Kinder toten lieder

A well blogged and much linked-to article in the Miami New Times about the folklore of street children has lost little of its power to fascinate and appall since it first appeared in 1997.

“Folktales are the only work of beauty a displaced people can keep,” [Virginia Hamilton] explains. “And their power can transcend class and race lines because they address visceral questions: Why side with good when evil is clearly winning? If I am killed, how can I make my life resonate beyond the grave?”

That sense of mission, writes Harvard psychologist Robert Coles in The Spiritual Life of Children, may explain why some children in crisis — and perhaps the adults they become — are brave, decent, and imaginative, while others more privileged can be “callous, mean-spirited, and mediocre.” The homeless child in Miami and elsewhere lives in a world where violence and death are commonplace, where it’s highly advantageous to grovel before the powerful and shun the weak, and where adult rescuers are nowhere to be found. Yet what Coles calls the “ability to grasp onto ideals larger than oneself and exert influence for good” — a sense of mission — is nurtured in eerie, beautiful, shelter folktales.

****

BLUE LADY POEMS

homage to the homeless children of Dade County, Florida

chalk outline on the sidewalk
too small for an adult

someone crawled
under the yellow caution tape & placed
eight carnations in the upper left
side of the missing torso

~

lullaby lullaboo
dream of the lady dressed in blue
blue shining skin blue diamond eye
blue of the ocean blue of the sky
lullaby lullaboo
ask her to teach her name to you

~

mother sleeps on a bed of plastic bags
child stands watch against
police & petty thieves &
the terrible screamers
his word for the junkies suddenly
starved for junk

God has gone missing for months now
they say

the boy keeps watch under the street lamp
hour after hour in the neon glow
craning his neck for
the flash of an angel’s
ant-like wing

~

the kids in the shelter share secrets
it is all they have

~

everyone knows the necromancy
to summon Bloody Mary
it’s as easy as taking a ride from a stranger
or going to sleep & never waking up

you stand in front of a mirror
in a darkened room
& chant her name until
with a ripple of wind
she shatters out

flying daggers of glass
cut short the scream before
it leaves your throat

your last vision will be of her
crooning low
unholy mother of no one
weeping dark blood
from empty sockets

but why anyone would crave
such a necromance
the stories never say

~

street children devour television
for hidden messages

friends met only once
in whispered midnight talks
turn up dead on the 6:00 o’clock news

the anchor calls it crossfire
a drive-by shooting but
the kids know better

Kofi Annan is always looking helpless
the world’s at war

grownups scream at each other
& this too they call
Cross-
fire

~

the kids make a pact: whoever dies
will bring back news

once a spirit knows your face
it can always find you

whereas the angels are beleaguered
& hard to summon
their names are difficult
& all they can do is say
hold on

~

the social worker asked
a ten-year-old girl in the homeless shelter
to make a self-portrait

she pulled a gray crayon from the box
& drew a gravestone with
her name on it

~

Leon is twelve
he’s lived on the streets for six years now
looks tired all the time
says he’s not so sure about the angels anymore
do they care can they win are they even there
but still believes his dreams
can foretell the future
& he says
Sometimes I dream that when I die soon
I’ll be in some high great place
where people have
time to conversate
& even if there’s no God or heaven
it won’t be too bad

~

if this were a lullaby
who would sing it?

but it’s in the nature of lullabies
that those who sing them never believe
what they’re singing

lullaboo lullaby
driven from their home in the sky
the angels are hiding in the Everglades
among the cypress & palmetto blades
giant alligators guard them there
hurricanes grow flowers to put in their hair

lullaby lullaboo
if you’re brave & good you’ll go there too
across the clear river an ocean of calm
grass for a pillow
& a canopy of palm
they say the angels feed on light
you have to rest if you want to fight

Such imagination exclaim the students of folklore
forgetting how escaped slaves
& Seminole Indians fought the United
States Army for forty years
from the swamps of Florida
& in the end were undefeated

roads don’t go there
lullaby
& you’ll never get there if you cry

so go to sleep
lullaboo
some dreams are better if they don’t come true

Diogenes’ Tub (11)

From the Guardian: “President Bill Clinton’s administration knew Rwanda was being engulfed by genocide in April 1994 but buried the information to justify its inaction, according to classified documents made available for the first time.

“Senior officials privately used the word genocide within 16 days of the start of the killings . . . However, the administration did not publicly use the word genocide until May 25 and even then diluted its impact by saying ‘acts of genocide.’

“Ms Des Forges said: ‘They feared this word would generate public opinion which would demand some sort of action and they didn’t want to act. It was a very pragmatic determination.'”

That’s the trouble with genocide – it’s always such a dratted inconvenience.

A crooked mile

There was a crooked man
And he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence
Against a crooked stile.
He had a crooked cat
Who caught a crooked mouse
And they all lived together
In a little crooked house.

All of my miles have been crooked. I couldn’t go straight if I tried. People who talk in straight lines – theirs is a lonely and enviable calmness of mind. Or so it seems.

Ah, to be crazy like a fox. Weaving in and out of hedges, jumping ditches, skulking through the corn. The crafty opportunist, the mighty slayer of field mice.

It’s true that an old housemate of mine used to claim I bore an uncanny resemblance to Redd Foxx’s character on Sanford and Son. What resemblance the actor bore to his animal namesake we could well dispute. (I’m sure there’s a story there, but I don’t know it.) In any case, I’d much rather be a gray fox, reclusive inhabitant of the deep forest, climber of trees, halfway between a dog and a cat.

Contrary, my mother used to call me (and still does on occasion). If there are only two alternatives I’ll look for a third. In the company of boosters I’m an aginner – and vice versa. Even as I type this, the words come out wrong. Flagrantly wrong. Dyslexic. Dyslogic.

In a comment thread, C.B. wonders if I’m that bum outside the 34th street station he gave fifty cents to last Tuesday. No, but I think I could be! In all of literature there is no character I identify with so wholeheartedly as the madman of Chu. This is the guy who is said in the Analects to have accosted Confucius with a song,

Hey Phoenix! Phoenix!
What can anyone really do about the decline of virtue?
It’s useless to blame the past;
You can chase the future if you want.
Enough, enough!
These days it’s worth your life just to take office.

“Confucius got down from his carriage and tried to talk with him, but the man hurried off to avoid him, and he didn’t get the chance.”

This “virtue” (de) can also be translated “power.” It includes both innate ability and cultivated knack or strength of character. (This is the de in Daodejing.)

Zhuangzi gives an expanded version of the madman’s song. In A. C. Graham’s translation:

When Confucius travelled to Ch’u, Chieh Yü the madman of Ch’u wandered at his gate crying

‘Phoenix! Phoenix!
What’s to be done about Power’s decline?
Of the age to come we can’t be sure,
To the age gone there’s no road back.

When the Empire has the Way
The sage succeeds in it.
When the Empire lacks the Way
The sage survives in it.
In this time of ours, enough
If he dodges execution.

Good luck is lighter than a feather,
None knows how to bear its weight.
Mishap is heavier than the earth,
None knows how to get out of its way.

Enough, enough!
Of using Power to reign over men.
Beware, beware!
Of marking ground and bustling us inside.

Thistle, thistle,
Don’t wound me as I walk.
My walk goes backward and goes crooked,
Don’t wound my feet.

The trees in the mountain plunder themselves,
The grease in the flame sizzles itself.
Cinnamon has a taste, so they hack it down.
Lacquer has a use, so they strip it off.

All men know the uses of the useful, but no one knows the uses of the useless.’

“Good luck is lighter than a feather” reminds me of the fellow I read about in the news this morning, a Canadian who managed to sit on his winning lottery ticket, worth $23 million, for close to a year until he had all his ducks in a row. There’s a man of rare virtue! Compared to him, we’re all a little crooked, I guess.

I found a dime
just before that homeless guy saw it.
Felt good all morning.

The Directorate of Joy

Since I don’t have the time for an original entry this morning, here’s something from my files. This appeared as an op-ed in the Centre Daily Times – the main newspaper for the region surrounding Penn State’s University Park campus – back in November 2002. This region is known to Penn State fans and other local boosters as Happy Valley.

A post on “non-lethal” weapons breaks the pattern of non-political or anti-political writing here at Via Negativa, but it does give some background for a passing comment I made in Tuesday’s post, “The mutter of all bums.” By sheer happenstance, the origianl op-ed came out within days of a Russian police assault on a Moscow theater that had been taken over by Chechen rebels. Over a hundred people died from exposure to the supposedly non-lethal chemical weapon injected by the police. I forget the name of the chemical, but it was indeed one of the main subjects of the Penn State study. Most (but not all) would probably have lived had they been given proper, immediate medical attention.

The P.R. flunky for this program did respond to my attack with an op-ed of his own. However, the only charge he denied was that this research was inappropriate for a public university. He didn’t specifically address whether or not it violates the Chemical Weapons Convention. I think it’s a pretty sure bet that one topic we will not hear Bush and Kerry debate in the upcoming months is the United States’ own growing stockpiles of chemical, biological and nuclear weapons.

The military’s obsessive and incessant use of acronymns and code-words remains a source of fascination for me.

****

I sat staring at my computer screen in disbelief, the address line of my browser keyed to www.mcru.org. My beloved alma mater Penn State is code-named MCRU, “Marine Corps Research University”? That can’t be right!

Surely what they really mean is something like “The Beatrice Q. and James P. Rugglethorpe III Marine Corps Research University.” It just has such a better ring to it.

MCRU was maybe the tenth semi-digestible new acronym I’d encountered in the course of an afternoon of web surfing. With an Iraq war looming, I was checking out some of the more arcane implications of an MRC (Major Regional Conflict), which seems to differ from MOOTW (Military Operations Other Than War) chiefly in the size and number of bombs dropped and missiles lobbed. The largest and toughest chunk of word-salad was still lodged halfway down my throat: JNLWD, the Joint Non-Lethal Weapons Directorate.

If an acronym is long and unpronounceable, why use it? For simplicity’s sake, hereafter I’ll refer to the Joint Non-Lethal Weapons Directorate by an abbreviation, “Joy.”

Joy is a Pentagon initiative that contracts for research at the ARL (Applied Research Lab) at Penn State/MCRU, and at several other facilities around the country. “Non-lethal weapons” (NLWs), it turns out, is a catch-all category for anything that can be used to hurt, maim or incapacitate without actually killing people. Some weapons are classified as non-lethal because, if used in a certain way, they don’t kill human targets most of the time: rubber-coated bullets when they’re fired at the ground, for instance, or very brief, agonizing bursts of microwave radiation (both subjects of Penn State research).

But what really captured my fancy was the Joy-sponsored research into what one pair of military strategists rhapsodically describe as “neural inhibitors, gastrointestinal convulsives, neuropharmacological agents, calmative agents, and disassociative hallucinogens,” including such familiar drugs as Prozac and Valium; opiates “hundreds of times more potent” than heroin; a drug called Precedex that “increases patients’ reaction to electric shock”; even GBH (“the date rape drug”). Military planners prefer to lump all these chemical NLWs together as “calmatives”.

I’m quoting in part from a 50-page report produced for the Directorate by the College of Medicine and ARL, entitled The Advantages and Limitations of Calmatives for Use as a Non-Lethal Technique. Deploying a potent cocktail of Militarese and Medicalese, the report describes calmatives as “pharmaceutical agents . . . with a profile of producing a calm-like state,” with “physiological and behavioral effects [that] range from amelioration of anxiety, mild sedation, hypnotic effects to coma and death.” Ideally, of course, they would be administered in doses designed to produce merely “a less agitated, groggy, sleepy-like state” or “a stunned state of consciousness.”

Who’d have thought that the theme of Bobby McPherrin’s body slapping, sleepy-like hit of yesteryear, “Don’t worry, be happy,” might one day be enforceable by riot police?

The authors point out that such chemicals “offer specific advantages in a non-lethal warfare setting.” They don’t say exactly what such a setting might involve, though they do allude to situations involving an “agitated population,” exemplified at one point by “a group of hungry refugees . . . excited over the distribution of food,” and at another point they suggest helpfully that certain drugs offer superior “control of an individual.”

Non-lethal warfare? How very politically correct (PC)!

The foreigners and liberals at the Hamburg- and Austin-based Sunshine Project have a serious bee up their butt about this research. They’ve been using the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) to obtain a number of classified documents (including the report cited above) which, they claim, add up to a pretty damning conclusion: that the US military is in direct violation of international law, specifically the Chemical Weapons Convention (CWC).

Not only does the R&D program itself constitute a violation but, they say, Joy is currently flouting CWC rules even further by testing a delivery system: the 81mm M252 mortar, which has a range of 2.5 km., according to recent FOIA-obtained documents. The sunshiners whine about the danger of escalation if “non-lethal” chemical weapons are used in battlefield situations, wring their hands over the possibility of a new chemical arms race, and go so far as to imply that using chemical weapons against Iraq would make us (U.S.) vulnerable to charges of hypocrisy!

The Sunshine Project’s latest bombshell is a press release dated 27 September, maintaining that experiments with human subjects are planned, or may indeed already have been conducted. Their evidence consists of a murkily written contract, dated 29 January 2002, between the Directorate and MCRU.

Actually, this isn’t too hard to believe. Anecdotal evidence suggests that close to half the student population of Penn State/MCRU on any given Friday night descends rapidly into a “stunned state of consciousness.” And was it really just a coincidence that Arts Fest revelers somehow didn’t feel like rioting this year?

The Directorate, for its part, tells the Associated Press (AP) that it has decided to “step back and make sure the use of calmatives would not violate the Chemical Weapons Convention.” Part of “making sure” apparently includes denying the release of over two thirds of the documents requested; ordering the US National Academies of Science not to release unclassified documents deposited in their public archives by Joy; and even by classifying their own internal, legal review–a tacit admission that thoughts themselves can be dangerous.

Which, come to think of it, is almost an inevitable conclusion, if you begin (as the Penn State study does) with the premise that resistance to authority constitutes a treatable psychological disorder.

But apparently they didn’t “make sure” soon enough. Already-released records indicate that back in 2000 our British allies–timid as always!–protested that the calmatives program was illegal. Joy simply replied that it would proceed anyway: “If there are promising technologies that DOD [Department of Defense] is prohibited from pursuing, set up MOA [Memorandum of Agreement] with DOJ [Department of Justice] or DOE [Department of Energy].”

Translation: “Pass the buck and damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”

Space doesn’t permit more than a mention of some of the ironies surrounding the Joy Directorate’s work. Where to begin? In Afghanistan, where opium production under U.S. occupation has rebounded to pre-Taliban levels? In the Andes, where peasants’ coca crops are destroyed by U.S. taxpayer-subsidized military aircraft indiscriminately spraying deadly chemicals?

How about in Happy Valley, where a moralizing university president has encouraged police to crack down on underage drinkers, and where students are suspended or expelled for possession of a quarter bag of pot?

On the second week of October, the Sunshine Project presented its case at the Chemical Weapons Convention conference at the Hague. Oddly, its suggestion that the UN send a weapons inspection team to the US was greeted with resounding silence. (All I can say is, they better not try flying their black helicopters over Beaver Stadium!)

Hmmm, that’s strange–I feel this sudden, uncontrollable urge to lie down on the couch . . . turn on the television . . . watch football . . .
__________

The text of the Chemical Weapons Convention may be found here or here. Since this essay was published, the ARL has removed most of the offending material from its website, though the most damning documents (including the report I quoted from) are archived here by the Sunshine Project. Access to the MCRU’s website has also been restricted. An example of the military’s thinking about the legal and ethical status of non-lethal weapons may be viewed here.

Housekeeping note

HALOSCAN UPGRADE

I finally sent Haloscan some money, which means that comments can now be as long as a whopping 3000 characters each – and they will be preserved indefinitely! My ability to edit comments is vastly simplified, so let me know via e-mail anytime you want to change something you said (be it as minor as a typo or misspelling). I also get e-mail notification when someone leaves a comment, which is particularly helpful if it’s in response to a post in the archive.

I’m having a problem with early comments not registering. From about the first week of February on back, all comments are incorrectly labeled as “(0)” whether they are there or not. But nothing seems to have been lost, which is the main thing. If anyone knows how to fix this, please let me know. Also, I don’t understand this “trackback” feature too well. Do folks who have it at their own blogs really find it useful? I’m reluctant to add too many features that might confuse people who aren’t regular blogonauts.

The girl in the raincoat

The electric went out this morning just as I was casting about for something to blog about. April fool! We were without power for three hours altogether. It was raining too hard to go for a walk, so I found myself reading in the only chair in the house with enough natural light – the one in front of my computer. Damn, I live in a cave!

When the lights went out I had been reading Jorge Tellier, whose nostalgic poems about his childhood in the rainy South of Chile should have been a perfect accompaniment for such a gloomy day. However, they didn’t seem quite what I wanted, and I had to resist the temptation to pull out a volume of Georg Trakl translations instead.

Nostalgia is such a self-indulgent mood. It’s the daydreamer’s ultimate escape, “the country of nevermore” (el país de nunca jamás), as Tellier calls the landscape of his childhood. It is lost in the way we would like to be lost ourselves, distracted forever in a world made from pure longing. It is not the true heaven of the mystic – which exists in the present moment if it exists at all – but its doppelganger, the Land of Faery, the paradise beyond death. How else to explain the apparent paradox that experiences we were in fact barely present for can assume in nostalgic recollection such portentous and idyllic proportions?

And pondering still Walter Ong’s theories about the transition from orality to literacy, I’m wondering if nostalgia might stem in part from a reaction against the increasing irony, the distancing of consciousness from world that literacy entails? We remember with special clarity those years before full literacy, when bedtime stories and ghost stories had such power to entrance or terrify us. The stories we invented then about ourselves and that others told about us probably still form the most solid substratum of our self-identity.

I’m thinking (with some nostalgia) about a woman I used to work with – one of those rare people gifted with what I can only call a pure heart. (William James, in The Varieties of Religious Experience, described such people as once-born.) I remember her talking once about her largely unhappy childhood, and how she still pictured herself as the little girl in a raincoat with her back to the camera, poking at the water in a puddle with a stick. Yes, I thought, for all her cheerfulness there was something of that sad little girl, deep down – as if a photo I’d never seen had captured her very soul.

I don’t want to rehash past arguments to the effect that the notion of a single, unitary soul is a recent and minority view. What’s indisputable to me is that this substratum of the self formed in early childhood is inhabited by an uninvited guest, whom we may or may not consider a friend: our own death. (I am trying to avoid the terminology of modern psychology, in which I have little grounding.) Communication with the dead involves us in a very special kind of language, older than human speech: the figurative language of omens, markings, gestures, involuntary actions and reactions quicker than thought. Here’s the title poem from Carolyn Wright’s translation for the University of Texas Press (1993), In Order to Talk with the Dead: Selected Poems of Jorge Tellier. I have altered the last two lines just a bit.

In order to talk with the dead
you have to choose words
that they recognize as easily
as their hands
recognized the fur of their dogs in the dark.
Words clear and calm
as water of the torrent tamed in the wineglass
or chairs the mother puts in order
after the guests have left.
Words that night shelters
as marshes do their ghostly fires.

In order to talk with the dead
you have to know how to wait:
they are fearful
like the first steps of a child.
But if we are patient
one day they will answer us
with a poplar leaf trapped in a broken mirror,
with a flame that suddenly revives in the fireplace,
with a dark return of birds
before the gaze of a girl
who waits on the threshold, motionless.

Para hablar con los muertos
por Jorge Tellier

Para hablar con los muertos
hay que elegir palabras
que ellos reconozcan tan fácilmente
como sus manos
reconocían el pelaje de sus perros en la oscuridad.
Palabras claras y tranquilas
como el agua del torrente domesticada en la copa
o las sillas ordenades por la madre
después que se han ido los invitados.
Palabras que la noche acoja
como a los fuegos fatuos los pantanos.

Para hablar con los muertos
hay que saber esperar:
ellos son miedosos
como los primeros pasos de un niño.
Pero si tenemos paciencia
un día nos responderán
con una hoja de álamo atrapado por un espejo roto,
con una llama de súbito reanimada en la chimenea,
con un regreso oscuro de pájaros
frente a la mirada de una muchacha
que aguarda inmóvil en el umbral.

Diogenes’ Tub (10)

“I like the idea of making films about ostensibly nothing,” [Errol] Morris told The New Yorker’s Mark Singer. “That’s what all my movies are about. That and the idea that we’re in a position of certainty, truth, infallible knowledge, when actually we’re just a bunch of apes running around.”

He may say he’s a filmmaker, but he smells like a lawyer to me. Check out his rationalizations for Why It Makes Sense to Beat a Dead Horse.
(Via Brokentype.)

Diogenes’ Tub (9)

From the Toronto Sun, via Unknown News: “U.S. security agents have a master list of five million people worldwide thought to be potential terrorists or criminals, officials say.”

Make that five billion and I think they’d be a little closer to the truth.

Diogenes’ Tub (8)

From the AP: “Everyone is in our sights,” Internal Security Minister Tsahi Hanegbi told reporters. “There is no immunity to anyone.”

Let me get this straight: the guy charged with making people feel safe announces that no one is safe. Am I missing something here?

The shape of the journey

I’m reading The Shape of the Journey: New and Collected Poems by Jim Harrison (Copper Canyon, 1998), following Tom Montag’s recommendation. This is my first exposure to Harrison’s work aside from the collection of epigrams he co-authored with Ted Kooser, Braided Creek, which I quoted from a few weeks back. I am impressed by the distinctiveness of each of Harrison’s books. He strikes me as comparable to Neruda in his ability to change style and mood to suit the concept, as well as in his boundless enthusiasm, detailed knowledge of the natural world and evident connoisseur’s appreciation of the finer things in life.

And as I discovered with Braided Creek, Harrison is eminently quotable. Here’s a very Via Negativa-compatible, extended quote from the book-length poem “Returning to Earth,” first published in 1977:

I no longer believe in the idea of magic,
christs, the self, metal buddhas, bibles.
A horse is only the space his horseness requires.
If I pissed in the woods would a tree see my ear
fall off and would the ear return to the body
on the morning of the third day? Do bo trees
ever remember the buddhas who’ve slept beneath them?
I admit that yesterday I built an exploratory altar.
Who can squash his delight in incomprehension?
So on a piece of old newspaper I put an earthworm
on a maple leaf, the remains of a bluebird after
the cat was finished – head and feet, some dog hair,
shavings from when we trimmed the horses’ hooves,
a snakeskin, a stalk of ragweed, a gourd,
a lemon, a cedar splinter, a nonsymbolic doorknob,
a bumblebee with his juice sucked out by a wasp.
Before this altar I invented a doggerel mantra
it is this    it is this    it is this

***

In 1996 Harrison came out with After Ikkyu and Other Poems. The 53-part title sequence is not a translation but an attempt to evoke the spirit and approach of the pre-modern Japanese poet and Zen roshi Ikkyu, famous even in Rinzai Zen circles for his nonconformity. Ikkyu not only celebrated his mistress in a series of erotic poems (imbued with deep religious meaning, we are led to believe), but scorned many elements of hallowed Zen tradition such as the convenient fiction of mind-to-mind transmission that had licensed, in his view, a proliferation of unenlightened bean-counters and power-mongers throughout the religious hierarchy of his day. He briefly accepted a prestigious appointment as abbot of one of the Big Five Zen temples in Kyoto, only to return to his little county temple in disgust after a couple of years. (I’m writing this portrait from memory; forgive me if I am a little fuzzy on the details).

I haven’t been able to get too far into this sequence without succumbing to nostalgia and other feelings that I don’t think Harrison intended to evoke. When I lived in Japan back in 1985-86 I roomed in a boarding house that was only a couple miles from Ikkyu’s country monastery. After one regular, daytime visit I returned often at night – it made a convenient destination for a roundabout ramble of about five miles through hills and rice fields. (It never occurred to me that I might be doing something wrong by slipping in without paying admission, just as it never occurred to the monks to post guards or install a burglar alarm.) Needless to say, for me and the other Zen-crazy American college students who shared that house, Ikkyu was something of a hero. Unfortunately, I didn’t keep a journal during most of my stay, so I’m unable now to fashion decent poems about Ikkyu or much else that occupied my otherwise sex- and alcohol-obsessed imagination at that time.

Despite this, I remain a stalwart believer in memory as an alembic for the distillation of experience. If I wrote everything down, how would I know what was really important as opposed to what merely seemed that way at the time? Doesn’t the act of writing stuff down make it important in a way it might not otherwise become? And in that case, wouldn’t the compulsive diarist find himself living to write – subtly or not so subtly letting his experience be shaped by his need to get a poem out of it – rather than vice versa? Not that that’s invariably problematic. But one suspects, you know, that a poet like Ikkyu (not to mention Rumi or Shakespeare) would’ve been far more interested in the “vice versa”!

In any case, when years later I came to write a poem about those nighttime walks, it wasn’t the temple I remembered, but a tiny Shinto shrine that had fallen into disrepair, as well as a great big golf course – which together seem more emblematic of what Japan has become in the modern era. My fascination with all things Zen and Buddhist had come to feel faintly absurd, part and parcel of the ridiculousness of choosing to live as an outsider in Japan – a zenophiliac in a country of xenophobics, as it were. I made it the lead poem in my small assemblage of poems about Japan, which, while not great literature, express somewhat more disenchantment with the culture than you will find in any number of dharma-besotted volumes by other American poets who have made the pilgrimage to the land of Basho and Murasaki.

THE PALE

I remember the quick flies
& the slow spiders, webs everywhere
in the woods that weren’t woods
but bamboo: nearly impenetrable palisades
that kept the trails narrow, if never straight.
You could go walking after dark
& not worry about getting lost.

In the hills where three prefectures joined
there was a small Inari shrine
I never saw by daylight. The moon there
was the moon of Saigyo & Charlie Chaplin.
One night I came across a tilted lake,
the kind of thing you only see in dreams.

I scaled the chainlink fence, stepped
cautiously onto the unrippled surface
of a putting green. Even so, I sank
into the sand trap, one more strange rock
in the garden of the Ryoanji.
How could I have missed
the absence of any reflection?
By now, even my own memories
have grown inscrutable.

Plummer’s Hollow, 2002

How could I? Over time, we forget our motives until we become like strangers to ourselves. It’s at that point that I become interested enough to want to attempt autobiographical poems.

(See Spoil for the rest of the poems in this sequence, which is called “Anything with Teeth.” This isn’t necessarily a plug. I feel I did my duty by putting the stuff out there. For some people these poems will seem necessary, to a few maybe even intoxicating, but to many more they will seem mostly meaningless or even downright harmful. And that’s as it should be. I will never forget the reaction an alcoholic I once worked with had to my first chapbook: “I thought it encouraged suicide. I took it out to the dumpster and burned it.” He took what he needed, as they say in recovery circles, and he left – or rather burned – the rest.)