ORIENTALIST HAIBUN (with Cups of Sake Four) It is because what we say is unfinished, always, that we can say without fear. The gatekeepers themselves, in speaking back law, say only what they have been given to say by signs. It is always unfinished. Thinking of this I gathered courage, making prostrations. The land to the East or West of us is there because we are here, speaking of it. (My sister wrote that.) Anyway, when I arrived at the first gate, I was told I could not pass. The guards were dressed in coats of black scales, with half-moons of gold covering their mouths. They spoke in tongues from the West and told me to return there. Beyond their head-sets, sparks flew in the night across the wooden houses, and I imagined that those of the foreign community inside were shimmering and transparent so that their bones mingled as one with the tea-fires and the frozen flight of the cranes. (Awkward, but I am writing quickly here.) And then, by magic, Dean, the Western Guards became tethered to long and shiny poles of discourse (though it was dark and I couldn't quite see) and were spun round and round so that a breeze lightly scented with bream and salt cooled my face. I smashed the turtle's shell and passed boldly through the gate. You see, it was the thought of Witter Bynner that led me on. I desired my dust to be mingled with his, forever and forever and forever. I also thought of the following things, though I would never dare to speak them openly: The State of Hand Not Joined to Body The State of Being Perfectly Not Here The State of Disconsolate Thought of Wings The State of Myouka Writing "Hand Not Joined to Body" The State of Rose of the Snow Kimono The State of Poem Written on Throat of Turtle The State of Shikantaza as Loving Cunt Enfolding The State of Kissing Son on Loving Lips The State of Sons as Suicidal Aviators Exultant The State of Being a Staff or Whisk The State of Stillness in Self-Fulfilling Samadhi The State Where the Moon Swallowing Is Brought Forth Weary, I took a piss, making great steam in the Autumn grasses. Then, preparing ink on a large stone, I wrote: [xx] shungyo ya hito koso shirane kigi-no ame [xx] Which I choose to translate thus: [mourning his son he crosses the hills with a large sack of eggs] When I arrived at the second gate it was May, and all was in the State of Three Heads and Eight Arms as Rain on the Trees. The guard of this gate had the corpulent face and body of Amida, but I knew that was just a disguise. He spoke in hoarse whispers and in a language I could only understand by imagining. He told me to display wares in my laquer-bone-poet-box, and I did so. He told me to ornately describe the Eastern Suburbs with their alleys full of squatting whores and peddlars, and I did this. He told me to squat thusly and shit in my beggar's hat and I did so. He told me to write one wonder-haiku on cicada husk's soundless cry, and I did this, his sword suspended in threat above. I wrote: Towa x ni x ikitashi x onna-no x koe x to x semi-no x ne x to Which I choose to translate thus: [my soul passes through those of others: hydragena exhibit] Thus, this apparition vanished, and I went deeper into the mandala, having no idea where I was headed (and admittedly half-wishing I had heeded the cautionary advice of my grad school advisors). Wide-eyed, I witnessed: The Room of Looking through a Bamboo Tube The Room of Scholars Who Count Letters The Room of Poets with Strings of Law Leading Back to Their Names The Room of the Theory of Five Ranks The Room of Mud Within Mud The Room of Merely Being "In the Mountains" The Room of Oneness Within Differentiation The Room of Udumbara in Shameless Flower The Room of "Life Streams Issue from Plum Blossoms" The Room of Everyday Rice-Eating Activity The Room of Sky with Palms Together The Room of Mind Moon Alone and Full I felt fear and trembling, I felt the insistent repetition of all phenomenal things, I felt an anxiety and dread of concepts that verged (is it possible to say it?) on the irony of Being itself, and I felt a sickness unto death. You see, Dean, I had come to the gate through which the masts of Foreign Ships are visible! It was like a forest after a great fire, or a city of people who have been burned to a crust but are still standing. And I realized that this was the Room of No Turning Back. The guard here was dressed in elegant suit. He both was and was not (if you can imagine that!), like the brittle sumi-e I had seen at Eihei-ji: a single Not-Thinking stroke bringing sudden form out of no-form. He appeared to me as an American executive from Toshiba, and he brandished a scroll of unfair treaties, all inscribed in the most delicate calligraphy. He said I could pass only should I beat him in Poetry-Duel-to-Death. "I go first," he growled, "and my poem is titled 'State of Siege.'" He read in rapid-fire bursts, his voice screeching as ten-thousand shikirichi, and through the great roar of rushing waters' sound, this is what I heard: shaving dace [...] now stomping [.........] town wall [....] place for gossip or [...] [.......]daughter's dream--silkworm dealers?[.......]but[..] But [......]market flooded. Why Pentium Chips if [............]waving fan--clay stove [..] [................] so [.....................] no, [................] Ah, Hiroshima's blessing [...] fast track is [.......] better and [.] for one thousand vats of nightsoil [.................] but legs spread for love-making [.........] while far away [.......] geisha expert [...] quick web-search for [..........] thirty seven Mexicans suffocated in freight car clawing eyes out [...............................................................] I was fearful and trembled at his fierce visage. A device for measuring time glowed with Oriental splendour on his wrist. Sparks flew in the night across the great wooden ships beyond. I knew now the foreigners had been waiting there, shimmering and transparent, for thousands and thousands of Springs. I dipped my brush and raised it slowly back, knowing death-poem in my bones, knowing the darkness there in the glistening point of it... And I wrote: xHyakuxxxsen-noxxxdokanxxitsumademoxxxxwarauxxxkareno-nox Which is untranslatable thus: [ ] --------------------------- And when I woke, drenched from the dream, it was my teacher, serene in Electric State of Coming Wonders, speaking to us in measured and instructional tones. And this is what I heard: "This paradox cannot be mediated, for it depends specifically on this: In attachment blossoms fall, and in aversion weeds spread. The single individual is only the single individual. As [inaudible] as this single individual wants to express his absolute duty in the universal, becomes conscious of it in the universal, he recognizes that he is involved in a spiritual trial. [extended inaudible section] Do not be limited to the narrow views held by human beings. Even where there is no sun and moon, there is day and night." (I taped that.) He was a monk from Japan. He was vegetarian and ate his rice and things with chopsticks. And I spoke every Orientalist dream that came to me that sesshin, into the black hole of his succulent, papery ear. Volume One Index |
The East Village Poetry Web Kent Johnson |