The Art of Being Alone: Poems 1952–2009

Journey

73 Journey 旅 (1968) Toba 1 I have nothing to write about My flesh is bared to the sun My wife is beautiful My children are healthy Let me tell you the truth I am not a poet I just pretend to be one I was created, and left here Look, the sun cascades among the boulders making the sea look darker Other than this quiet at the height of the day I have nothing I want to tell you about even if you are bleeding in your country Ah, this everlasting radiance! Toba 2 I don’t want to make this moment eternal It is fine to own this moment just as it is Even I have a way to seize a transient moment The sun is already moving on 74 These words are merely written on the sand not with my fingers but with my cheerful heart that shifts quickly to gloom My children look like me My children don’t look like me Either way it pleases me Along with sea shells, pebbles and pieces of broken bottles my heart is left at the water’s edge of a planet just as hard and vulnerable Toba 3 The old woman is looking at the sand as she gathers brushwood I am looking at the horizon from my hotel window You, who have lived through hunger, please go ahead and torture me I have always lived with my belly full Even now I am belching The least I can wish is to deserve your hatred Old woman, what could my words do for you? I do not wish to atone for anything any more What strangles me is what you have in your hand the horizon you will not look at I hear Clementi’s sonatina faintly No one speaks to me What deep comfort 旅 • 1968 Journey 75 Toba 4 With my own saliva caught in my windpipe I choke and cough for quite a while I wonder if one could die from this Something words cannot catch in advance sneaks into my heart from the ocean My big book of poetry turns to ashes I gaze at the boulders before my eyes I gaze at pine trees I cling to gazing with no desire for any expression There’s no poetry no music, but a single rhythm appears in my heart and tears are coming to my eyes Toba 5 I wrote them — those lame words — how do they fit which part of me? I know what I cannot express in words I don’t know what I did express. A boat is coming back from the sea I cannot see its oarsman Words do not ride in the wind Words do not appear on paper 76 They do not come to me I will no longer ask questions but only answer to my own being If there is any bitterness leveled against me that is silence, nothing else Toba 6 Sea — even this single word contains deceit But I insist on saying it facing the waves rising before a storm Sea! . . . then I am left speechless Into this darkness, my wife, stretch out your suntanned arms Your body needs no metaphors a mouth sealing a mouth scentless sweat sliding But we groan The groan is now a sweet murmur to my heated ear, closer than the sea Toba 7 With my sulky mouth shut again I am unjust to words As my punishment I hear the ocean tide through the night 旅 • 1968 Journey 77 I write: all poetry is empty words and I continue on writing My child wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night she sobs quite a while I want to be honest Even a dying soldier is not honest My cigarette ashes fall on my lap I will not dream now though I am so sleepy Toba 8 By the time the day is bright it will be clear that this is not a good poem but I cannot erase my own words When people gather at the market I drink a glass of water at the table and do nothing else A white statue stands by the pool far beyond tree branches That is me with my bare testicles open to everyone’s eyes After copying over and over I have grown to be a piece of...