The Day We Knew Keith Died.

We follow the path like a brown tide line,

Etched in the shape of the last wave.

Still trees turned from brilliant bronze,

To a broken brown at the backward turn,

Of the autumn clock.

Lifeless like a patchwork tableux.

Stuck where we're supposed to be,

Man, woman and dog.

The quiescent railway track hems us in,

Under Sylvia's jar, encassed,

In the glass of a paperweight.

Inevitably with your frozen scene,

We are connected.

Condensed Earth contracts to leave us,

Breathless at how life could have turned,

On an Aussie's word.  

Language Learning

Language Learning:

It is painfully slow but,

gradually, glorious.

These shapes are all new.

Super-imposed over them;

Allusion.

Me: Scratching out the meaning,

Black lines I can penetrate,

Like an equation.

Vague essence with too many

Full stops.

Time travel for the writer.

Watching the invention of,

The light bulb moment.

Creating, recreating,

Old words.

I linger to watch the day;

Misty clouds kissing Stour trees,

Dewy eyed lens for,

Fanciful wakers of the,

Equal night.

I want to create this view,

With my new black pen scratches.

Casting illusion,

From dancing whisps of smoke that,

Fade out.

It's all I can conjure to,

Seduce the English text with,

Signs for Tree, night, day,

Symbols for now and fire.

Baby steps. 

Foreigner

Foreigner

When Grandma sold a painting she said she knew who she really was. It was dark when Aki landed in Japan. Leaving the airport by train left her feeling claustrophobic from all the hours of recycled air. The first step from the platform was like a reviving for slap. Her face stung with cold and even late in the evening she was assaulted by the sheer business of Nagoya station. A dazed jet-lag forced her mind into autopilot as she dragged her suitcase towards the central area and from there followed the english signs to the Marriott. She couldn't read the signs otherwise and when the bright-faced receptionist greeted her in Japanese she managed only a polite greeting before asking him if he spoke English. Her American accent surprised him and, she was sure she was just paranoid from tiredness, offended him too. He lost his smile for only a moment before switching to a neutral east cost accent. She smiled.

“Where did you go to school?” She asked. He told her quickly as he tapped in her passport details. The only other information he gave her was regarding her room. When she sat on the large bed her mind began racing. The Japanese word for foreigner better translated as alien and she felt it. It only surprised her in its familiarity. With the angle of her eyes and her strange name she had always been different at home but at least that was expected. Her smile and her all American upbringing challenged people's assumptions much more positively than this way around. She looked the same here but there her sympathies ended. Her Grandmother had done all she could to bring up her son as American. A challenge to a post-Pearl Harbour immigrant. Or perhaps not. She wouldn't have had a chance if she'd gone any other way. Aki's grandmother had never returned to her country, had given up all but a few ties. She kept one Kimono and wore it only on special family occasions celebrated within the home. She drank green tea in her art studio but coffee in any other location, including her own home. And she called Aki by the fond term chan. That was all.

Aki woke in the middle of the night to loud rattling sounds. The mirror catching the light from the undrawn curtains shook and the light fitting swung from side to side. Her heart was beating heavily and she managed half a breath before the shaking doubled in intensity. As she forced herself to accept the panic in the situation the movement stopped. The stillness was hard to perceive as her body shook from the double shock of being woken and experiencing her first earthquake. The world was abruptly not at all what Aki had always believed it to be. She felt the loss of her grandmother so completely that it was suddenly raw once again. She curled up this time under the covers and cried to herself until exhaustion reclaimed her.

Return

Like a cavern my mind was waiting,

Stripped down walls and a bare floor.

Emptiness surprised me like a well laid trap.

I never see it coming.

The long evenings are new to me,

Fresh, white-pale light stretches on,

I feel very northern and European.

And a little bit foreign.

Looking at the map I am startled ,

I could've lived anywhere else.

Weighed down by these places in which I have dwelt,

Like tent pegs they hold me firm.

Stones in my pockets to stop me from,

Wallowing in that hollow room.

I can use what I learned whilst I loitered there,

In order to fill myself.

I find that there are books on the shelf,

Sharp pencils and drawing pads.

A picture that I didn't see on the wall.

This room's not spare after all.  

Memorial

Inspired by the ice sculptures made to commemorate the first anniversary of the earthquake and tsunami in Rikuzentakata. Photograph seen on the Guardian website: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/gallery/2012/mar/11/japan-earthquake-tsunami-disaster-anniversary?intcmp=122#/?picture=387194335&index=10

Memorial;

Made of ice,

Frozen bird.

Frozen time,

Speaks one man,

Of his heart.

Two-forty-six:

Time of start.

End unknown.

Caught in flight,

Silent birds,

Now cast in ice.

Waiting

Waiting:

Exhilaration.

The countdown starts.

Energy in my feet,

Spreading from my heart.

Floating thoughts in a head,

Occupied by change.

A favourite notion.

Worn like slippers.

I fought it once so hard,

It broke completely.

Consumed me and now rules,

All my decisions.

A promise I made,

Or an old song,

Either way this is me,

Coming back to life.

Kiyomizudera on Christmas Day

A samurai dog,

Small, white, posing,

Enjoying the attention,

Tourists snapping shots,

Calling kawai.

The postman passes by.

Crispy, burnt out leaves,

Hanging on in the cold,

Waiting out the snow,

Shielding the drop,

From the floating floor,

The postman darts through a shop door.

Pottery and green tea shops,

Ice-creams, sweets, biscuits,

Steaming bowls of macha,

Clerks calling in the tourists,

With tasters and a bright grin,

The postman revs his engine.

Kimono and small zori steps,

Bright silks and grey clad men,

Kyoto spread out below,

Grey snow clouds gathering,

Around the surrounding mountains,

The postman dodges a tourist and drives on in.