Western Zen

In That Japanese Town Again








In That Japanese Town Again






I was there, too.
Sipping on a medium mug

of American-bought green tea.



(But it's been steeped in for so long.)





But if you try to question
how bitter it tasted,
well, it is not that bitter
—in the greater scheme of things





(Tho', screaming, in my dreams:

"If the Japanese withstood

bombings from the skies
like no other,
then why can't they
go through this one?")





Theirs, once again,
are framed signatures,
like household items
in Kyoto; after funerals that
were faced with protests in the state;






Preservation at its best,
equally interinvolved with caveats

—a newer testament in the Eastern front?




So long, cultural values.



So long, moral values.



Farewell, spiritual values!








Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited 10.25.2022:

 

1.  Replaced the word Conservancy with its more appropriate word designation for what I was thinking about by the time of its inception (I was mistaken at the proper word usage to mean the preservation of Japan's traditional buildings or architectures or, definitely, its own heritage reflected in many of its natural landscapes, notwithstanding its built environment (rojis, satoyama, Takayama City, et al).

 

2.  Reedited form, despite being a free-verse form, just to make one long line to not stand out

awkwardly from the seemingly uniformly ordered poem.

Silvery Appearing On Dark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silvery Appearing On Dark

 

 

 

Why like this—are we

While you're lying on the ground

Bedstead hovering









Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is reedited on 07.12.2019.

 

A replacement/substitution of a specific phrase "bed base" to the word "bedstead" was made unto the last line to properly denote what I had in mind earlier on.  I wanted to achieve something that I formerly thought would better represent those ideas (the intended imagery which was originally imprinted in my mind/thoughts during my initial creative process).  The specific word was not known to myself yet, or I also have no exact vocabulary word for that specific thought.  Neither do I know really how to call it, up until this point, because of the many specified ways to call something that resembles a type of a bed. This poem, therefore, might be tentative for that reason (due to the limited vocabulary words that I possess & for yet clarifying such undetermined objects in my mind).  Thank you for reading on.

A Few Fireflies, Those Dragonflies, & A Hundred Butterflies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Few Fireflies, Those Dragonflies, & A Hundred Butterflies

 

 

Forever beat up

Insouciant, without manners

Habitual feigning—







 

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