1975) Sharks Ono To7A!bttro (1903-) One Plant for :'11an-made Oil In the Eyes of a Screech Owl Escape Ishihara Yosh iro (1915-77) The Condition [Korean ) Cho Chi-hun (1920-68)

Song of the Cavern Falling Blossom'

Modern Sijo by Nine Poets

Compiled and edited by Pe ter H. Lee

74

Translated by Hiroaki Sato

Translated by Keiko Takagi

Translated by Peter H. Lee

PIEN CHIH-LIN Round JeweI Box

Where do I fancy I fathom A round jewel-box? From the Milky Way? It contains a few pearls A drop of transparent watery mercury Holds the colors and forms of the whole world A drop of golden lamp Keeps in it a hall of luxurious feast A drop of fresh rain Swells with your last night's sigh Don't go to a clock & watch store To listen to your youth being eaten away by silkworms Don't go to an antique shop To buy your grandfathe r's old bric-a-bracs See, my round jewel-box Now follows my boat to flow onward Down, although passengers in the cabin are Always in the blue sky's e mbrace Although your handshakes Are a bridge-Yes, a bridge, but a bridge Also built within my jewel-box And my jewel-box to you To the m, is perhaps For hanging on the ears, a drop of A pearl-a precious stone-a star?

-Translated by Wai-lim Yip

75

TS'AO PAO-HUA

Untitled

A Taoist blows his magic conch skyward Calling into deep mountains a host of lions Suddenly turning stones ; they stare hard into the sandBabylon now sunk into oblivion for 5 thousand years Leaving dead corpses on the ground

Touching his side, he finds inside the gourd The sun and the moon gone: how to guide fingers To knock on distant place doors locked in dreams?

The skyward cap falls from his head On the level ground, surge of a flood .

Heavy bags, dragging hooves toward the Western sky The black donkey sighs on its way Over a thousand ten thousand mountains The thousand acres of sand weighing on its eyelidsA lone star glitters beyond the sky . ...

(1937)

- Translated by Wai-lim Yip

76

WANG HSIN-TI Sail

The sail is set, Verging toward where the sun sinks.

Bright-clean against the old Windblown sail smacking the dark water Like black butterfly, white butterfly.

Bright moon shines vertically on our head Green snake Playing the silver-pearls.

Whispers upon the wind Blown over by the wind The sailors ask about rains, about stars.

From day till night, From night till day, We cannot sail out of this circle.

Behind, a circle.

In front, a circle.

An eternal Rimless circle.

Take the mist off life For the mist of smoke-water.

(1934)

-Translated by Wai-lim Yip

77

WANG HSIN-TI Afternoon in Autumn

Sunlight is like rolls & rolls of torn silk.

Upon the pane is reflected the cold, white distant river.

Those slender slender Hands of insects feet of insects How much coldness they pick up?

The light of years gradually goes.

(1936)

-Translated by Wai-lin Yip

78

AICH'ING Snow Falls on the Land of China

Snow falls on the land of China Cold locks the e ntire nation .. .

Wind, Like an old woman too sorrowful Following closely at our heels Stretches her cold claws Pulling at the clothes of passers-by And with words ancient as earth Ceaselessly mumbles Emerging from the woods Hurrying horse-carts along You, peasants of China Wearing a leathe r hat Bracing the heavy snow Where are you going?

Let me te ll you I, too, am a descendent of peasantsFrom your face Run all over by painful wrinkles I can tell And deeply feel The days & months & years of hardship Of you folks living upon the prairies

And I Am not happie r either -Lying on the river ofTime Surges of disaste rs Now many times in and out I have been thrown?

Wande ring and then in prison I have lost the heyday

79

Of my youth \1y life Like yours Haggard, the same Snows falls on the land of China Cold locks the e ntire nation Following the ri vers of snowy night A small oil-lamp slowly moves The boat of torn bamboo awnings Shines with the light Head-hanging Who is it sitting there?

0

0

0

0

0, you A young woman with dishevelled hair Is it that your home -once nest of happiness and warm thIs burnt to the ground By the brutal ene mies?

Is it that In a night like this Having lost the protection of a man Caught up in the te rror of death You have been insulted by the e nemies?

Is it that In a night like this Having lost the protection of a man Caught up in the te rror of death You have been insulted hy the e ne mies' daggers?

Ai , it is in a night cold like this Numerous Aging mothers of ours Have to crouch inside their homes Like strangers in a strange land Not knowing what course Will tomorrow's wheels roll-And Roads in China Are so tortuous And so mud-filled!

Snow falls on the land of China Cold locks the entire nation 0

80

0

0

0

Through the prairies of the snowy night In the regions gnawed by the fires of war Numerous land-tillers Have lost their fowls Lost their fertile fields All crowding toward A polluted alley of hopelessness: Hunger-stricken land Stretches toward the darkened sky His to beggins arms Trembling The sufferings and disasters of China Are wide and long like this snowy night!

Snow falls on the land of China Cold locks the entire nation ....

China In this unlit night These feeble lines I have written Can they give you a little bit of warmth Night, Dec. 28, 1937

-Translated by Wai-lim Yip

81

HSINTI Parting at Night

No need to continue the broken whisperings, no moreOutside the door it is already a distant night.

In the haggard glass Now the grape tastes like olive.

Under the whip the sound of the hooves will not stop.

Do you want to gather the tinkling of the bells?

The lamp dims by the curtain, shaking away the silent dews: A heart sinks into the gray, boundless ocean .

(December 1933)

-Translated by Ching-hsien Wang

82

HSINTI Lake Pomegranates

The chirp of insects affords me much summer green The depth of the mountain air first obtains the warmth of the universe Light and darkness take shape in turn and withdrew 0 to be a man in the mountain!

Under the sun are laughters drifting over the flower wilds I hear the souls murmuring to one another Under the slanting and straight pines Evening winds have started to whistle What really last in eternity are The light of the lake and pomegranates (Aprill936)

-Translated by Ching-hsien Wang

83

HSINTI The Dream of the Strings

The tree's thick shadow blossoms white chess pieces On the quiet, long stree t Three strings sound rapidly A man hurriedly arrived And left Leaving behind himself a stretch of green dream A sad, regretful dream He must be bereft of the light Unaware that the light is shining on his worn temples But not in his eyes The past is blue smoke in vain Fusing with his sadness and regre ts Has he left for the margin that is lost?

No, The words of the strings are te nder enough for him Sadness and regre ts belong to him.

(Summer, July 1933)

- Translated by Ching-hsien Wang

84

HSINTI Elegy

A boat floats by itself None would inquire about the passenger Lights in the sky Desolate breadth on the river The wind blows and the grass greens Moving the shadows of wisdom Wisdom is written with water A voice rises from the grass Thinking of your name The Lethe is right ahead Sailing along and comforting each other We share the sight of a reed (October 1936)

-Translated by Ching-hsien Wan g

85

HSINTI Words of the Wanderer

After twenty years of wandering I was back Spirit high, walking on the main street I shared the sunshine delightedly with the townspeople, eager to shake their hands But when I had sat down quietly in the park for a long day Everything seemed to turn out stranger and stranger I doubted ifi had not come from another planet Then I must have already been a part of history The little town was not for the rootless ones So if I did not want to kill myself I had to get out and go on wandering

- Translated by Ching-hsien Wang

86

HSINTI Outside the Door

The silk sleeves are silenced The dust grown in the jade courtyard The empty room is cold and still Fallen leaves piled against the doors is coming II'â&#x20AC;˘"'VVJ"'~ like a cat out for the cobwebs on the door the key turn itself in the long dead lock she a guest or hostess of the place? a cold day like this, at the year's end has come from faraway a thought for things past am glad still, my eyes can perceive form of darkness l!llinlnrv\rhn<Yone or two and yellow flowers still, I can reme m her the cracklings in the hearth we threw into it some waln uts firewood just cut from the tree long years, such leisure those fingers ornamented with flowers How much sad, white melody streamed-! do not know ouside the door is nothing but a road closed After three days of rain and snow I do not like to hear you say 'weary' any more I want to write lightly 'me' on the dusty mirror I want the purple glass To touch the loving lips once more But I am afraid Afraid that everything will crack up in a mome nt

87

Here there is not anything more to expect Nor anything more not to expect It is as dead quiet tonight as last night The candle lights, red and silver Do not prolong for me, green for me I cannot hear what the eyes say Twe nty years For twenty years now I have not found the familiar laces and pine On the stepping of a cat When night has come One, two White and yellow flowers And I seem to be lost with e verything On a cold day like this, at the year's end She has come from faraway With a thought for things past

- Translated by Ching-hsien Wang

88

KANEKO MITSUHARU Sharks1

1

positions yielding on their own, they come to lie side by side, athwartwise,

far beyond it all, dimly, up like balloons; gangly, beyond your height, as bamboo, yet muddily dark, salty, dizzying salt water-into it llle-pa.cl<ÂŤ~. jagged cans , spinning in the water. sharks won't bite at you. their stomachs are full. stomachs of these fe llows, humans are so packed they almost bulge out. arm with its severed part ripened and burst , below the crotch they've bitten off in slow chunks, IOW'-m'e torsos-

crosseyes, insidious, fie ndish fellows. sharks gather outside the white breakwaters of Malacca and Tandjung Priok. the red turnips, the roofs of pilots' offices â&#x20AC;˘"''"""'""'-' by the waves from the oil pot . where have you brought them in your mouths? the kampung 2 on the water, from the mouths of bays, the rotte n mouths of riversfrom bubonic plague that float and block the stream. Corpses from Corpses of children . with bellies like blue gourds.

89

Again they wait patiently for a burial at sea, their harpoon-point snouts glued to ships' hulls.

The sea be tween Minicoy Island and Africa scorches, suppurates, spouts up mists, purrs deeply, pulls about a biscuit thrown to it, a coffin, plays with it, and smacks its lips.

Corpses . . . . Wax-colored corpses that wear out like soap .

Corpses . . . . Corpses with not a drop of blood left.

Corpses. Loitering. Drifting corpses.

Corpses kicking about like hydras. Intestines like strings.

Large heads like seashells in which water has collected.

The sharks, like cutting machines, hack them off.

The sharks, lying about, wait for any length of time for servings of humans.

Their skins are slimy, blue-smelling, an unpleasant odor, pungent, pierces your head.

Hauled up on deck-the sharks.

Like large ceramic bathtubs, no heads, no tails .

But in their familiar seas, they are as colossal as heavy guns, and malignant, muzzles darkly, oppressively, smoldering.

They, like the Mosaic miracle, slit apart the waters of the world with their backs, take a chunk out of the beach as with Death's scythe, emerge majestically, and disappear swiftly.

The shark.

He's a steel-blade.

He's the danger of a steel-blade. Just sharpened.

A blade's glittering, fine, irritations.

The shark.

He has no heart, he's the brutal one who rides this world.

2 Searching for Christians and spices we have reached this place.

These words of Vasco da Gama as he landed in India are as good as: -Searching for slaves and plunder we have reached this place.

Jan Pieterszoon Coen built gun bases in Batavia, Sir Stanford Raflles grasped the gate of Singapore and set up a stronghold to twist the arms of Siam, Japan, and China.

90

fleets of these fellows , grown thick and fat like agaves, with white powder all over them , quietly open. warships only kebon 3 simply to make grand spectacles? you say they are defenses for peace? they merely trying to maintain their dignity in solemn fashion? years, seven years, soon ten years, finge rs bitten off one by one, this part and that part of my body lost, now reduced almost to half, sometimes hurried forward, sometimes left behind , by myste rious currents. the equator, in Sumatra Strait. jee r at my lameness, and even for that I depend on them . a miserable game. Silly endless circling. my intestines, rinsed too much in sea water, are too clean, and hurt. if wrung, blood oozes. those fellows slid by me, guts floated up, a puflball, and I lifted my hat a little and greeted in Charlie's style. a passing shark's nose nudged me turned my direction a little-that was all. don't they eat me? my heart have poison in it? my flesh taste bad? Is it rotten? start eating me all right, these days, but as soon as they do, they spit me out. do it, just for the fun of it. stomachs are ove rloaded. They do it to lessen their loads. can't possibly have the se nsitivity, anything fine like that , of choosing their food .

...""u'""' sits on top that's just begun to kindle. burnt stones, cockspu r coconut palms. Hindu kering. Malaysians.

Baba Nangking. 4 Ghastly odors of their scorching bodies, these human beings. flower blue sky. betel blood- red bedazzleme nt .

91

The sharks' nozzles are beginning to suppurate in the Lysol.

Their eyes are scarlet , puffy, swollen.

On white mosquito ne ts, on plastered walls, pale rose geckos dctrt.

Sweaty, twitching bodies with fast-beating hearts-they wear bracele ts of pure gold on them.

A Cantonese girl pushing a make-up ball on her hairless skin.

Siamese women decorated like phoenix-palanquin s.

Singapore durians: their bodies are hot, lethargic, and empty, as they lie about twining around "bamboo-ladies."

Looking in through the brothels' square bars, men hurl the worst insults at them.

Turned into maggots of coal, coolies squirm .

Iron roasts. Wate r sizzles.

Thirsty. Furious. Totally blackened , they carry cement. Boil tar.

In the kaki rumah of the bleak town, they raise feeble whimpe rs after the Raya Puasa.

They're naked , constructing a batte ry they'll turn against the mselves.

The sharks have chomped arms off the m .

And leisurely turn around them, mimicking the seven trips around the holy place in Mecca, making fun of them .

The sharks, like autos, are disgustingly shiny, and gradually grow in the stinging water.

The nickel-colored water of the Strait of Malacca.

To the breakwaters where the water slides on the boulders just as you might unfurl curled plantain leaves, the sharks roll their bodies close.

Shadowless fish and glass shrimp.

Yes. A man's blood or a woman's, blood , in the sea water, is only a drop of port wine.

Suckin g on my lips that have lost blood, this is a woman . Just the same, hers is a bloodless tongue.

- Damn. No one has anything like blood.

The water with a hangover, painful , is washing the wounds of Singapore, smarting.

92

has he drifted from? this capricious, facetious fe llow. more like a bum. Or, floating mine. the narrows flickering like numbe rless fireflies and covered with small wrinkles, he's reeling, from Tandjung Bunga to the Strait of Malacca. a difference of one or two millimete rs, the sharks' snouts don't touch this explosive as they pass by. know; they've cheated him , they're sneering with eyes like needles.

But this shark had part of his face sliced off slantwise. had the face of Governor-Gene ral Clifford, looked like Hitler, too. haughty, insolent, spacious, coarse, totally unreceptive, cruel, blue whetstone-like profile- the profile says, untroubled : You are no loyal citizen. You're no be liever, eithe r. You're a drifter.

A beggar. A phony. You're someone at the e nd of the line.

Awoman and a child with me, I can't make any re tort. woman's legs get torn ofT, the child's small ass gets nibbled ofT. of white flesh sway in the water.

I shut my eyes tight and threw myself at the m.

They're a wall . A barricade called "society" that doesn't accede to anything.

And, over the sea, it's rain .

On the waves, small patte rns; a lonesome promenade.

Waiting for a second floating mine, I was swaying in the waves, as I drifted to some place .

5 I'm now lost outside Telukbetung Port ofSunda, under the equator, in Macassar Bay, in the narrows of Bin tan and Batam of the Riau Archipelago, in the wate r with hlue moss-rust floating on it, in the dark water, through the dark seaweed forest.

A river th rust like a kris into the throat of a jungle. Black Death.

Pahang, Batang Hari, Perak Rivers soak nipah palms, push muddy water into the sea, and sago palms, fallen low, smolde r darkly.

In amber pools the color of a plantain leaf, mosquitoes are clamorously singing.

Customs. That's Pera Anson . 6 Kuala Kubu . Palembang Port.

93

Rubber rots, crumbles, and turns into a stream of tar.

People can't eat it, can't stuff it in their kaytt 7 and suck it in place of candu. 8 The haaj caps, eyes looking enfeebled , squat quie tly the whole length of the jetty.

As I pass by, watching one port after another, the sun scorches my head floating on the water after deaths, filth , floods.

Latrines on the water, picketsleeches and snakes with fins flap on them.

A blue heron atop a pohon sengon.

On the reddish-brown full water a bleak landscape shows as much as a sash, sitting on top of the water, looking as if about to be overwhelmed by it.

Water surface garish as a reflector.

Those sharks.

He re too, they follow me.

Their bellies white as a chip of a cup pass before me in the yellow muddy water.

Their seven cutting edges in a row.

Sharks-they're as persistent as a dog.

Sharks. Weep or laugh-it's no use.

No good to threaten them either.

They run me down till I'm against the wall.

I'm now staggering about in the coral-reef zone off Karimun Lombok at latitude 8째 south and longitude ll5째 east.

Scarlet tortoise-shell d yed in menstruation, and coral stars like mantles.

Among the waves fine as peacocks I was drunk.

Acting as if I'd downed too much good peppermint. But that was terrible methyl.

The salt water is bitter. A single butterfly. A Borneo ship is being kneaded.

From Bostiro Timor Island to New Guinea the sea is utterly, like a virgin forest, deep .

I am lonely as ifl entered a wealthy man's salon.

The sea deceives me, deranges me, confuses me.

But I know. Will you stop kidding me. That which floats up to the surface, in the sea, paley white . An abyss. What it is, is the shark.

The shark softly checks up on my body with his narrow, lozenge-shaped nostrils.

They say all at once: Friendship. Peace. Love of society.

They then form a column. It's law. Public opinion. Human values.

Shit, again, with that, we fall apart.

94

6 Ah. Me. Corpse of a corpse. Only, child's soul turning in rebel's will. Body.

Adream that detests normality. Betrayal to coupling, wandering that turns against intimacy. I wouldn't be cured of my anger even ifl destroyed this great earth of hurt feelings seven times with a sledgehammer.

Feigning an air of composure, detached from the world that hates me, blames me, laughs at me, and considers me its enemy, I play on the tottering surface of the sea and splash over myself the sour water of the rambutan.

Over a view wasted and gone rusty, water without hope, red-hot hardship.

Among spit, piss, and watermelon rinds, from east to south, from south to southwest, me, having grown thoroughly sick and tired of roaming, ah . Why do I, I, go on roaming?

The woman twines around my arm.

The child clings to my neck.

No matter what, I can't do anything but face up to them .

I'm infirm. But no room for hesitation. No technique of cheating the m , no means of playing the coquette for the m.

Robbed of everything I had, body torn into shreds, just cocking my head, I slapped the flesh on my chest, just to see.

Sharks.

Sharks, however, wouldn't move.

With eyes narrow as atopeng's, they're glaring at us, wall-eyed fashion .

You'll be our food sooner or later- that seems to be what they're saying, but now they're so stuffed they'd have to make an effort just to move thier bodies.

In their stomachs, arms and legs of human beings lie about, undigested.

The sharks turn their asses to me , by turns.

On their bodies blue rust forms in places.

Like torn tin-plate funnels, with dents and warps, some even have blunt dots here and there, bullet holes.

And smell offensively of new paint.

Sharks.

Sharks.

Sharks.

Let's curse them. Let's destroy them.

Otherwise, they'll devour us all.

- Translated by Hiroaki Sato

95

Poet's notes Malacca: the old capital of Malacca on the Malay Peninsula. Before Singapore Port was developed , it was the numbe r one port of the colony on the Strait [ofM alacca]. It used to be in Portugal's hands; today it's in Britain's.

Tandjung Priok: the new port of Batavia, the capital of Java.

Minicoy Island : an uninhabited island on the way from the Pe rsian Gulf to the Red Sea. Vasco da Gama: a navigator who went around the Cape of Good Hope for the first time and landed in India.

Jan Piete rszoon Coen : second Dutch governor-gene ral in Java. Brave and dauntless Sir Stanford Raffles: a farsighted man who bought Singapore Island from the Johor Court and developed Singapore as it is today.

C harlie: Charlie Chaplin.

H indu kering: an India tribe of tall, skinny people mainly engaged in hard labor. tongkang: large, tub-shaped barge. be tel blood: tropical people have a habit of chewing betel nuts to dispe l heat. "Blood," because they spit out blood-red juice anywhere. gecko: many flesh-colored geckos live on the wall of all the houses. make-up ball: Chinese use solid balls of powder by partially melting them with water. d urian: called the king of fruits. During its season, the native people are said to forfeit their properties, even their wives and concubines, for a durian. It has a terrible odor.

As large as a football, it has prickles all over it. bamboo lad y: a long pillow which one holds to cool oneself while sleeping in hot weathe r. brothels' square bars: in C hinese brothels, square woode n bars are put up horizontally to lock the doors.

kaki ruma/1: in a tropical town, the eaves of buildings facing the streets are made wide, so that one can shelter under them whe n showers hit.

Hari Raya Puasa: a one-week fas t in conformity to an Islamic commandment , in which people do not eat while the sun is out; when the fas ting e nds, they have a great festival. seven trips in Mecca: Islam ites make it the ir life-time dream to go to Mecca, and work and save money for it. Colonial governme nts, taking advantge of it, organize pilgrimage ships to Mecca and rob the people of what little they have. In Mecca, people walk around the "black stone" seven times.

Tandjung Bunga (Cape of Blossoms): a beautiful spot on Pinang Island on the Malay Pe ninsula.

Clifford: a governor-gene ral of Singapore famous for confronting the native people with a ruthless policy.

96

palms: palms that grow in watery areas.

Rllllua.ng:

the most important port in Sumatra.

cap: a white Turkish cap that indicates the rank ofhaaj; an Islamite who has made it Mecca gets it. The cap is regarded as a supreme honor, and those who have it are with respect.

路 masks used in Javenese drama.

tree.

Unidentified; spelling uncertain .

An unidentified word, here used in the sense of pipe.

Opium.

97

ONO TOZABURO One Plant for Man-made Oil*

Between the rusted railways evening primroses put out fewer seeds each year.

On the burnt sand is a row of gigantic, silver-gray globes coated with aluminum paint.

The utilization of solar energy and the tides that popular science books preach doesn't excite me a bit.

My fantasies are extremely modest.

That raw-smelling, black mud that's supposed to be all dug out of this earth in another twenty or thirty years is the future , they say.

Look at the sea.

Evidently when one design begins there, the landscape on the earth looks almost hatefully wasted.

I'll gN there a trifle earlier than matter.

A trifle earlier than the accumulation of inventions, capital, steel frames , and tracks. â&#x20AC;˘Ono says he had a coal-liquefying plant in mind . Japan's coal technology was among most advanced during the 1930's.

-Translated by Hi roaki Sato

98

ONO TOZABURO In the Eyes of a Screech Owl

was a screech owl. s bird of prey caught alive on a foggy, northernmost mountain, its large, brass-colored eyes glinting, firmly holding on to the wire ne tting of the perch less cage, ing its sharp, pointed nails.

I looked in, its uppe r body, half-opened its beak, as though to leap fiercely face.

De-<ooe:n eyes have been something like the pockmarked surface of the half-moon a reflecting telescope caught. my face closer went into the eyes of the screech owl. pitch.,dark there. that palpable volume was packed and was moving. blood, but clean, intestines.

-Translated by Hiroaki Sato

99

ISHIHARA YOSHIRO

Escape (Dasso) - at the prison camp of Baikal in 1950

that instant

at the sound of a gun turned round and looked at us in defiant stillness as under a raised weapon with a suddenness too quick the world grew deep say you've seen what you've seen we crouch irrevocably from that midst footmarks like fire run south and where their strength fades another man is already standing the August sands of Baikal like vivid remorse nostalgia stumbles to its toes and is knocked flat as if in ambush sile nce like monasteries suddenly face to face we are lifted for a second drop our heads for a second is it Ukraine's dream shot down or the Caucasian wager? the muzzle already points to the ground like that's all the re is to it lifting his wrist he looked at the time the full noon of me rchan ts watching over the stillbirth of a donkey with our hands which nearly grabbed the sand and ants we wildly cover our mouths ask straight out do the backs of hands exist to be trampled on? ~unflowers

100

the black heels without me rcy are trampling and pass on submit! as if whipping a spotted dog we whip down our rage we now understand and admit we yield once and for all before the muzzle its tongue still hanging hot from the violence. beyond our freshly mowed sterile courage Ukraine Caucasus they're instantly far away between the boots so heavily blocking our way we throw gold coins of shining innocence we now lock our arms forming an endless chain of submission

-Translated by Keiko Takagi

101

ISHIHARA YOSHIRO

The Condition (}oken)

I'll set the condition from a bat's ear to a fountain at sunset we get up and go to bed according to conditions suddenly get swept away according to conditions but there's still one harshest condition and only one the thing I seek but can never have the ear like a nose the foot like a hand for the sake of this day hot and throbbing within the condition and for the next too we stop and stand leaning desperately towards the hot shining thing as it rises suddenly like blood to the cheeks and to the skies

-Translated by Keiko Takagi

102

CHOCHI-HUN Song of The Cavern

The thinner my body, The fatter my soul.

I drink spring water, Chips of stars and moons.

Thrust by a sword, Youth's gift, Embracing a wound.

I came, driven.

Ye t to be alive Is a greater reward, I weep therefore Chewing the grass.

0 dream, Course the wide plain.

In the deep hills A leaf falls.

-Translated by Peter Lee

103

CHOCHI-HUN Falling Blossoms

If blossoms fall Should we blame the breeze?

The stars beyond the bead screen Fade one by one, Far hills loom near After a cuckoo's call.

Now that the petals fall, Let's blow out the candle.

Scattering shadows Flicker over the garden, The white paper screen Dimly glowing.

I worry Someone may find out The pure mind Of one buried in the hills.

In the morning of falling blossoms I want to shed tears.

-Translated by Peter Lee

104

MODERN SIJO BY NINE POETS Translated hy Peter Lee

Mount Ach'a

Crossing ridge after ridge the landscape is desolate.

Grass, frost-covered rocks, red berries, violets1stop to look around , how could I be lonely?

Rain The day she packed her bags to leave me, The rain fell gently from the dark hours.

Let it fall tomorrow, keep falling day after day.

* Please don't leave on that long, long road .

The rain falls gently far into the night, Tenderly dissuading you be tter than I can.

* Pulling loose the sleeve I had grasped, you leave.

I wake from a dream , the glad tattle of the rain!

Seeing the pile of your baggage, I close my eyes again.

105

Window In this room the window does for seeing.

A sheet of paper hides the universe .

But you light with e ternal glow when the sun shines.

* You know best my ugliness and beauty.

You know best my sorrows and joys.

At the last moment of my life, I want to be beside you.

Yi Pyong-gi (1892-1968)

Early Spring Beautiful traces of early spring, where do they not pe rvade?

When my thoughts congeal, the passing clouds lingerDon't say your brush lacks skill, why not try a line?

Chong ln-bo (1893-?)

Pomegranate

Hidden among the leaves, you peek out at the blue sky.

Your cheeks and lips burn with ruddy fire.

Is it only the rind so red ?

I'll split the fruit and see.

Yi Hui-sung (1896- )

106

The Diamond Mountains What are the Diamond Mountains?

They're rocks and water.

If rocks and water, then they're mist and cloud .

If mist and cloud, sometimes they are, some times they are not.

Yi Un-sang (1903- )

Eleven-Faced Bodhisattva of Mercy Tiptoeing with dignity upon he r lotus throne, Through dreamy eyelashes she gazes upon the Eastern Sea. Enlighten me, merciful goddess, on the workings of causation!

* She makes no motion, yet the tinkle of swaying beads.

Her skin glows through from under the folds of robe.

The rounded breast, thrust forward, gently pulses.

* On spring nights every year the cuckoo sadly cries.

The long, long time flows, flows fleetingly by.

Wrapped in rapturous dreams, she smiles alone.

Yi T'ae-guk (1913-- )

107

Quiet In the middle of painting a hill , I call for a cup of tea.

The faint fragrance of India ink wafts like a mist.

A bird gives ear to the sound of pouring tea.

Chong Hun (1911- )

Blossoming Flower The flowe r opens petal by petal, a heaven is unfolding.

When the last petal quivers, at that awful moment, The breezes and sunshine hush, I too tingle and close my eyes.

Yi Ho-u (1912-1969)

Peach A picture is a false image,

a song flows away and dies. 路 On a black tray, the shadows are bright.

Peaches lie there still, a poem without a design!

Pak Hang-shik (1917- )

Sunflower The prince is withdrawing from twilight, from his kingdom.

Burned with fire , even yellow gold will leave no trace.

In the garden where the sun dies, ah, another sun is setting!

Pak Kyong-yong (1936- )

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GARRETT KAORU HONGO What For

At six I lived for spells: how a few Hawaiian words could call up the rain, could hymn like the sea in thB long swirl of chambers curling in the nautilus of a shell, how Amida's ballads of the Buddhaland in the drone of the priest's liturgy could conjure money from the poor and give them nothing but mantras, the strange syllables that healed desire.

I lived for stories about the war my grandfather told over hana cards, slapping them down on the mats with a sharp Japanese kiai that said Go Fuck the Fucking F.B.I. I lived for songs my grandmother sang stirring curry into a thick stew, weaving a calligraphy of Kannon's love into grass mats and straw sandals.

I lived for the red volcano dirt staining my toes, the salt residue of surf and seawind in my hair, the arc of a flat stone skipving in the hollow trough of a wave.

I lived a child's world, waited for my father to drag himself home, dusted with blasts of sand, powdered rock, and the strange ash of raw cement, his deafness made worse by the clang of pneumatic drills, sore in his bones from the buckings of a jackhammer.

109

He'd hand me a scarred lunchpail, let me unlace the high top G. I. boots, call him the new name I'd invented that day in school, write it for him on his newspape r. He'd rub my face with hands that felt like gravel roads, tell me to move, go play, and the n he'd walk to the laundry sink to scrub, rinse the dirt of his long day from a face brown and grained as koa wood.

I wanted to take away the pain in his legs, the swelling in his joints, give him back his hearing, clear and rare as crystal chimes, the fin s of glass that wrinkled and sparked the air with their sound .

I wanted to heal the sores that work and war had sent to him , le t him play catch in the backyard with me, tossing a tennis ball past papaya trees without the shoulders of pain shrugging back his arms.

I wanted to become a doctor of pure magic, to string a necklace of sweet words fragrant as pine needles and plume ria, fragrant as the bread my mother baked , place it like a lei of cowrie shells and pikake flowe rs around my father's neck, and chant him a blessing, asutra .

llO

CHARLES EDWARD EATON The Man From Buena Vista

Let us still reach out to what we most would have and be: The man thought this on his te rrace where he seemed somewhat stalledSomeone with a much more fluid net was bringing in the islands and the sea.

Someone else was feeling the rich and lingering effects Of purple aste rs in the garden, the smiles ofbeautiful women With whom he had an understanding of the metamorphosis of love from sex.

The wind on the te rrace moved , but he had no oar, much less a sailJust this complex vision of a statue and his name upon it, Those fishermen with brilliant ways of taking in the world that never fail .

Nevertheless, there goes the rigid hand plucking at an aster, And when he has beautiful, understanding wome n in to dine, He will set lanterns on the railing, ale rtin g sailors to the presence of a master.

Something may come of this exquisite meeting yet iLet them have the ir islands, perhaps the woman murmurs-Here by a darkened sea, The statuesque is flinging out its stasis like a net.

So we must tell ourselves as we unbend , bend down in candle light: The woman brought up like a jeweled mermaid, the sea as rich as wine-Those for whom the day is somewhat over make the ir most de te rmined haul at night .

lll

RAMPRASAD SEN

I spent my days for fun , Now, Time's up and I'm out of a job.

I used to go here and the re making money, Had brothe rs , friends, wife, and children Who listened when I spoke. Now they scream at me Just because I'm poor. Death's Field man is going to sit by my pillow Waiting to grab my hair, and my friends And relations will stack up the bier, Fill the pitcher, ready my shroud and say So long to the old boy In his holy man's get-up.

They'll shout Haria few times, Dump me on the pile and walk off.

That's it for old Riimprasiid.

They'll wipe off the tears And dig in to their supper.

- Translated by Leonard Nathan with Clinton Seely

112

HALA Epigrams from the Prakrit

When, after a break, love joins again, but the crack is all too visible, The savour flattens; as the taste of water, boiled and cooled, is flatte ned .

Giithii-saptasat'i, 1, 53.

If we are apart too long, love withers, and withers if we are too long togethe r; And withers if we listen to talk, and withers, anyway, because . .. it withers.

Giithii-saptasati, 1, 81.

The re is no way to tell him what damage he's done my heart ; His is a mirror which gives my pain back, but cannot take it in .

Giithii-saptasati, III , 4.

113

Wherever your eyes fall first, they'll stay put.

No one has seen her wholly, all at once, and no one can.

Giithii-saptasatl, III , 34.

The young farmer, his wife gone to her father's, stupidly stares at her favorite places, As if from each some gold that was buried had been dug up and stolen .

Giithii-saptasati, IV, 73 .

-Translated by Leonard Nathan with V. N. Misra and S. H. Vatsyayan

114

MICHAEL ONDAATJE Claude Glass som~what convex dark or coloured hand-mirror, used to concen=;:._g==c路aures of the landscape in subdued tones.

walked about everywhere with that pretty toy, the claude glass , in his nwking the beautiful forms of the landscape compose in its luscious -Gosse (1882 )

'But look , the dawn breaks sweetly white Like a tired professional bride in Shangri-La'

He is told about the previous evening's behaviour.

Starting with a punchbowl on the volleyball court.

Dancing and knockin g a child and mother across coffee tables asking his son Are you the bastard who keeps telling me I'm drunk? kissing the limbs of women suspicious of his friends serenading five pigs by the barn heaving a wine glass towards the garden and continually going through gates into the dark fields and collapsing.

His wife half carrying him home rescuing him from departing cars, she complains this morning of a sore shoulder.

And even later his 13-year-old daughter's struggle to lift him into the back kitchen after he has passed out, rested his head on rocks, wondering what he was looking for in dark fields.

115

For he has always loved that ancient darkness where the flat rocks glide like Japanese tables and he can remove clothes and lie with moonlight on the day's heat harde ned in stone , drowning in this star blanke t this sky like a giant trout so he is conscious how the heaven careens ove r him as he moves in back fields kissing the limbs of trees or placing ear on stone which rocks him and then stands to watch the house in its oasis of light.

And he knows something is happening there to him solitary while he spreads his arms away and holds everythin g that is slipping away together.

He is suddenly in the heat of the party slouching towards women , revolving round one unhappy shadow.

That friend who said he would find the darkest place, and then wave.

He is not a professional drunk like his father or his frie nd, can, he says, stop on a dime, and he can he could because even now, now in this brilliant darkness where grass has lost its colour and it's all fucking Yeats and moonlight he knows this colourless grass is making his bare feet green for it is the hour of magic which no matte r what sadness leaves him grinning.

116

At certain hours of the night ducks are nothing but landscape just voices breaking as they nightmare.

The weasel wears their blood home like a scarf, cows drain over the horizon and the dark vegetables hum onward unde rground but the mouth wants plum.

Moves from room to room where brown beer glass smashed lounges at his feet opens the long rust stained gate and steps towards invisible fields that he knows from years of daylight .

Urinating against weeds he snorts in the breeze which carries a smell of cattle on its back.

What this place does not have is the white paint of bathing cabins the leak of eucalyptus.

During a full moon outcrops of rock shine skunks spray abstract into the air cows burp as if practicing the name of Francis Ponge.

His drunk state wants the mesh of place.

Ludwig of Bavaria's Roof Gardenglass plants, iron parrots Ve nus Grottos, tarpaulins of Himalayas.

By the kitche n sink he tells someone from now on I will drink only landscapes -he re, pour me a cup of Spain .

Opens the gate once more and stumbles, blood like a cassette rushing through the body, away from the lights, unbuttoning, this desire to be rivermen.

117

Te ntatively he recalls his drunk invitation to the river.

He has steered the awesome car past sugarbush to the blue night wate r and steps out speaking to branches and the gulp of toad s.

Subtle applause of animals.

A snake leaves a path like temporary fossil.

He falls back onto the intricacies of gearshift and a steerin g wheel alive as his left arm which now departs out of the window trying to tug passing sumac pine bush tamarack to come with him into the car to the party.

Drunkenness ope ns his anns like a gate and over the car invisible insects ascend out of the beams like me teorite crushed dust of the moon ... he waits for the magic star called Lorca.

On the dark front lawn a sheet is tacked onto a horizontal branch.

A projector on the porch starts a parade oflandscapes, travel, relatives, shoes, friends leaping out in pebbles of wate r caught by the machine as if creating rain, a moth on the page of poetry.

Late r, after wind frees sheet and it collapses like powder in the grass pictures fly without target clothing burdock rhubarb a floating duck the sway of the swing so a tropical street or the mad painted face of baboon howls its colours over Southern Ontario.

Landscapes and stories flung into branches

118

and the dog too walks under the hover of the swing the beam of the projection bursting in his le ft eye.

The falling sheet the star of Lorca swoops and someone gets up and heaves his glass into the vegetable patch towards the slow stupid career of beans.

This is the hour when dead men sit down and write each other.

'Concerning the words we never said during morning hours of the party ... the re was glass under my bare feet laws of the kitchen were broken and each word moved in my mouth like muscle ... .'

This is the hour for sudden journeying.

Cervantes accepts a 17th Century invitation from the Chinese Emperor.

Schools of Chinese-Spanish Linguistics!

Rivers of the world meet! and here ducks dressed in Asia pivot on foreign waters.

At 4 a.m . he wakes in the sheet that earlier held tropics in its white ness rises from the bed.

The invited river flows through the house into the kitchen up stairs, he awakens and moves within it.

In the dim light of living room he sees the turkish carpet under water low stools, glint of piano pedals, even a sleeping dog whose dreams may be of rain .

It is a river he has walked e lsewhere now visiting him and moving with him at the hip to kitchen where a friend sleeps in a chair head on the table his grip still round a glass, legs underwater.

119

He wants to rehu: and gi ve in to the night fall horizontal and swim to the back kitchen where his daughter sleeps.

He wishes to swim to each of his family and gaze at their unde rwater sleep this magic chain of bubbles.

Wife, son, household guests all comfortable in clean river water.

He is aware that for hours there has been no conversation tongues have slid to stupidity on alcohol sleeping mouths are photographs of yells .

He stands waiting, the sentinel, shambling back and forth , his anger and desire against the dark which, if he closes his eyes, will lose the m all.

The oven light shines up through water at him a bathysphe re a ghost ship and in the half-drowned room the crickets like small pins begin to tack down the black canvas of this night, begin to talk the ir hesitant gnarled epigrams to each other across the room.

C reak and echo.

Creak and echo. With absolute clarity he knows where he is.

120

HAIKU POEMS BY ISSA

fleas too long nights must get lonely ...

willow like a woman enticing me through the hedge

an ancient Immortal my old friend leans on his hoe among chrysanthe mums

-Translated by Wayne Westlake

121

MIROSLAVHOLUB Newborn Baby

With eyes like embers of an extraterrestrial civilization, it occurs. Garbage in the wind.

It asks: What about neurosecretion? Solved?

Or this red shift of galaxies? Is it explained yet?

Have we got malignity unde r control?

Or at least the theory of aspirin effects?

And the particle-wave problem ?

Laws of thermodynamics, number four?

And what about this crappy mess here?

The newborn baby, plainly disappointed, becomes engrossed in itself.

Gradually, it's covered by fine hai r, and at night, almost imperceptibly, it whines.

The pack moves away.

-Translated by Dana Habova and Stuart Friebertfrom the Czech

122

Galileo Galilei

Flies licking the fish eyes of the saints.

I, Galileo Galilei, Florentine , at seventy years of age, kneeling in front of your highnesses ...

The trampling of the ages stops.

Holy manna trickles down the fur of time and space, the cosmic hen head with its beak smashes the teeth of pegged-out stars, hallelujah, hallelujah ...

I, Galileo Galilei, in the state of being sentenced , solemnly swear . ..

The Earth shudders.

The Sun torn from its roots falls with a scream, the Universe shrinks into Halloween candles astronomers grow blind .. .

I, Galileo Galilei, swear that I have always believed , that I believe now and with God's help I shall always believe ... dead tired men at microscopes ask-what now, children at their desks get up, ABC books bleed, history-beare rs put down their panniers, half-ways, half-deeds, half-truths, stuck like a bone in a throat ... . . . all that is proclaimed , recognized and taught by the Holy catholic, apostolic, Roman Church ...

123

Silence. the Earth was rendered, the Sun was rendered , dreams freeze in veins.

H e, Galileo Galilei, Florentine, at seventy years of age ...

I, Galileo Galile i, in a shirt, in Minerva's church , carrying the weight of the world on my spidery legs, I , Galileo Galilei, whispering into my beard, just for children, bearers, the Sunwhispering I say in the end ...

The Earth really does turn .

- Translated by Dana Habova and Stuart Friebertfrom the Czech

124

The Dangers of Night

The master bedroom ; double bed ; ceiling; bed side table; radio.

And out there the darkness supported by trees under which a dark blue jaguar strolls.

The walls ope n and the double helix of oneness twists through the shadowy breath of the roof.

Perhaps galaxies. But more likely the white eyeballs in a suggestion of wind.

The e nemy approaches; black image, the image of self in the mirror, sleep. Its hands grow and touch each other by finge rtip.

Defend yourself, because in the morning in the light of mindless birds, somebody else will wake up.

-Translated by Dana Habova and Stuart Friebertfrom the Czech

125

ROBERT SWARD Chapter of the Dreamer and What He Sees

Here I am .

Half a life's history "a horse which throws the dreamer to the ground."

I am taking shaman lessons and studying karate.

My greatest complaint is amnesia.

Do I believe in transmigration of the soul? Yes. But what if it can happen not only when one dies, but several times in an afternoon?

And I'm sure it's not properly amnesia I am thinking of.

I go out of my body, I come back in.

I say amnesia because sometimes when this happens I forget just who I am.

I've been doing this, I believe, with some regularity, for a quarter of a million years. I'm doing it more and more frequently now because I am unhappy. Even the light depresses me-, the light on Oxford Street, 6 PM on a Sunday. The light in Bloom's. The light in Wimpy's. I haven't seen light like this since the Middle Ages of the Animals.

We drink, we smoke, we go to parties. Friday night we went to the dullest literary party in 3,000 years in Bayswater off the Moscow Road.

I thought the whole time of algae, worms, primitive brachiopods, molluscs, crustaceans, I thought of my mother and those birds with the hollow bones.

I am in the library at Swiss Cottage eating chocolates with raisins in the children's room.

What am I reading? Probably I have gone mad.

I am reading up on the eohippus, the first true archaic horse.

I identify. Those horses were no larger than dogs.

I'm a dog and interested in horses that were once my own size.

126

Why? I don't know why. Yes, I do. It's because I feel I was once (also) a woolly rhinoceros.

That I am at this moment a woolly rhinoceros.

Anyway, I am no longer incapacitated by my fetal fantasies.

I am devoting my whole attention to insects;geologyEaeh morning I have Bride A read me my biography and my passport.

Then I know who I am. Then I can pay attention to what needs to be done.

I go to pubs and drink and the children's room at Swiss Cottage and read stories.

My ambition, if I stay in London , is to be a dirty old man, but there's too much against me.

How I long for the dark Jurassic shales at the foot of the Swabian Albs.

Who are these people anyway? They think they speak English, but I don't understand a word they say My only reason for coming was to learn karate with Kanazawa who has gone to Germany.

0 , I've just gone out of my body and now I'm back.

What is happening in America where, I am convinced, in my pre vious existence, I was a Confederate soldier killed in action, 1863?

Well, it doesn't matter. I'll find out soon enough and probably know anyway if I'd only think about it.

Before I was born, Mother Blue who is the Mother of fire, gave birth to fire. Then to the Sabine women and Kafka.

My father, who has an upright tail , practises and earns his living in Chicago. We dream alternately of the 100 elephants which escort the tooth of the Buddha.

That he is a Rosicrucian and I am not is no obstacle.

We have made our peace, and increasingly-. Half a life's history. A wate ring pot.

At long last I have begun to menstruate. How I have looked forward to this! Bride A lies in bed in a darkened room and I sit on the bare floor in the Lotus position.

Secre tly, I want to be blind and to see from the back and the sides of my head, to have children, to bear and to father, to grow not two, but three breasts, to suckle twins. I want to be God and.to sign my name, X. The palolo tapeworm , an inhabitant of the Thames, regularly spawns on the last day but one of the moon's last quarter in Nove mbe r.

127

Two noses and one large eye and one eye between and one above and all goi ng up and down . And the fun nel between those c路entral eye~.

"-Would you do this to me, and later that'?'路

Bride A: Thin arms and hon y le~s . Sallow ~kin . ll er dark mirror \\路it h large t:>yes, praising. Ye llow light that kneels. Y<.'llow light that washes, combs he r hair. Light like a dull warmth .

"-What is that?" she says, "that yellow fuzz. Are you ill? Is it your liver?''

"-What?"

"-That yellow growth . Eech . lf s not yellow any longer. It's turning white!"

Bride A clomps to the closet, comes out with a ,路acu um cleaner. Runs it up my shoulder. Behind my ears. Crotch . Little toe. Ye llow light kneeling on the window sill. The light comes back. Bride A hurls a cup. hurls another. Batwoman , fat woman! Yellow aura sad woman!

My one eye shut and the li~ht goes round. Bride A after it with the vacuum machine. Clomps back, sticks machine in the closet. Stalks off. The li~ht comes back. I pour tea, biscuits and honey for us. Two other lights : one small and gray, the other squat and green . The sun is shining and th e rain falls. Illness of the Spide r Woman. Illness of the Cattail people. Illness of the Big Fly. Our Parent Fire. The Wicket Holy Winds Basket. Bearers of Illness: Slaye rs With Their Eyes.

Little sick woman and the indelible green light. She sits up to her neck in rai n.

She shakes and rolls in the rain Me Playing Lost & Found Man : "-Where's your name?"

Bride A: "I can't re me mber."

Me Playing Lost & Found Man : "You lost it! Where'd you last recall seeing your name?"

Bride A: "I can't reme mber."

Me Playing Lost & Found Man : "Oh name . poor name. come back. Lie down wi th her. Bring Bride's walle t . Her discharge from some recent dream:" Put on Bride A's Queen mask. I in a white the engine park outside the door, ride up the stairs on a bicycle. Break the mirrors, turn on the firehose. Bust Queen in the ribs, gouge her eye. Bride A's mask has teeth but no skull. Bride A removes her shoes, throws away he r clothes. Hours late r the corridor wall shifts into the room. Btide A sitting still. The wall speaks rapidly, excitedly. Bride sits naked and comforts the wall, watches othe r walls approach . They come casually, humming to themselves, wearing masks of invisible spirits, carrying small birds.

Strike Bride A, knock he r down . cold wate r on her, whole dishpan of soapy water. "Some thing e lse," she says. Afte r we've made love on the landing, "Just what I've always wanted . Eve rything!"

128

The air of melodrama. The unreality, disgust . Fury at being humiliated by melodrama. Yet closer now, more te nderness. Relaxed and whole, admit1 beat my woman, I like beating my woman.

129

Journal--February 14th To Mark in Ganeshpuri

A man dreams of searching for his Self and finds it occupying its own private train car. The man tells how upon hearing his voice, his Self turns, recognizes him and embraces him and how they walk ofT closer than brothers.

And the re you are in Ganeshpuri, the brother I hugged when you arrived unexpectedly from home my final week the re. My mouth dropped open. "Mark! What are you doing in Ganeshpuri?"

Baba says that when we see a frie nd unexpectedly in this way and the mind stops its incessant chatter and we draw in our breath saying, Ahhhin that moment of recognition we know the pure bliss of samadhi.

In that moment I felt that same bliss seeing you in the marble courtyard.

You've outlasted me all these months in Ganeshpuri. I laugh and wonder: how does a man find his inner Self?

Is it possible to send a card, write a le tter or mail a Valentine saying, " Happy Valentine's Day, dear Self, he re is a box of the best chocolatesfrom Purdy's in Victoria, B.C." Is it possible to send the Self bright red tulips and daffodils, too from this city of gardens with its orange-fleshed arbutus trees, green leaves against a blue sky,

130

salt air rolling in off the Straits ofJuan de Fuca?

That's all I want to say, Brother Mark.

You've lived here, too. You know what it's like living on this enchanted island.

Dear Brothe r. Dear Twin. My other Self.

131

GALWAY KINNELL The Ferry Stopping at McMahon's Point

It comes vigorously in ,

nudges the jetty and ties up, the usually ill-tossed line tossed twice â&#x20AC;˘. engine pressure holding it against the pilings for a half minute passed in leaps and totters ; then it backs a bit, turns out, and nose lifted like the head of a swimming dog goes churning away toward the Lavender Bay jetty.

132

Farm Picture

Black earth turned up, clods shining on their western side.s , grass sprouting on top of bales of spoiled hay, an old farmer bent far over like Australopithecus robustus, carrying two dented pails of water out to the hens.

133

JIM KRAUS Looking for Yesterday

I clean the white paint spatter from my glasses.

"Is it snowing?"

Your wet hair clouds my thoughts.

Currents swirl around menot seen, not heard-lifting me from the grey sea to the grey sky.

A question on your face is a challe nge that pulls me deeper into the wave-house .

It never stops changing.

Last year paint would flake from the ceiling into our soupbowls.

Our appetites were meager then.

Always satisfied, we knew that the slowly rotating house, painted white as a foggy sky far out at sea, was really an ancient sailing ship slipping through the mist.

It moved toward something we had always had but longed for endlessly.

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SERA NAKACHI MESSING The Playboy Club, Lake Geneva 1969

"But I like 'em braless." That's what he said, your friend the brilliant-Yale-chemist-turned-Marxist-revolutionary.

"Capitalist decadence," he hisses as he nudges me.

The bunnies-cuffed, collared, eared, tailed, and corseted in dark silk- jiggle by, offering everyone dry crackers and cheese dip. "I hate processed," I tell them.

One bunny stops to fix her hair, her French cut suit, her green eyes on you. You watch her serious hip bones swivel under their dark stocking veil. You follow the narrow seam to its swelling reference: "My name's June and I'm your bunny."

Your friend , Che Guevara-jeaned and shaggy among the balding dairy farmers-spouts the party line over fresh vodka: " Resist!

It's their war, man. Remember Chicago! Love, Canada, 4-F foreve r!"

June Bunny refills your waiting crystal. Eventually, you leave your dinner, the table, your blue eyes floating in my Liebfraumilch.

Suddenly Che's forgetting his cigarettes on my side of the table.

He's wanting to go to the bunny hutch to dance. He's offering to walk me home . Asking me if Hawaiian girls are related to the Eskimos.

If Wisconsin's summer nights aren't just a bit cold. If geishas are all they're cracked up to be.

No one can enjoy Lake Geneva at twenty. At twenty there is no choice.

One ignores the wrestling hold and pre tends to be flattered.

One offers the man a cup of coffee, asks about his graduate thesis, and says religiously, 'Tm married! " Love is a serious business at twenty.

Later, one learns to be more relevant. One says: "Screw you, Jack."

Or does.

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Oyako- Donburi

Some people need bourbon at 10 a.m ., a Vegas weekend, a new John now and then.

I need oyako donburi.

Maybe it's the duet of chicken and poached egg set bland against the counterpointing green onion and shrill soy sauce .

Perhaps it's the earth-hum of black mushroom, the rising silence of steaming rice, the hide and seek of white wine through bamboo shoots.

Oyako donburi has everything to do with heavy earthenware, handpainted, and placed C(so"

by a woman who uses both hands then bows .

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ERIC CHOCK The Immigrant

1

women's legs were rarely seen so when she bent over and they saw the hair they knew she was naturally dark under the working tan they said thick eyebrows were grown to shade the sun or catch the sweat as with gloves and hoe clearing land she worked her body they said was made for a field under the brim of her hat her eyes stare at the ground like two lost stones after rain 2 squatting on my lawn I pull these frontyard weeds like candles from a birthday cake ignoring the backache I own with this land, this house I can walk into every night the rest of my life

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but before the stiffness was ground in my bones I stood like a curved stem in the wind over those rows of thin leaves I kept the corners of the hoe chipping the unwanted green from the field and as I worked toward the tool shack leaning on the horizon I saw in its corrugated roof and wooden walls the ship of my dreams holding sky weed by weed I pulled my way each stroke of the hoe notching the earth ocean waiting for when I could walk the rest of my life into the cool rectangular boat and sail across those green latitudes eating lunch at the window as whole nations passed by

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The Roommate

perspiring from a bath the woman walks into her room closing the door after the hem of her kimono she sits trying not to hear the voices rising and falling with the party music the door behind her wilts under the saxophone even the kimono wrapped tightly around her would like to loosen itself and lean toward someone letting air move between their throats

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WINGTEKLUM

East/West Poem

0

E ast is East and West is West: but I never did unde rstand 路 why in Geography class the East was west and the West was east and that no one ever cared about the difference.

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VICTOR TALERICO

Tearing Down a Plantation House

While working on the rafters, real two-by-four two-by-fours, a car idles up to us, an older man hesitates the n gets out to watch.

After pulling a dozen more nails Richard asks if we can help him .

"No, no jus' stop to look.

You know ftfty-eight years ago dis house I was born ."

Quietly we both lay down our hammers.

"Soon I hear all dis kine camps no mo', eh?"

A 'Yeah' from Richard, almost like it was his decision to have this camp razed .

"You see dis one," pointing to the house next door.

"Da Japanee barber stay, and whooo plenty nights all da men come for haircut and talk story and drink da kine.

We kids alia time try stay wake an watch from da window.

Good fun ."

He pauses, picks up a be nt nail and points with it.

"And dat place ova der is kine furo house.

Plenty big one, and whooo da hot.

For da first ftfty guys, ten cents after dat, nickel."

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JOHN UNTERECKER Island in Autumn for Margaret Solomon

I am on an island. The island is shaped like the cupped palm of a hand. (Fold the fingers in tighter; now flatten the image; lift mountains, roads: the heart line, the life line !)

-asking too much . . .

-not hand ...

-asking too much ...

Yet if at the end of a long road you come to a little town and the road frays out into bristling tiny streets, you know there are lives going on in each of the secret houses.

It is then that you open up the palm of your hand, saying, "This is the palm of an ordinary hand, at sunset, on an island . The surf has come up on the north shore. And far out at sea a little scattering of surfers waits for the longest ride."

You study the grain of the hand, recovering the fading light and the long walk home down Elmwood Avenue, a parade of maples and elms and the one horsechestnut tree.

I can write your name on this sand , or any other name that I choose to call you by.

Harsh sand, rough underfoot.

When I was twelve, I broke a toe running across the beach at Stone Harbor. My uncle said, "You won't even feel it tomorrow." Then he posed me, skinny beside Helen, against sunset.

Whoever I say you are, whereve r you walk, I commemorate that slight limp that takes you up the beach past our heaped childhood.

Last evening, I watched gold give way to rose give way to mauve: the undersides of a sea of restless clouds.

-They changed and they did not change.

- They were a hesitation and a shape.

-They did not change.

- But a stroke of darkness, as if some great ship cut an e rratic wake through sky,

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lifted above the edge of the world to make a darkening pathway toward the night.

If I say I am alone, I mean only that rose fades into autumn leaves toward winter.

This hand could be anybody's hand, not necessarily mine, could be your hand, though shaped like an island.

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CATHY SONG

Chinatown

1.

Chinatowns: they all look alike.

In the heart of cities. Dead center: fish eyes blinking between redlight & ghetto, sleazy movie houses & oily joints.

A network of yellow tumors, th robbing insect wings.

Lanterns of moths and other shady characters: cricket bulbs & r oach eggs hatching in the night.

2.

Grandmother is gambling.

Her teeth rattle: mahjong tiles.

She is the blood bank we seek for wobbly supports .

Building on top of one anothe r, bamboo chopstick tene me nts pile up like noodles.

Fungus mushrooming, hording sunlight from the ne ighbors as if it were rice.

Lemon peels off the walls so thin ,

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abalone skins.

Everyone can hear.

3.

First question, Can it be eaten?

If not, what good is it, is anything?

Father's hair is gleaming like black shoe polish.

Chopping pork & prawns, his fingers emerge unsliced, all ten intact.

Compact muscles taut, the burning cigarette dangling from his mouth, is the fuse to the dynamite.

Combustible material.

Inflammable.

Igniting each other when the old men talk stories on street corners.

Words spark & flare out, firecrackers popping on sidewalks.

Spitting insults, huded garbage exploding into rancid odors: urine and water chestnuts.

4.

Mother is swollen again.

Puffy & waterlogged.

Sour plums fermenting in dank cellars.

She sends the children up for air.

Sip it like tea.

5.

The children are the dumplings set afloat.

Little boats bobbing up to surface

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in the steamy cauldron.

The rice & the sunlight have been saved for this: Wrap the children in won ton skins, bright quilted bundles sewn warm with five spices.

Jade, ginger root, sesame seed, mother of pearl & ivory.

Light incense to a strong wind.

Blow the childre n away, one at a time.

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ALANCHONGLAU three sketches from the american restauranteldorado street-stockton 1944 for my mothe r who grew up there

the e vidence of mens' shoes and speech

a curious drawing in shades ofbrown, gray, red, and blue I moves across the below the counter I in order of reflex and stretch, stub and smear, skid, and final spurt of anger I i lmow because i clean out the spittoons I line up neatly beside the graceless stems of each red swivel top in the morning containers that catch more than you see I the argument of speech in periods and exclamation points I the hacks of a cough that consumes I the ashes of stunted desire leaping off a cigarette in slow motion I and bending over to empty each spittoon I i notice the haphazard waltz of mens' shoes I the scuff marks of an oxford reminds me of faint scars ready to disappear I the points of wingtips seem to fly away in easy arcs I the cut of glass on a bruised bare foot says red in a child's scrawl I and finally the lines of workboots I sturdy in their imprint I leaves the smudge of soil they carry in fields before sunrise I staring at the wall where this afternoon's feet leave a trail of their movement I i pick up a crayon and draw my own path into the light melting out the screen door I as flies bask in what remains I 2 better than nothing at all the odor of grease and human salt wears the walls of the restaurant I the chatter of conversation mingles with the thrash of rice in a wok I the sizzle of spam reacting to a grill I and the buzz of flies around the fans I it is in the evening just after dusk when the streets carry unreal shades of day's burial that men fill the restaurant I swollen with sound and a cushion of bodies swaying to similar rhythms I even the room begins to breathe I takes on the form of its occupants I wheezing like a giant accordion whose notes are as numerous as voices I this is especially so on payday I when the hunger for things temporary I is better than nothing at all I 3 the octopus it is over before i know what i see I a motion so quick that there is only a grin of steel I that catches a blink of the eye I only a whispered groan as a man straddles a stool I his hands and feet dangle down like four legs of a lost octopus I as the

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seat turns around and around squeaking a melody of its own I the starched blue shirt begins to flower in a pond of red I like a sponge drinks up a stain I i stand mesme rized I unable to take my eyes off the way color blossoms in his chest I the way it floods his body I threatens to dye the whole fabric I the first and last murder i will ever see I even the wet hair of the mop is never the same again I as it drags its feet across the floor I in a breath of steam I

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the sun eaten, the son born

1

my father walking home exposed jaws in a yawn wide enough to eat the sun turned yellow as if he had swallowed fields of light tonight my father glows beneath the paper his head, a bulb illuminating characters i cannot read they dance luminous rhythms in my unshaped head not knowing their meaning i've grown to love them all impartially as the spread of my fingers and the assorted chopsticks they fondle at the start of a good meal 2

years later my father's head is with me still wa1king thru the gate i sport a similar shape with my wool hat on winter reflections the shadow on the temple wall

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shows only a black circle of light against the moon a monk's head with no ears to get in the way

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PHYLLIS THOMPSON What is Quiet for Fay Enos

1 Majirol Spilling rainlight, A fever of wings green as citron Through Aiea forest leavesAll we saved, all we needed of that awful day, That shivering.

I trust also the sturdy zinneas you brought me, The purple broccoli plants.

How quiet everything grows!

2 Drugged with need, without witness, I find deep cups of cereus Late at night aglow with moon candorHolds of silence broken open wide.

Their unsullied shining is not wasted .

3 Marked around the hill under years of grass The road the laden wagons took: The way we know What the land gave slowly to the wheels We do not need to speak.

4

As unlooked for, as spontaneous, As at nightfall the Canadian geese Fall safely to the hollow field Falls a quiet in me: What you have said.

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PAT MATSUEDA

Inside for Chiyo

Because of their reasons spoken against your lips you have learned to wait, to let your eyelids swell with waiting until they are thick with dull wants.

A jealous woman might then say, "The curves of your eyes are dishonest; you give much just to appear more able to love." 路 Yet those threads spun centuries ago, those webs finer than eyesight are now take n from the bamboo-yellow screen and made into your lavender dress, pointed leaves blossoming from ankle to shoulder.

It is tight against your skin as if to prepare you for being loved.

Along wide paths, men gather for something to draw love out of them.

You will look to passion for their sake, use your heart in symbolic acts of loss and retribution in which each injury is folded and put away like a white garment too ordinary for a beautiful woman.

You stare through the glass as your ancestors looked past faces of suitors at the changing seasons outside.

Your beauty is like the waste of winter; it will never have the ambiguity of the face sacrificed, and men will never have reason to be afraid.

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KERIHULME

Leaving My Bones Behind

Tahi ...

Old words choke me, ashes left on pages.

Do all poets tire?

Tire of questing after the numinous surprising power?

Tangled in their word nets where once they sought to hold the oceanic fire?

I shall seek the safety of new waves I shall go swimming in unknown seas I shall face the sharks of dawn Rua ...

From noisy air muddied jade by the river bar runs out, runs out; my narrow land is raw-spined, naked at the foothills where once the green skin grew; then slender veins, Waimakariri, Rakaia, spread turquoise stonefloured through the scars.

And patchwork Canterbury paddocks, gaudy Auckland's lights fade into Kiwa's sea, lost in the greater dark.

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Tont . ..

All good wishes go with me but whe re do I carry the m to?

I am wr iting in ink that will fade in the sea: I lea,路e my drea ms undone ... a hand of cloud cages the moon and the stars shift ... \VIw ...

Up a ramp like cattle to slaug hte rwhe re are the waves, where is the water?

E Maui, fishe r of this land , did your strong hand falter ?

Reme mbe r that southe rn Hsh and call your kin to order!

Rima . ..

You take your lie from the land, and I am landless , my fire gone out. :\1auk."', makai-chopped wo rds to my mo the r's tongue and these sea-trees full of odd birdsE Pipiwharauroa whe re are you?

Ono ...

I could send the sounds segueing from normality into strangeness; I could show close ups and lo ng shots and pans that began he re & now and ended in infinity; but to give you the clash and surprise new taste , and te r ror, and strange r eyes meek alien birds and huge slow butterflies a, taipa ta ku waha words can't get near ...

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Whitu ...

I think the cars are out hunting pedestrains, and this heap and scatte r of foreign note and coin means my meal tomorrow ...

Want .. .

Last night I tied knots in the grass of my dreams.

The muted searoar has grown closer.

The cars cannot drown it.

Iwa . ..

Is there someone in this sea?

Tangaroa, kia koe!

I am seeking among black te ndrils for a dream I have lost .

Where did the flow of good change go?

Someone's moods intrude on mine raw bones, and ulcers, and be nt bleeding heads . .. weeping eyes.

Whe re did the flow of good change go?

Tekau . ..

(Tc Kau- or, Drunk Lady At Waikiki ) (Te Kau means 'the Cow') Jesus, she first ranted and kicked a Coke can on the road 0 I'll lick his arse until it bleeds -smile, and I'll punch your face in, faggotA spindrift of violence sprayed over careless tourists - An take your bastards back, white to where they come fromshrieking at a street ripe with light and business aloha - then she'd rearrange the padlock kick another can.

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Shit creek without the paddle, I edge up the seat hug a brown bag of instant love and shells.

Her smile is shark-fanged -Can I get my mandril dream s in some kinda shape, sweetie?

Tekau ma tahi .. .

I wanted to dive as a dolphin curving into the deeps . ..

The rooms are barre n of weed and tide, the air breathed twice already Tekau ma rua ...

My task is knowing when whitebait run and building word castles in the air.

Who sends these other dreams into mine?

Nine shadows: a man crying, whe re the re is none; a woman crying, where there is none; a child crying, where there is none, and blood everywhere.

Tekau ma toru . ..

The coral stamped smooth by numberless feet , scraps of ruined bladderwrack sogged by a warm sea ...

I remem her slicing fat crisp pods in a vivid water breaking on rocks ... my muscles hardgrained from pulling nets ache in this warmth, my back grows weak under words not oars ... the gravel callouses worn on my feet from fishing in the wild man-tide

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peel away ...

Every day my feet do not touch my mothe r earth , my hands, m y mother's sea, I decline.

Aue , the stares on othe r marae ...

Tekcw rna wha ...

I look for familiar smiles in the shifting tide but eyes he re lie.

- If I had brown skin - If my eyes weren't blue - If my hair was darke r In these eyes, I am haole.

Home, I could be Maori but do not call me this or that, out loud, or in your mind, until you have walked a day with my ghosts on your shoulders.

Tekau ma rima ...

The bright land is a shadow in the distance, down wind of the world. I am the only earth of home: rocks and sea at Moeraki , sea and stones of Oka~ito, ar e waves in this mind.

And my people o my people are mo re than miles away.

Tekau rna ono . ..

At the cribs they light the lamps, cook a tea, read the night away ...

It is Maukiekie in moonlight, shags on the islandsearching with my toes among the sand for solid ground.

Love of dolphins, love of whales show me the way toTe Re inga I want to go home

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(fingers unde r ledges searching for paua with coralline painted shells) can you make a map of waves?

The shadows go so steeply down I C ANNOT LOVE SHARKS AND IT IS DARK Tekau ma wh itu I am not this patte ring mask; living time is not calendar time; A shark is real only whe n I ask it to be.

Tekaunw waru . . . (N ightsvngfor Te Pipiwharauroa) "E Pipi , tonight you hurt and your cr ying hurts me.

It .::an reach that pitch I rage at but this slow frail d espair -Child, for a moment can you hear the sea?

Don't look with tearblind eyes to see your fathe r wande r Ahipara c rying rage at waves until broken by the bottle; don't look for your dancing mothe r singing songs in southe rn France -e tama, one day you'll dance throw bottles with the dolphins balance praye rs and play a mean guitar ...

Forget the cage of iron reach a hand to mel once wonde red at the strength in y0ur thin fingers that could twist my dreams ... make a shelte r from the dread leave the shining cuckoo free to spread his wings on a summer sea .. .

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Tekcw

11w iu;a ...

Waking up on another mornin g with anothe r hole in my ti me.

Drinking blanks in dreams writing empty words that devour earlier words and leave me staring silently at ghosts from the e mpty nights.

The fat waterswelled pot treading death while the white shark waits.

Rua tekau ... . . . but focusing eyes through the dross of days e! all the golden people shine!

Rua tekau IIUI tahi ...

They say these islands still swell in the ir beds gout with fire, grow with the slow slow endurance of coral against tide.

Bleached of my ide ntity, I can only leave you air filtered through me, skincells, dun g, sweat, and ghosts of dreams

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Te Mutunga

Some translations: Tahi, rua , toru e tc: 1-2 1 in :\laori.

Rua-Waimakari ri, Rakaia-two principal rin •rs in the Sou th Island, NZ. Rua-Kiwa's sea- te moana nui a Kiwa. the Pac illc.

Wha-:\1aui- the same Maui as in Hawaiian le~end.

Rima-Pipiwharauroa- the shin i n~ cuckoo, and , in this instance. a personal name.

Ono-a, taipa taku waha-shut my mon th. lwa-Tangaroa, kia koe!- To you , Tan~aroa (who is the god of th e sea in :\laori myth). tek-m-via white bait-small succulen t fish. tek-m-ro-Aue-exclamation of disma~·. s~·mpath ~·. de ~ pair. tek-m -ro-marae-meeti ng place, place of lea rning, 111011 rn ing, co11111111n ity aroha, sacred. tek-m-n Moeraki , Okarito-place where I was brought up, whe re I li ve , respectively. tek-m-o cribs-South Island pakeha word for holiday cotage . tek-m-o Maukiekie-island ofT :\lorraki. tek-m -o Te Reinga-the northern tip of NZ, from whe re the spirits of the dead are supposed to leave. tek-m-<> paua-marine uni\·alves. also del icious. tek-m -via Ahipara-place in Ninety Mil e Beach, l~u· north North Island.

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FOROOGH FARROKHZAAD A Rebirth

all my existence is a dark sign a dark 1 verse that will take you by itself again and again through incantation of itself over and over to eternal pre dawn bloomings and eternal growth in this verse, in this sign I sighed for you, sighed in this verse, in this sign, I versified you, I joined you to tree and water and fire ii

perhaps life is a long avenue through which a woman passes each day with a basket perhaps life is a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch perhaps life is a kid who returns from school life could be lighting up a cigarette in the relaxing interval between two love-makings or life could be a confused transit of a passerby who takes

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oiThis hat and to another passe rby says "good morning" with a mean -ingless smile perhaps life is that stopped instant in which my stare into the cornea of your eyes destroys, lays waste to itself and the re is a sense in this which I shall mix in with compre he nsion of the moon and with perception of the pitch darkin a room as large as one lone liness my heart, as large as one love, beholds the simple signs of its good luck and happiness in the beautiful way the flowers in the vase fade in the sapling which you planted in our garde n and in the song of canaries, which song is only as large as a window . . . ah , this is my share this is my share my share is a sky, which sky will be taken from me b y hanging a curta in over it my share is to descend hy an abandoned stairwell and come together with some thing in rotteness and exile my share is a grief-stai ned stroll in me mory lane and giving up the ghost in the sorrow of a voice which calls to me, saying: '' I love your hands."

I plan t my hands in the garden I shall grow gre e n, I kn ow know I know and swallows'lllay eggs in deep cracks around my inkstained fingernails I suspe nd earrings from my two ears-earrings of two twin dark red cherries and I'll paste dahlia leaves

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on my fingernails 2 the re is an alley whe re boys who were in love with me-boys with the same disheveled hair with scrawny necks and stick-legsthey dream a girl's innocent smiles a girl was carried away one night by the wind there is an alley where my heart has stolen them away from my childhood's neighborhood to that alley there the trip of a blob down the line of time and said blob impregnating the dry line of time the blob of a conscious image which image is reflected back from party guests by means of a mirror and it's this way that somebody dies somebody remains iii

no hunting or fishing worth mentioning in a piddling little old crick which flows into a ditch no pearls there for a fisherman to catch I

know a small sad me rmaid who lives in an ocean and she plays her heart gently, gently, on a wooden lip flute-list! ... a small sad mermaid who dies in the night from one kiss and she will be born at daybreak from one kiss -Translated by David Martin

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1 aayeh : This word originally means sign in Arabic, in the same sense that people were said to cry out to Jesus (see the Gospels): "Give us a sign (from God)!" Mohammed the Prophe t considered each of the verses of his recited Y! essage as a Sign. Hence, a verse Qfthe Koran is called an "aayeh".

2 Girls in Iran sometimes hook/ hang cherries (with forked stem s, the crotch of the stem being above the ear giving an upside-down V-shape with the cherries at the two bottoms of the V) and paste dahlia leaves on the ir fingerna ils as the first kind of make up.

This is of course be fore they get to the age where they feel they can huy and wear comme rcial makeup.

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DANIEL KANEMITSU Ko-Uta

(Ditties Sung by Geisha to the Accompaniment ofShamisen)

Snowman

ha! a dharma-like snowman charcoal for eyes, nose ha! melted and streaming an inky monk's gown

Umbrella eh! the bamboo umbrella's ribs may be awry and though the folds be torn eh!

0 come apart ... we cannot separate for the plove r's stitch

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DANIEL STEMPEL Disappearing into the Text: Dithyramb and Nome in Keats's Odes

Apollo's deception: the eternity of the beautiful form ; the aristocraticaUy decreed Law: "thus shall it always bel" Dionysus: Sensuality and cruelty. Transience could be interpreted as the pleasure of the engendering and destroying power, as continual creation.

-Nietzsche The line drawn by Kant to enclose the mind within the limits of its experience and banish all transcendence from the republic of reason became, for the Romantics, an embattled frontier violated by the incursions of the Unknowable. Forced to accept the impossibility of thinking the wholly Othe r and articulating it into representation, they thought about it in the peripheral language of displaced meaning, the language of poetry. Within this language transcendence manifests itself in a Protean epiphany, wearing a differe nt mask each time it steps upon the stage of representation. Yet, no matter how its appearance alters on each occasion, it follows its hidden logic. The poet who invokes it always confronts an ironic duplicity that blends the physiognomy of both Same and Other, the Self and the not-Self. For the Romantic the poem is the second self, the double, the secret sharer who mimics and betrays his original.

Keats, more than any poet of his time, surmised that the voice from the mask of language was its own, not the ventriloquism of some actor, priest, or god. In his odes art itself is transce ndent, revealing its power in the opposition of those vectors that distort ordinary language into the non-linguistic modes of two great paradigms: music and sculpture, the art of rhythm and the art of the image.

Nietzsche sought the origin of this opposition in the arts dedicated to Dionysus and Apollo in ancient Greece: the art of Dionysus, the god of intoxication, whose worshippers lose themselves in a mad ecstasy, caught up in the ontological music of the Will; and the art of Apollo, the visual arts that order the world of representation, the world of the dreamer who does not wish to wake. Nietzsche splits the Renaissance commonplace, "Life is a dream ", into two modern maxims: " Life is Reality", a mindless insatiable desire to appropriate the totality of objects it creates, and "Consciousness is a dream", a phenomenal order created through and for the individual.

The dithyramb is the hymn dedicated to Dionysus, the choral ode of the dancers who unite with the joy and suffering of the twice -born god. The Ode to a

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Nightingale is not a true dithyramb; its voice is that of the "sole self", not of the ecstatic throng. It is an echo of a dithyramb, the song of the strayed reveler who has been left behind by the Bacchic procession. In Endymion the Indian maid forgets her melancholy when she joins their "mad minstrelsy", but she leaves them to" stray away into these forest drear/ Alone, without a peer" and bewail her "Sweetest Sorrow" again. The Ode originates in the same mood of melancholy isolation; it opens in the realm of Apollo, in daylight, not in the torch-lit night of Dionysus, with lines that describe the nausea which, in Nietzsche's words, is the inevitable reaction to the return to ordinary reality from the depths of Dionysian Reality. Consciousness has been expelled from the rhythm of infinite Desire.

What is left is not Desire, but its absence, or, more exactly, the desire of Desire, the longing to feel when feeling has vanished, in Keats's own words, "The feel of not to feel it". In Apollo's sunlight the cup of the Dionysiac communion is filled with a poison, hemlock, or "some dull opiate"; both numb the sense.

But the song of the nightingale, hidden in the "shadows numberless" of a grove of trees, pours its plenitude into the hollow desire of the I and revives his longing for the wine of the initiate, "the true, the blushful Hippocrene." It offers an escape from time and consciousness, from a world where the young can expect only age. and death, where "but to think is to be full of sorrow/ And leaden-eyed despairs." The poem moves into Dionysian night, "embalmed darkness," and the voice joins and blends with it, " Darkling I liste n ... ". In this context death is the surrender of individuality and the return to the primordial unity. Consciousness is the suffering of the dismembered god whose fragments have bee n strewn through the universe; it originates in the pain of separation. The death of consciousness heralds the triumphant return of Dionysus: Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod.

This death is not annihilation, it is assimilation into the Desire of totality; it is richness, not poverty. The nightingale's song is the ecstatic music that dissolves the sole self, no longer a listener but a participant joined with the god by the choral song ofthe final rite ofpassage. Unlike the Christian ritual, which prays for the soul and inters the body, this music celebrates its own immortality by tossing into the grave the I of consciousness. This immortality, a disappearance into the text of a cosmic rhapsody, is the promise of Dionysian art.

But, as Keats knew, it is a promise that can never be fulfilled. Although the Bird and the Song may be immortal, like the art they symbolize their essence is temporal. Music is eternal but not timeless. To exist it must create time, like the Will it mirrors. Nietzsche's Ete rnal Return is the ontological parallel of the

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permanence of music as a purely temporal structure that can be repeated and again, remaining always "the selfsame song". When the Selfdisappears the Dionysian text, it is part of that sensual music of"whatever is begotten, born, and dies", a song that ends as well as begins. And when the music ends, the Self is abandoned, cast off into the "forlorn" exile of consciousness. In the "elfin grot" of La Belle Dame sans Merci , as well as in the more opulent cave of the Venus berg, the enchantment of music moves toward its own disappearance, not the disappearance of the poetic Self, who remains behind as a mere spectator, no longer even a listener; one who gazes with horror on a starved reality and is nauseated by it: "I saw their starved lips in the gloam/ With horrid warning gaped wide,/ And I awoke, and found me here/ On the cold hill's side." So, too, the Ode to a Nightingale ends with the rejection of the poet by the poem; the music moves indifferently to its close, extruding the poetic voice as a plaintive and unanswered questioning: "Was it a vision or a waking dream?/ Fled is that music: -Do I wake or sleep?" A Dionysian revelation or an Apollinian dream , a glimpse into the depths or a fleeting illusion? As the last note of the nightingale's song dies away, consciousness struggles to center itself, not knowing whether it has been banished or freed from the spell of Desire.

In contrast to the choral dithyramb, the nome, the hymn to Apollo, is sung by an individual. Its name, nomos, is the Greek word for law. The art of Apollo is the art of visual defmition, of light and spatial arrangement; he is the architect of appearances, the artificer who creates eternal form from transient phenomena.

But, Nietzsche warns, the Apollinian world is not real: "For this must above all be clear to us, both for our humiliation and our exaltation, that the entire comedy of art is not put on for us, for our improvement and education, and, further, that we are scarcely the real creators of that art-world. But we ought to accept the fact that we are merely images and artistic projections for the true creator and have our highest dignity in the signification of works of art- since existence and the world arejustifwd eternally only as aesthetic phenomenon- while of course our consciousness of our own significance is hardly differe nt from that which warriors painted on canvas have of the battle depicted there."

The inadequacy of art as surrogate reality troubled Keats: "0 that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake,/ Would all their colors from the sunset take:/ From something of material sublime,/ Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time/ In the dark void of night" (Epistle to john Hamilton Reynolds). Apollo's power over dreams, "of sleep or wake", is his ability to manipulate representation; he is the god of signifiers but the signified is the domain of another god: "Things cannot to the wilV Be settled, but they tease us out of thought) Or is it that imagination brought/ Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin' d,/ Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind,/ Cannot refer to any standard law/ Of either earth or heaven?" The fragile forms of the Apollinian dream cannot be expanded without risking the shattering violence of the incursion of Dionysian transcendence : "It is a flaw/ In happiness, to see beyond our bourn,- / It forces us in summer skies to mourn,/ It spoils the

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singing of the Nightingale ." Writing in complete ignorance ofhis contemporary, Schopenhauer, Keats had also probed the heart of darkness: "I was at home/ And should have been most happy, -but I saw/ Too far into the sea, where every maw/ The greater on the less feeds evermore.-/ But I saw too distinct into the core/ Of an eternal fierce destruction,/ And so from happiness I far was gone./ Still am I sick of it ... ".

Against this "eternal fierce destruction" Keats invokes the law of Apollo, the decree of determinate form and just boundaries for all things. Halted by this law, the Dionysian revel that circles the urn, the "leaf-fringed legend" that "haunts about" its "shape", becomes a pattern of attitudes, of motionless poses. The compelling music of Desire is mute; the Bacchanalian throng only appears to move as the eye follows it around the curve of the urn's horizon. Now the poet can question them with impunity: "What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?/ What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?/ What pipes and timbrels?

What wild ecstasy?"

The tone of these questions is playful in the most profound sense of the word.

Apollinian art is the ordered play of appearances, the selective exploration of possibilities, a game that establishes its own rules and creates a world that is totally self-consistent, totally auto-nomous-it gives itself its own law. In contrast, Desire is a necessity that obeys no law. Its greedy haste to appropriate all possibilities of existence simultaneously creates a world of accidental structures that survive in accordance with a statistical rule of probability. The only true release from the wild music of the dithyramb is the calm counterspell of the nome. Now the poet is free-free to look, to reflect, to be simply oneself. Unlike the text of the Ode to a Nightingale which is strung along the thread of selfconscious and self-lacerating I, the Ode on a Grecian Urn focuses on an object, the urn. The I remains unspoken; it is not needed because it is already there as the speaking subject addressing the object directly.

It is not accidental that phenomenology, which was first proposed as a Wissenschaftslehre, a clarification of the premises of science, is also useful for the clarification of aesthetics. Its total concentration on the organization of appearances as they are given to the eye precludes, as well as precedes, all judgments.

As Edmund Husser! writes, "Looking into the stereoscope we say that the mid that here appears is 'nothing,' is mere 'illusion.' That which appears, as is the obvious subject of predication, and we ascribe to this noema of a (which is in no sense a Thing) whatever character we discover in it, even nothingness. Only we must have the courage here, as everywhere in nology, to accept in the phenomenon what really presents itself to mental sight, and in the form in which it so presents itself, and instead of twisting meaning to describe it honestly."

Keats does not twist the meaning of what he sees; he describes it uu''"''3u ...But to describe an art object, not merely an object, is to be disarmingly about the appearance of appearance, not appearance. From a matter offact of view this shift of levels is an infuriating parody of reality: the urn is, after

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an intricately carved and decorated container. To the aesthetic gaze, howit is no longe r a hollow vessel; it is a significant surface. Keats's honesty _."'n,.,~ a deliberately mocking duplicity as he deftly undermines the ordinary ity of experience. The logical organization of a self-consistent topology of .. .mnâ&#x20AC;˘h.,r~ ignores and transcends the hollow space it encloses. Cleanth Brooks has linked paradox and poetry but he never explicitly d.efines the relation bethem . The language of art, as the language of self-ordered possibility, can never be contradicted by actuality. Because the work of art is an identity, a real subject, a poetic statement is not an arbitrary synthesis of unrelated predications, it is derived from the analysis of those semantic possibilities which are already inhe rent in the text.

In a bold series ofapparent contradictions Keats neutralizes the threat of both music and sexuality by immobilizing them in the timelessness of the urn's surface. The songs on the urn have no tone because they are only the possibility of music, not music itself; the "happy melodist, unwearied ,/ For ever piping songs for ever new", since his songs do not have the infinitely reproducible structure of musical time, plays tunes which have neither a beginning nor an ending. He does not repeat a melody because he has not yet played any; they are all still to be played, pure possibility. Similarly, the cycle of desire and satisfaction is interrupted by the urn. Desire is caught at the point where it is just about to consume its object: "All breathing human passion far above,/ That leaves a heart highsorrowful and cloy'd,/ A burning forehead and a parching tongue." It is ordinary time that creates paradoxes-the urn solves them by halting time at the moment when possibility is about to become actuality. It creates for itself an infinitely free future beyond the necessity of Desire. Time in the Ode to the Nightingale is both musical and sexual, rising to the climactic union of"To cease upon the midnight with no pain" and ebbing away to' the exhaustion of the last lines. But time on the urn is a "pious morn" of eternal anticipation. The religious procession winds across the surface, but if one turns the urn, its origin is not revealed. Only the playful logic of Apollinian aesthe tics can offer a choice of possible origins : a little town , just large enough to house all the celebrants on the urn; it may be any one of a number of actual places, " ... by ri ver or sea shore,/ Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. " None of this matters. What does matter is that the town is not on the urn, but its residents are. Governed by the nomos of the urn, its folk now obey a higher law than that of the polis, the city-state . And, unlike the worshippers of Dionysus, they are never expelled . Why does no one return to tell why the streets are silent and the town desolate? There is, simply, no necessity to do so. They are one with the law they obey.

We all remem he r the familiar tales told of the wanderer who disappears into the Dionysian text: Keats's Knight at arms, True Thomas the Rhyme r, Tannhauser; but there is a different myth of magical disappearances, one that is part of the Taoist tradition . Wu Tao Tzu, a legendary T'ang painter, is said to have created a landscape in which there was a cave sealed by a door. Standing before his picture

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with the Emperor, he invited his patron to enter the cave with him. As the Emperor hesitated, Wu Tao Tzu opened the door and vanished into the cave.

The door closed behind him, the picture faded , and the Emperor was leftfacinga blank wall . Hermann Hesse adapted this tale for the conclusion of his "conjectural biography", Kurzgefasster Lebenslauf(BriefCurriculum Vitae ). Writinga possible (but highly improbable) e nd to his career, he envisioned himself in his seventies imprisoned for a sexual crime, the seduction of a young girl. Seized by nausea for "all this brutal and mindless reality", he decides to escape by using a Chinese magical formula and entering a picture he has painted of a train outside a tunnel : "Then I made myself small and went into my picture, climbed aboard the little train and rode with the little train into the black little tunnel. For a time one still saw the flakes of smoke coming out of the round hole, then the smoke thinned and vanis hed and with it the whole picture and with it I. The guards remained behind in great embarrassment."

The disappearance into the Apollinian text is final and irreversible because it is an escape into a world which is not, in its own terms, mimetic, not a surrogate reality. It is an autonomous text that, like the urn, circles back into endlessly. In his last stanza Keats, like Wu Tao Tzu and Hesse, steps into the text by reciting a formula-logical , not magical, however. The urn itself supplies the charm: "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty". This pair of propositions can be read as ordinary language, the language of existent things, or in the metalanguage of the autonomous text. In ordinary language it suggests a loose connectivity: the predication of Beauty implies the predication of Truth and vice versa. No necessary relation exists between the two, a conclusion reinforced by our experience of ugly Truth and fictive Beauty. But in the realm of the urn the equivalence of Beauty and Truth is a tautology: they are essentially the same. Every apparent paradox in the poem is a derivation of this tautology-in ordinary language all are absurdly self-contradictory, but in the urn's metalanguage all are totally logical.

This is the magic formula of the urn: two signifiers for which no signified exists define each other; the validity of an empty logical equation is transformed into truth by the language of aesthetics. In the realm of Beauty any possible proposition is true as well as valid.

Is it the poet or the urn who speaks those last mocking words to those still enmeshed in the logic of ordinary language: "that is all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know"? It is both. To disappear as the poet is to reappear in the poem.

As the poet vanishes into the "fair attitude" of the urn's "silent form" , the words remain for a moment, like the slam ofWu Tao Tzu's door or the smoke of Hesse's train , before leaving us embarrassed in our earth-bound and time-bound ignorance. There is nothing tragic, nothing pathetic, nothing melancholy in the Ode on a Grecian Urn. It is a joyful nomic hymn that verbalizes the playful amusement that curls the lips of the archaic Apollo into a formal half-smile.

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RICHARD HAMASAKI The Cantos of Ezra Pound: East vs. West "East I'm afraid does not meet Westthe y COLLIDE!" Wayne Westlake

The significance of the Cantos of Ezra Pound has not been thoroughly recognized in English departme nts in colleges and universities throughout the United States. There is a serious lack of compete nce in the classics and in fore ign languages, and this is turn contributes to an alarming ignorance of inte rnational literature and Ethnic-American lite rature, both of which are of crucial importance to writing in Ame rica today.

In the Cantos one discovers that the numbe r of seemingly obscure refe rences and historical data; the use of Western and Easte rn classical literature and philosophy; the typographical sche me ; and the length of the poe m itself, make this work seemingly impossible to read for even the most '" educated" reader. Ye t , the Cantos stand firm as the most important e pic work of the modern era, and Ezra Pound himself must be considered to be one of the most influential literar y figures of this e ra as we ll.

The require ments for reading the Cantos are as mode rn as the poem itself: one would do well to read the Ca ntos w ith a home compute r te rminal plugged in by one's side, programmed with large chunks of civilization's economic, political, philosophical, and lite rary history, able to translate simultaneously from as many classical and conte mporary languages as possible: Feb. 1956 Is this a divagation : Talleyrand saved E urope for a century France be trayed Talleyrand; Ge rmany, Bismark.

And Muss saved , re m salvavit, in Spain il salvabile. â&#x20AC;˘

semina motuum Canto 105 pg. 746 (N.D.)

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Even the most recognized "Poundian scholar" would not be able to pro\'ide all of the "answers" to many of th e questions that would pe rhaps arise from a c urious stude nt. In fact, the key to appreciating and understanding the Cantos is research.

Each and every reade r soon becomes entangled in the we bs of intricacies and the subtle ingenuity of the Ca ntos once given a chance to embark on such a journey, provided he or she has the opportunity to study Pound's epic work unde r encouraging conditions. Ye t, only the most curious, the most inquisitive, and the most dissatisfied will ever penetrate the Cantos. Such a reade r will not hesitate to devour vast tracts of the Cantos if only for the reason that English literature spans less than 1300 years in comparison to more than 3000 years of Weste rn literature as a whole, and because of the fact that the Cantos open up new worlds to the contemporary reader-worlds that recall the music of lost dynasties: And Kung said, "Without characte r you will be unable to play on that instrument Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.

The blossoms of the apricot blow from the east to the west , And I have tried to keep the m from falling."

Canto 13 pg. 60 (N. D.) Confusion or pe rplexity can defu se the meaning and power of the line, ''And I have tried to keep the m from falling. ", which is the concluding line of Canto 13, and significant to the purposes of the Cantos as a whole. Falling has two meanings: lite rally, to fall ; and, to fall , as a great nation fall s into decadence. "The blossoms of the apricot/blow from east to the west," is a vivid image, but the metaphors as well as the inte nt of the images themselves must also be inte rpreted if one is to grasp Confucius' (and Pound's as well) seriousness.

100 Cantos late r, in Canto 113, Pound evokes a dynastic music of a d iffe re nt age cast in the dissonance a nd decadence of the 20th century, a kind of sanctuary against a ruinous e ra: In mountain air the grass frozen emerald and with the mind set on that light saffron, eme rald, seeping. "hut that kind of ignorance" said the old priest to Yeats (in a railway train) " is spreading every day from th e schools"to say nothing of othe r varie ties.

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And in thy mind beauty, 0 Arte mis Daphne afoot in vain speed.

When the Syrian onyx is broken.

Out of dark, thou, Father Helios, leadest, but the mind as Ixion, unstill, ever turning.

Canto 113 pp. 789-790 (N.D.) Great civilizations, from China, to Greece have given us what we have today, gunpowder to architecture, from space probes to computers . We have :...,,,â&#x20AC;˘.,.,.rt from our ancestors' failures and accomplishments. And, in spite of the learning, knowledge, and experience that we have at our fingertips, world are still making grave mistakes in terms of economic, social, and political ...,....,.,,.,,""'"and failures. The Cantos is like a touchstone for mankind's cultural historical sensibilities. We have the history, the lite rature and knowledge of many cultures to guide us, which must be utilized with proper strength or like the great genealogies and mysteries of the Hawaiian Islands , we will find that we have lost much of what should have been preserved to greed, usury, taxation, and war.

To the average student of the 1980's, Homer, Confucius, Dante, Li Po, even Ezra Pound himself, are individuals of mysterious origins. And one day should the average student, with any luck, chance upon the Cantos (via the classroom or through some such opportunity), this discovery in itself would help to enlighten the fact that ancient cultures and traditions and languages have indeed played an irreversible role in the vortex of modern literature and thought.

The Cantos are meant to be read in sections; perhaps, even individually, and for the impatient, in small chunks completely disparate in time and space . The re are very few teachers in this age of specialization who are capable of teaching the Cantos, especially, "A Draft of XXX Cantos", which are the roots from which spring the branches of Pound's own Ygdrasail. How many students of English literature will even be able to recognize that the first Canto is a translation? And that the mystery of translation in Canto I gives to us an ancient music for the ears of a contemporary reader who desires to step backwards into time to seek the very wellsprings from which poured forth the streams of literary growth and the heritage of Western Culture?

In contemporary America our educations (not to mention our lifestyles) are so Westernized that cultural treasures of Africa, of Asia, of the Pacific Islands (including aboriginal Australia¡), are given very few opportunities to e nter into our own educational experiences, and not until much later, perhaps in college, perhaps later in life, perhaps not at all, will such occasions arise to fill in the vast tracts of cultural and literary deprivation. The Cantos is a meeting of East and West, a "collision" of language and history:

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KALLIASTRAGALOS

Vr

hsin

1

that is, to go forth by day

That love be the cause of hate something is twisted, Awoi, bare trees walk on the sky-line, but that one valley reach the four seas, mountain sunset inverted.

CantoCX p. 780 (N.D.) The poetry, at times, seems so disparate and disjunct that no apparent sense can immediately be made until one makes an effort: Filial piety is very inclusive: it does not include Family squabbles over

IB

â&#x20AC;˘

land

money, etcetera

Or pretendings.

Canto98 p. 691 (N .D. ) And: And if your kids don't study, that's your fault.

Tell 'em. Don't kid yourself, and don't lie .

In statement, answer; in conve rsation not with sissified fussiness (chaio1 ) always want your own way.

Let 'em ask before taking action ; That there be no slovenly sloppiness between goodman & wife .

Canto99 p. 705 (N.D. )

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Raising families, filial obligation, respect, love and work are themes that all cultural barriers. Students of Chinese, Hawaiian, Portuguese, SaJapanese, Filipino, Vietnamese, African . .. descent could respond to the of the Cantos with hours ·of discussion. The classroom could suddenly •' -"•nrroP alive with the gods of many cultures. And this is what the Cantos is ~,..u,.., of doing for individuals, but who, in today's English department, or in department of the University for that matter, can guide their stude nts rtn1rOu1gn the vastness of the Cantos, indeed?

Asian, African, Mid-East, and Pacific cultures have been abused repeatedly the country, in movies, in businesses, in wars . And East and West will ue to collide. In the Cantos, however, East and West have become an llnt~>ar·<>• part of an epic poet's world vision of beauty, tmth, politics, and war. The is a work that is made for the reader and the student and the teacher cultural sensibilities contain a curiosity that is far reaching and not easily jatisti•ed, whose literary sensitivity can readily accept the fact that literature must and change and adapt if it is to survive the computer and the television age has become society's umbilical cord to existence. In Canto 96, Ezra Pound recorded this statement:

If we never write anything save what is already understood, the field of understanding will never be extended. One demands the right, now and again, to write for a few people with special interests and whose curiosity reaches into greater detail.

Canto96 p . 659 (N. D .)

Art is local, . ..

Canto97 p . 678 (N.D .)

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Celebration of Continuity: Themes in Classic East Asian Poetry. By Peter H . Lee. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1979. Pp. 264. $17.50 hardcover.

The ope ning chapter of Pete r H. Lee's Celebration of Continuity, "Praise," ends with a vision of the East Asian poet absorbed into structures of society and nature which are larger than , and prior to the ego: "hyperbolical praise results in the disappearance of the individual : a statesman would vanish behind Con cardinal virtues; and a recluse merges with nature" (p. 48). Such a pattern, in which the individual is subsumed by large r structures of tradition, throughout the book: In "Nature," the image of man is absorbed into a unity with the landscape ; in "Love," surrender and annihilation of the self another is glimpsed; in " Friendship ," wine becomes the means to obliterate division between consciousness and nature; and, finally, in "Time," conti with traditions of poetry becomes "an act of transcending imperious time." ego of the East Asian poet, it would seem, participates in continuity with natu society, the past; hence the modernist burden of anxiety, which we recognize nature poe try in the West, plays little part, Lee argues, in shaping the ""'mT1nl'lll topics of China, Korea, and Japan .

One of the major burdens of contrast which runs through Professor pioneering study of East Asian poe try concerns nature poetry in the East West. He argues that where Romantic poetry is dominantly an "antinature etry" in its endorsements of the singular imagination, East Asian poetry time again assumes "a rediscovery of a union between nature and which is the harmonious norm .

Celebration of Continuity is indeed that, a learned, comparatist ce of thematic continuities in East Asian poetry which manifest the shaping of tradition . If "the real hero of Song of Flying D.ragons ... is the dynasty" 33), the hero of Lee's study is continuity itself, the moral and formal of certain topoi (rhetorical commonplaces) which begin in classical Chinese etry and are transformed by late r Korean aqd Japanese poets. These topoi praise, nature, love, friendship, and time, arc juxtaposed with analogues Western poetry to show, in effect, the universal power of rhetoric in the '-V'""''路""' consciousness of world poetry. Villon's plaintive ubi sunt cry, "Ou sont les cieux gallans?," is matched with Pao Chao's "Where are the singing and girls? / The mountain slope is full of graves," to show how the transitoriness of became a topoi both in the East and in the West. Lee follows in the llw,p~n.m footsteps of Ernst Robe rt Curtius, whose European Literature and the

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Ages showed that, in terms of rhetoric, little is new under the sun , powerful the landscape or the poet. For Lee, as for Curtius, inherited strategies mark the transmission of culture and community across time. we must ask, if all is rhetoric, commonplaces of language, can anything or new in poetry? How can there even be such a thing as "nature when consciousness is filled with formal topoi which mediate experidistance the poet from those presences of nature which he would praise as ofcontinuity? Working within the East Asian poe tic tradition, yet e mploythe rhetorical methods of Western scholarship; Lee believes in the reality of poetry as a mode of communion with structures beyond the anxious ego. how free is the following poet to commune with nature, when his every is typical , topical, defined by the past?: "In the poe m that sings the of a patron, teacher, or friend the poet as a tour guide of the grounds the freedom of movement, his delineation extending to a wider range of :now he climbs a hill contemplating the sic transit or ubi sunt motif, now finds himself by a lake or river musing on the currents oflife and time, thought memory, poetry and music, or describes the seasonal beauties or the e mseasons of life" (p. 38). What the East Asian poet sees, then, is not so nature as nature poetry, modes of conventionalizing nature or recupe ratit into the tradition . What we have is an avowed poetics of presence, the w"""'1'v" that poems have captured some transcendent reality, even though poems are constructs of rhetoric which separate man from the creatures of ....lr"'--" poetry of absence.

Such a problematics of language Lee, for the most part, only enters into when ssing contrasts with the poetry of the Romantics. Nevertheless, his fundacontrast between Eastern and Western poetics is a sound one, and he is of the few scholars in the world capable of detailing the examples and terms for such scope. It is only in the wake of deconstruction, which would .,.,.,v~l~itv the myth of poetric presence, that we have come to feel "A word is to what it signifies," a topoi hollowed of topic not to mention of being. the way Robert Hass depicts the "new thinking" about nature poetry, in "Meditation at Lagunitas," where the word blackberry intervenes as abstract between the human hunge r for the presence of nature and that verbal selfwu""'"'usness which is the Romantic stigma of absence (Praise, 1979, p. 4). But, Lee argues, no such aesthetic of absence haunts the country-house poem of poet Song Sun (1493-1582), whose estate is not so much a manmade as the countryside itself, into which the poe t disappears.

I have spent te n years Building a grass hut; Now winds occupy half, The moon fills tne rest.

Alas, I cannot let you come in, But I shall receive you outside.

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Outside (nature), that is to say, is the inside (the selO, by a vast cosmic m ....,.,.""" of unity with the tao, which is not so much argued as assumed as the property of the East Asian poet.

By contrast, Robert Frost's "Come In" (1941) almost surrenders to such invitation to continuity with nature, but resists, through an act of rh•>tn•nl'tl demystification, the "call" of" thrush music" as a se ntimental metaphor •numn·.. of full consciousness: Far in the pillared dark Thrush music wentAlmost like a call to come in To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars; I would not come in .

I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.

The invitation to 'come in' to the dark and lament the passing of time, or to up to the stars and praise, exists only in the consciousness of the poet which, Frost, is versed enough in the pathetic fallacies of nature poetry to know In East Asian poetry, as Lee argues, such a correspondence of metaphor man and nature is not the exception but the rule, the tradition , the very poetry as a mode of perceiving nature: "'The flowers shed tears of grief,' pathetic fallacy e mployed to show a bond betwee n man and nature and to the gap between macrocosm and microcosm" (p. 56). Through industry empathy, Professor Lee has done much in Celebration of Continuity to close gap between poetry East and West.

Rob Wilson

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The Stone of Kannon. By 0. A. B~shnell. Published for the Friends of.the Library of Hawaii by The University Press of Hawaii, 1979. Pp. 438. $10.95

0. A. Bushnell's The Stone of Kannon tells of the first Japanese laborers who came to Hawaii in 1868 to work on the sugar plantations. It begins in Edo, or Tokyo as we call it today, and ends in Wailuku, a plantation town on the Island of Maui. These Japanese laborers did not realize that they were in effect continuing the long saga of Pacific voyaging. The Pacific has always been a sea of great voyages, of the movement of men and women seeking another place, another island, a greener, fresher life. Bushnell's story has great interest for people living in the State of Hawaii and for all those who are fascinated by the movement and the settling of immigrants. The archetypal image of the voyage links Japan , Hawaii and by extension the United States.

One has the feeling that Bushnell not only researched the material thoroughly but that he has, in some fashion, lived it. The Stone of Kannon is rich in the every-day details of life which enable a reader to share mid-nineteenth century Japan: the small teashops, steaming bathhouses, temples, ribald talk, the cherry and quince trees, the stench ofpeople, hot sake , broiled eel, a bowl of rice; the constant awareness of the threat of the overlord to the man in livery, political turbulence at the toppling of the Shogunate. Bushnell is as much at home in the Japan of 1868 as he is in his native Hawaii.

In his preface, he tells us that he has writtE:n in a way which suggests popular Japanese novels of the Tokugawa Shogunate and that he has borrowed from Japan's fiction, poetry, "wise sayings" and dramatic techniques. Certainly one cannot but think at moments of Yaji and Kita in Ikku Jippensha's Hizakurige when one reads some of the exploits oflshi and Koi in The Stone of Kannon . Yaji and Kita are much more rollicking-comic travellers, enjoying adventures as they move from village to village and inn to inn along the great highways ofJapan.

Ishi and Koi, together with the other characters of The Stone ofKannon, have a far more serious journey, a journey which will change them. They move from the known and familiar, across a mysterious sea to Tenjiku, Paradise, as they call it, where they hope to find work and freedom from fear. The characters in both novels, however, relish such concrete delights as good food, hot baths, beautiful women and the loveliness of nature.

The characters are simple people of the working or farmer class. They are presented in a concrete way-figures in a Japanese print trotting about their daily lives. Their sentimentality is not disguised. Their confusions as they face an

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alien culture are not overly emphasized. They move in some bewilderment torecreate in Wailuku what they can of Japan. They have their feet in three worldsthe homeland of Japan, the new islands of Hawaii, and the American economic syste m . It is no wonder that the building of an o-furo, a hot Japanese bath, is an important event.

Bushnell has his own style; it has been fashioned during his years of writing novels of Hawaii. Essentially it is the style of a story-tellerwho is a humanist , one who has a sense of history and a recognition of the worth ofhumanity. He is aware of existential ironies, but he is never bitter: there is always a generous sentiment for those who struggle and achieve. His world often echoes to a great chucklealthough at times there is a hint of coyness or caricature in it. The chuckle suggests that 0. A. Bushnell is an optimist. He likes to see the best of his human material. The Stone ofKannon achieves particular distinction as the first historical novel which tells of the workers who came from Japan to Hawaii in 1868.

Marjorie Sinclair

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The Snow Leopard. By Peter Matthiessen. Bantam Books, 1979. $2.95 paperback; Viking Press, 338 pp., $12.95 hardcover.

The re is certainly no one in American lette rs who occupies the same bench Peter Matthiessen does. Unique in his considerable skills with both fiction and non-fiction forms, Matthiessen is nearly thirty years beyond his first book, and his work continues to improve and change. He has had a critical following for years; Lillian Hellman, William Styron, Thomas Pynchon, Roger Tory Pe terson, Gerald Durrell , W. S. Merwin , Jim Harrison and James Dickey are among those who have praised him in print- but only with Far Tortuga in 1975 did he begin to carry a larger public with him on his literary journeys.

Two other writers should be mentioned to place Matthiessen in the context of the contemporary American literary traveler, a tradition begun with Thoreau but which has lately grown increasingly exclusive. Edward Abbey, in Desert Solitaire and The journey Home, e ulogizes the American West, and Edward Hoagland's vantage, parti<.:ularly in The Courage of Turtles and Walking the Dead Diamond River, is a tende r melancholic New England one. There are other great naturalists-most prominently Pete rson and Edwin Way Teale-working still in the old tradition, but even Abbey and Hoagland, their spiritual inheritors, have forsaken the poetry of wonder in their early books for either anger, in Abbey's case, or bemused observation, in Hoagland's.

When The Snow Leopard was awarded the National Book Award in 1979, it was for "Contemporary Thought," a curious but unde rstandable categorizing of a book that blends memoir, poe try, zoology and the best elements of adventure fiction with a careful explication of Zen Buddhism; Matthiessen reached for something evidently beyond the grasp of his contemporaries. The Snow Leopard succeeds in its interconnectedness and thought arising out of a confrontation between the self and the unknown .

Physical journey is nothing new to Matthiessen. It has formed the core motif for almost all his published work, from the first novel, Race Rock (1954), through the geographically organized Wildlife in America (1959, Penguin), the novel Raditzer (1961), the surreal journeys of the novel At Play in the Fields of the Lord (1965), through the anthropological trio of The Cloud Forest (1961, Viking), Under the Mountain Wall (1962) and Blue Meridian (1971), the impressionistic The Tree Where Man Was Born (1972, Dutton) to Far Tortuga (1975, Bantam).

Though this last novel is me morable for its poetry, tone and dialect, it lacks a cohesive narration; its beauty is in its white spaces. The Snow Leopard engages

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the strangest journey of his life and fuses it with Eastern philosophy, the encompassing Buddhist illumination which he discovers as the path and goal of his journey: We climb onward, toward the sky, and with every step my spirits rise. As I walk along, my stave striking the ground, I leave the tragic sense of things behind; I begin to smile, infused with a sense of my own foolishness, with an acceptance of my failures of this journey as well as of its wonders, acceptance ofall that I might meet upon my path. I know that this transcendence will be fleeting, but while it lasts, I spring along the path as if set free.

It is a lesson hard-learned in this 85-day hike into the Himalayas; the journey's excitement has been tempered by tragedy, his wife's death a year earlier. Tension exists between bodily escape through wilde rness, and the genuine but static visionary wonder of the temples and snows, the "frozen atmospheres" of the mountains; in this te nsion Matthiessen discovers, first, "I have failed. I will perform the motions of parenthood, my work, my friendships, my Zen practice, but all hopes, acts, and travels have been blighted. I look forward to nothing."

And then , through the alchemical powers of nature Matthiessen repeatedly enjoys and suffers, "along the water-courses ... against time, in the weary light of dying summer," he experiences the " n ow" that is the answer, or reward, for the "not-looking-forward, the without hope-ness." Of all his tasks, expected and unexpected, Matthiessen is most at pains to "explain" Zen Buddhism, fully aware of the wise reluctance of those schooled in Zen thought to attempt to explain its essence in words.

There are no lessons without tasks of learning. The journey is ostensibly a scientific one, for the purpose of finding, with biologist George Schaller, the Bharal, or Himalayan blue sheep; it is a grand e xcuse, however, for Matthiessen's own journey:

Red leaves drift on the still lake; a B'on-po coughs. High above this campsite in the silver birches, on a meadow near the sky, blue sheep are grazing.

From this level of poetic observation Matthiessen ascends into the ati1nm;pnten!l of his being, physical danger and mental anguish-and the snow leopard, sudden symbol of goals, is neve r seen: Have you seen the snow leopard?

No! Isn't that wonde rful?

He has created, finally, a journey of standing still, and found for himself freedom of"traveling light" in mind or mountains, within burdens of memory expectation. The magic of the snow mountains is, in part, their ""'路rm""'~"~'"" : against which the author must admit his transience, and by so doing live in moment without anxiety. Time drops away.

The despair of Matthiessen's return to Kathmandu and all the cares thought he could leave behind-but which haunted him for nearly months- is tempered by the glimpse he has gotten of the sharp-edged temple

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now. The glimpse is purely inward; the triumph he achieves is in standing and knowing he is a part of his soul's move ment. The Snow Leopard is that reflected in the crystal of the written word. Matthiessen, for us, has motion and conte mplation as well as anyone has; in effect, Weste rn act Eastern thought become reconciled. Shunryu Suzuki has written in Zen , Beginner's Mind, a book Pe te r Matthiessen knows: The re should be no traces in our activity. We should not attach to some fancy ideas or to some beautiful things . We should not seek for some thing good. The truth is always near at hand, within your reach . j eff re y Carroll

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POETRY HAWAII: A CONTEMPORARY ANTHOLOGY. Edited by Frank Stewart and John Unterecker. The University Press of Hawaii, 1979. Pp. 160. $4. 95.

11 Paragraphs About Poetry Hawaii

l. The split is between those who require an obvious regionalism and those who think it a false issue. I myself think it a false issue. We all come from this that region. We might mention the region in our writing; regardless, it influenced us. We all write of the particulars of our lives; these take place in or that region.

2. "Provincial" means something, too. One knows nothing of the value oneself and one's region without knowledge of someone and some place which not that self and region. Literature improves from cross-fertilization; even blood of farmers can turn blue with inbreeding, and the brain go backward. need turn our back neither on what can be preserved only through COI1SCJOI.II literary effort nor on what is outside our immediate view. Nor can we go back time. The issue is not ever so much one of preservation, as it happens, but reclamation in the new context. Science knows of change, flux and entropy: big proofs are going to be those concerning force fields- theory well beyond atomic. Should art know less?

3. Okay, so I've done my best in the theoretical realm. If two n<aâ&#x20AC;˘r<aar<>nhl don't convince you that regionalism isn't an issue, you probably have an o sion. For myself, I find it more interesting to think about why poets so write, and write bette r, about places they lived in and left; about why about places one has visited so often remains shallow, tourist poetry; or about clear superiority of literary attent.ion given the small and physical, say, to easily accorded the grand and vague when one is taken in by a place.

4. I can't, myself, get over my first visit to three islands of Hawaii. It is special place to me. It has force-in important ways not necessarily having to with the language of poetry.

5. And so it should be necessary only to say that Poetry Hawaii is interesting and handsome. Some of the poets have minimal Hawaiian compared to others, but I don't care. Some no doubt have appeared also anthologies meant to represent other regions, but it doesn't matter. Many of poems might well have been written elsewhere or by other poets ignorant Hawaii, but that matters not in the least. And, most important, many of poems refer to Hawaiian things and places, and that doesn't matter either.

6. Many poems in the collection do place themselves, and certainly this contains much poetry visibly aware of mountain, sea and sky, as well as wind,

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rain (as its editors point out: an island perspective). Is this a matter for or analysis? Probably not, except to make the broadest diffe rentiauvâ&#x20AC;˘"..----,.... between these poems and the poems of deepest New York City. Ye t I help being attracted to the very air and coastline of these poems; I grew up on an island.

7. Fifty-five poets, about a third born in Hawaii-half of whom now live elsewhere. Two-thirds living in Hawaii when the book was edited. Some of mighty reputation, others of local reputation, othe rs hardly known of. I was delighted to fmd, among the best, poems by people I'd not heard of, poets I hadn't known had been to or written about Hawaii, and poets I hadn't realized were as able as the poems in this book show them to be.

8. The famous include Reuel Deney, John Logan, William Meredith, W. S. Merwin, Phyllis Hoge Thompson and John Unterecker. It is clear from this book that the famous and the relatively unknown have had equally important roles in nurturing the growth of the community of Hawaiian poets. The Hawaii Literary Arts Council, kept running by many, has been an important sponsor, while many individuals got started early and, like Phyllis Thompson, have given their lifeblood to the literary community continuously for many years.

9. It's true that there are tendencies-toward the image and lyricism, away from difficult or unusual ideas, away from density of diction, toward the Romantic temper, away from Realism-but these are the tendencies of the time, everywhere visible in poetry written in American. The voices of these poets are assured , as if they had been given a language which, while just one of many, will serve.

10. Anthologies generally get a bad press, not always from poets who have been excluded. That's because it's self-defeating to read an anthology in one sitting, or even in large chunks. One then tries to see the book as a whole, and forgets that the poets are individuals first. One looks for generalities that exist only in criticism and overlooks the differences and subtleties that make poems individual and which rightly defeat criticism. ll. Reading the poems and knowing about some of the poets, I don't myself believe that a claim can be made that these poems are peculiarly Hawaiian. Nor need they be. Frank Stewart and John Unterecker have assembled a healthy sample of the richness of poetry and its place in a community. That it has a place in a particular community is more important than that any particular community be reserved a place in it.

JUU&""'"'

Marvin Bell

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

ASA BABER's publications include Tranquility Base, a collection of short stories International, 1979), and The Land ofaMil/ior1 Elephants (Morrow), which was seriali in Playboy Magazine. Currently a Contributing Editor to Playboy, Mr. Baber lives C hicago where he writes both fiction and nonfiction.

MARVIN BELL teaches poetry in the Writing Program at the University of Iowa. He published several collections with Atheneu m Press, including the much-praised Escape Into You and Stars Which See, Stars Which Do Not See. JEFFREY CARROLL is a graduate stude nt in E nglish at the University of Hawaii. He the author of a novel and several articles and short stories.

ERIC CHOCK, a graduate of the University of Hawaii, co-edits Bamboo Ridge. His hook of poetry, Ten Thousand Wishes, was published in 1978.

CHARLES EDWARD EATON's seventh volume of poetry is Colophon of the (A. S. Barnes and Company). His recently published The Man in the Green Chair won Alice Fay di Castognola Award from the Poetry Society of America.

STUART FRIEBERT directs the writing program at Oberlin College and co-edits His latest book is Uncertain Health .

STEVEN GO LDSBERRY holds an M.A. in English from the University of Hawaii and M.F.A. and Ph. D . in English from the University of Iowa. His poems have appeared The Ne u; Yorker, The Iowa Re~;iew, Poetry Northwest and other magazines.

DANA HABOVA is a young film translator and editor who lives and works in Prague.

RICHARD HAMASAKI is a poet, writer, and filmmake r. He is the general e ditor publisher of Seaweeds and Constructions , founded in 1976, and has been the Associate for Paideuma since 1974.

MIROS LAV HOLUB, chief immunologist at the Clinic for Experimental Medicine Prague, was recently guest playwright in residence at Oberlin College. The poems in issue are from Sagittal Section , Mr. Holub's first book-length collection in Am recently published by Field translation series.

GARRETT KAORU HONGO's poetry has appeared in Amerasia j ournal, A ntaeus, boo Ridge, and The Neu; Yorker.

KERI H ULME is a New Zealand poet and fiction writer of Maori, Scots and E descent. She is the author of prose and short story collections and a novel.

DANIEL KANE MITSU is a part-time student at the University of Hawaii and directs education program at Tripier Educational Center.

GALWAY KINNELL is Citizen's Professor of English at the University of Hawaii Manoa. His latest book of poetry is Mortal Acts, Mortal Words (Houghton Milllin, 1 JIM KRA US teaches English at Chaminade University in Honolulu. His poetry appeared in earlier issues of Hawaii Review as well as in Virginia Quarterly Re Pequod, and Greenf ield Review.

188

ALAN CHONG LAU recently co-authored The Buddahead Bandits Down Highway 99 with Garrett Hongo and Lawson Inada.

PETER H . LEE is Professor of Korean and Comparative Literature at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. His latest book is Celebration of Continuity: Themes in Classic East Asian Poetry {Harvard University Press, 1979). He has published anthologies of Korean poetry in English and in German.

WING TEK LUM's poetry has appeared in Poetry Hawaii .

DAVID MARTIN's translations of the late Foroogh Farrokchzaad's poe try will be published this year by New Age Press. The collection, A Rebirth , takes its title from the poem included in this issue.

PAT MATSUEDA, a graduate in English from the University of Hawaii, edits the Hawaii Literary Arts Council Newsletter.

SERA NAKACHI MESSING is currently working on a collection of her poetry for a master's degree in English at the University of Hawaii. She will serve as Poetry Editor for Hawaii Review's Spring poetry issue (1981).

MILTON MURAYAMA, born on the island ofMaui, is the author ofAil I Asking For Is My Body (Supa Press, 1975). He now lives in San Francisco, where he is finishing work on a play, Yoshitsune, a scene from which appears in this issue.

LEONARD NATHAN is a poet, translator, and Professor of Rhetoric at the University of California at Berkeley.

RAMPRASAD SEN was an 18th century poet and devotee of Kali, the mother goddess and consort to Shiva.

DAVID NELSON's story in this issue won first prize in the City of Honolulu's Seventh Competition for Creative Writers in 1979. A former fiction editor of the Hawaii Review, his fiction has appeared in The Laurel Review and Wind/Literary journal. He now serves as managing editor of the interdisciplinary quarte rly Biography.

VICTORIA NELSON is a writer who lives and works in Honolulu. '" Barney's Leg" is an excerpt from a novel in progress, The Great Barrier Reef.

AZIZ NESIN is a contemporary Turkish writer who has published forty-six books of short stories, eight novels, and eight plays. An active journalist in Turkey, he has spent five-anda-half years in prison on various contempt charges. His work has been translated in Europe, the Balkans, and the Soviet Union.

MICHAEL ONDAATJE, author of The Collected Works of Billy the Kid (Norton, 1970) and Coming Through Slaughter (Norton, 1976), is a Canadian writer whose latest book is The Long Poem Anthology (Coach House Press of Toronto, 1979).

NADIRE OZAVAR, a native of lzmir, Turkey, holds a degree in ESL and in English literature from the University of Hawaii and plans to teach English in Turkey.

NINOTCHKA ROSCA was born in Manila and worked as a journalist in the Philippines before coming to the United States. A Honolulu reside nt, he r volume of short stories , Bitter Country and Other Stories , was published in 1971.

189

HIROAKI SATO's translations in this issue will appear in Japanese Poetry: An Anthology (Doubleday, 1981), translated by Mr. Sato and Burton Watson. His latest book of translations is Chieko and Other Poems of Takamura Kotaro , University Press of Hawaii, 1980.

STEVEN SHRADER, former managing editor of The Hawaii Obse rver, is now working as a graphic designer.

MARJORIE SINCLAIR's books include two nove ls about Hawaii and a biography of the Hawaiian Princess Nahi'ena'e na. She recently comple ted an anthology of traditional Polynesian poetry.

CATHY SONG, a former Honolulu resident, now lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts where she is studying poetry with Kathleen Spivack. Her work appears in Poetry Hawaii.

DANIEL STEMPEL is a professor of English at the Unive rsity of Hawaii at Manoa. His articles on Romantic poetics have appeared in numerous journals, including PMLA and Mosaic.

ROBERT SWARD is currently at work on a non-fiction book, Journey to Ganeshpuri, from which 'T o Mark ... " is printed in this issue. Jurassic Shales is reprinted with author's permission (Coach House Press, copyright 1976).

KEIKO TAKAGI, who teaches English in Kyoto, holds a master's degree in Japanese literature from Sophia University's International Division. Her translations of poems by Kaneko Mitsuharu appeared recently in Japan Quarterly.

VICfOR TALERICO runs a pottery on the Big Island of Hawaii. His poetry has appeared in earlier issues of Hawaii Review.

PHYLLIS THOMPSON's third collection of poems, What the lAnd Gave, will be published next fall in The Quarterly Review of Literature Contemporary Poetry Se ries.

The title is a line from the poem which appears in this issue of Hawaii Review.

JOHN UNTERECKER is on leave from the University of Hawaii this year, thanks to a National Endowment of the Arts Fellowship for work on poetry. His books of poetry are Dance Sequence and Stone.

C HING-HSIEN WANG is Associate Professor of Chinese Literature at the University of Washington, Seattle, and the author of The Bell and the Drum (Berkeley, 1974).

WAYNE WESTLAKE is a native-Hawaiian poet. His works have been published in Japan, Canada and England.

ROB WILSON's poems have recently appeared in Western Humanities Review, Partisan Review and Bamboo Ridge. He is currently working on a study of early American poetics.

WAI-LIM YIP is Professor of Chinese Literature at the University of California, San Diego, and the author of Ezra Pound's Cathay (Princeton, 1969) and Modern Chine~e Poetry (Iowa City, 1970). H e has published several volumes of poetry in Chinese.

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HAWAII REVIEW

*Special Fiction Issue Fall/Spring 1980 Featuring T.C. Boyle from his new novel Water Music

Ian MacMillan winner of the 1980 AWP's Award in short fiction Series

Charlotte Painter author of Confessions from the Malaga Madhouse

Richard Rive, South African poet and novelist, plus Hawaii writers Jeffrey Carroll, Ralph Misitano and Susan Nunes. *******

Now accepting contributions for a Special Poetry Issue, Spring/Fall 1981.

November 1, 1980 deadline.

191

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