{"id":62116,"date":"2015-08-10T12:00:24","date_gmt":"2015-08-10T11:00:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/?p=62116"},"modified":"2015-08-04T16:43:54","modified_gmt":"2015-08-04T15:43:54","slug":"hiroshima-spring","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/2015\/08\/hiroshima-spring\/","title":{"rendered":"Hiroshima Spring"},"content":{"rendered":"

[Author\u2019s Note:<\/strong> UNESCO declared 1979 \u201cThe International Year of the Child.\u201d Fatefully, I found myself in Hiroshima that spring, surrounded by ghosts\u2026. On the 70th<\/sup> anniversary of the atomic bombings of civilians in a prostrate, defeated Japan\u2014 the greatest acts of \u201cterrorism\u201d in history [not to end a war, as has been told, but to establish imperial hegemony]–, let us look around our world today and consider– to what end?]<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2026 how beset we were with what\u2026 we had been taught\u2026.\u201d <\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 –Kenneth Patchen.<\/em><\/p>\n

A poem for voices, shakuhachi and koto\u2026.<\/em>
\n(Sound of shakuhachi, as though the instrument itself is breathing–) <\/em><\/p>\n

    \n
  1. The Pilgrim<\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

    Under the flush of cherry,
    \nin\u00a0air as mild as breath,
    \nby the Ota\u2019s tributary–
    \nfive crooked fingers reaching
    \ninto the Inland Sea–<\/p>\n

    I stalk the A-bomb dome.<\/p>\n

    (The reed sounds tremble, linger, fade\u2026.)<\/em><\/p>\n

      \n
    1. The Old Man<\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

      (Echo of minyo in the distance\u2026.)<\/em>
      \n\u00a0<\/em>
      \nThe moon of snow
      \nrises over the white world.<\/p>\n

      In the chill gauze of the air
      \nwild stag and deer
      \nnuzzle
      \nin a nook of mountain.<\/p>\n

      Nameless birds, my white brows
      \nwing
      \nover the dim reflections.<\/p>\n

      Your memory fills the air
      \nlike the incense of a dream….<\/p>\n

        \n
      1. Ghosts<\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

        When the wind shifts against these bamboo poles,
        \nor sifts the water in the carp-jeweled pond\u2014
        \nthe petals of the cherry fallen there
        \nas though a girl had strewn them with her songs\u2014
        \nthen we may hear the chansons<\/em> of the dead,
        \nshuddering the bamboo temple\u2019s bell,
        \nclamoring softly in the bamboo hair
        \nhow human passion shuddered in a sieve
        \nupon the spume of time, cast spells,
        \nand cleaved and echoed in a timeless well.<\/p>\n

          \n
        1. The Old Woman (An “ordinary life”)<\/em><\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

          My daughter died a week after the bomb,
          \nits image blistered in her crow-black eyes.
          \nTwo days later my son found me.
          \nKeloids covered his back and skull.<\/p>\n

          He crawled into bed and did not rise.
          \nThree days passed, and he vomited blood.<\/p>\n

          \u201cThough I am dying,\u201d he said,
          \n\u201cyou will live a healthy, ordinary life.\u201d<\/p>\n

          The smoke his body made was white….<\/p>\n

          (Minyo<\/u> echoes with the cry of a deer,<\/em>
          \ncaught in a trap in the forest\u2026.)<\/em><\/p>\n

            \n
          1. The Pilgrim <\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

            I clocked my walking speed
            \nat seventeen minutes a mile.
            \nSeventeen minutes I walked:
            \nall I saw were dead.<\/p>\n

            Seventeen minutes more,
            \nthe wounded lay with the dying.
            \nHalf an hour on,
            \nand that which escaped the fire
            \nhuddled in desperate corners:
            \nshadows that sought shadows.<\/p>\n

              \n
            1. The Old Man<\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

              A woman is standing
              \nbehind a silken screen.<\/p>\n

              The scent of her silhouette
              \nis naked
              \non the snowy screen.<\/p>\n

              The sun drops softly behind her:
              \na ripe melon of youth.<\/p>\n

              She leans her head back,
              \nher long hair covers her buttocks,<\/p>\n

              her nipples harden
              \nunder my imagined gaze.<\/p>\n

              (Koto crystal trembling\u2026.)<\/em>\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

                \n
              1. Ghosts<\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

                In the Twentieth Epoch of Love
                \nwe pulled on the rubbery face
                \nand found the luminous skull
                \nturning around in its place,
                \nwearing the grin of our race,<\/p>\n

                saying: All who endeavor will
                \nfind here the end of man,
                \nthe bone at the heart of will,
                \nthe snake in the garden of Love;
                \nsaying: Go and be killed if you can!<\/p>\n

                Man of the dinosaur mind,
                \ntaking the atom\u2019s weight,
                \nbalanced it on his nose,
                \nsealed his doom with hate.<\/p>\n

                Now we stand on the brink of the cold
                \nwhile the earth turns around in its place,
                \na tiny rock of the light
                \nturning in infinite space
                \nwhile we cling to ourselves in spite.<\/p>\n

                  \n
                1. The Pilgrim<\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

                  In Peace Memorial Park
                  \nI stare at the A-bomb dome,
                  \nsit on a bench in the dark
                  \nwhile pigeons roost in the ruins,<\/p>\n

                  while a girl with ivory hands
                  \nplucks a koto\u2019s strings;
                  \nsomewhere beyond my hearing\u2014
                  \ncrystal, unbreakable things.<\/p>\n

                    \n
                  1. Ghosts<\/strong><\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

                    Now ghosts of the children enter, speaking in an echo chamber:<\/em><\/p>\n

                    We sought nothing but the triumph of the blossoms.
                    \n(Our skin was new to breeze and shower.)<\/em><\/p>\n

                    War, we thought, a kind of blind-man\u2019s bluff.
                    \n(No victory but in the seasons\u2019 power.)<\/em><\/p>\n

                    We forgave the distractions of those older.
                    \n(We lived life before we knew life.)<\/em><\/p>\n

                    We are your children
                    \n(and your children\u2019s<\/em>
                    \n<\/em>children).<\/em><\/p>\n

                    \u00a0(Koto strings are plucked briskly, violently, then are still.\u00a0 The shakuhachi<\/u> lingers, fades\u2026)<\/em><\/p>\n

                    ________________________________________<\/p>\n

                    Gary Corseri <\/em>has performed his work at the Carter Presidential Library, and his dramas have been produced on PBS-Atlanta and elsewhere. He has published novels and collections of poetry, taught in US public schools and prisons and in US and Japanese universities. His work has appeared at<\/em> TMS-Transcend Media Service<\/a>, Village Voice, The New York Times, Redbook Magazine and hundreds of publications\/websites worldwide. Contact: gary_corseri@comcast.net.<\/em><\/p>\n

                    First published in <\/em>Poetry Nippon.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

                    Under the flush of cherry,
                    \nin air as mild as breath,
                    \nby the Ota\u2019s tributary–
                    \nfive crooked fingers reaching
                    \ninto the Inland Sea–<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[182],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-62116","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-format"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/62116","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=62116"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/62116\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=62116"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=62116"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=62116"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}