Poem #32

The flowering branches grow naturally / some short, some long —Ryōkan (1758–1831)

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Two Lessons Learned by the Sea
	
	
	I

The day was alight, the sky was stark blue,
the wind shedding hints as swiftly went by
of midsummer bliss about to break through.

Sipping my coffee I savoured some grains
a friend had brought returning from church,
full flavoured to mouth with sour refrains.

Lightly I pressed my feet on the ground
careful as not to step over ants—
no more dead on this day I vowed.

This land was turning forlorn, if only…
I thought, and trailed to the shore; there
to find, bathed in the salt, a small lonely

star who willingly came upon my hand.
Crawling on me and holding me tight
his twinkling points the colour of sand,

an odd-looking couple we floated in glee;
two worlds collided unforeseen became one,
but our fleeting affair was not meant to be.

I paid my respects and let him swim by—
the folly of time and its measure undone.
Some things are just meant to last for a while.
	
	
	II

Forward the years, in some other place,
already September brooding on days
that wane in the season’s resolute pace,

animal-like I’m sprawled on the sand—
the haze of the evening and the cloudless sky 
matching my mind as my body gets tanned.

Salted and spiced lying there sucking light
I stare at the sea with eyes turning blue
when a man appears and I barely catch sight

of his masculine hand that thrusts into water
and deceitful in stillness allures from the reef
a goddess who comes in loving surrender.

As Venus’ rise I watch from the shallows,
her eight limbs embracing the dubious hand,
I can’t help but shudder and think of the gallows

and the rest of the hanged who bask in the sun
in front of the taverns as trophies displayed,
waiting their turn to be put in the pan.

With dinner at hand, the man walks away
and a phrase I once read booms in my head:
life eats life—there’s no other way.
	

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