Early Morning Tide

That sound could have waken

the whole silent town.

Where, in the whole lamp-lit city?

It was on the hazy country roads,

approaching a river in which

the moon waned.

The fire should have burned the sleeping town.

But the burgeoning weeds

on the brink, beside the bend, will be

regrown tomorrow.

On the Grace of Departure

While you were still here:

silence.

I wish it were raining now,

and night all morning,

and you were here.

Thank you for saying more than what is said by the face.

Thank you for letting me follow you, following nothing.

Thank you for your beauty.

Thank you for the aberration of light.

The greatest love is indifferent;

the heart is nowhere, then found.

Thank you for remaining here.

A Ko`olau Au `Ike I Ka Ua

It was at Ko`olau I met with the rain -

It comes with the lifting and tossing of dust.

Advancing in columns, dashing along,

the rain sighs in the forest.

The rain beats like the surf;

it smites - it now smites the land.

The Crusade

I. First, 1096-1099

To Outremer, by the sea,

the masses at Constantinople,

our sword shall go to Jerusalem!

Down, infidel and pagan!

Father, I have sinned.

It has been a lifetime

since my last confession.

"Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris,

et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

Take my hand, dear, and I will hold you,

servo, fides, spes, persevero.

Love never fails.

II. Second, 1147-1149

Down in Edessa, fire.

Love, stay safe; Lord, keep her from harm.

I am near Edessa, two towns away.

I am Jacob, and the dunes are but a few days.

Love is patient, love is kind.

Lord, keep her from harm.

III. Third, 1189-1192

Like Frederick's men I am weak,

arrivederci.

Dove siete?

IV. Fourth, 1202-1261

Light the fire upon the city.

As Sodom, my crucible.

V. Fifth, Sixth, 1213-1229

Are you worn, Ayyubid, are you weary?

The stone the mason rejects becomes the capstone.

I walked the foothills of Damascus and met your men.

When I cut them down, I never felt

His diaphanous hand on my own.

I look up, and the pontiff

points a sword to the east.

VI. Seventh, 1248-1254

In transitus

Coin in hand, on the deck,

I am here at Damietta,

erose vagrant,

but not alone; Jerusalem,

house of the Lord,

is bartered with blood

as standard as gold,

brief like any

insect ephemera,

and I am not alone

VII. Eighth, 1270

Look at me, dear, from above.

Είμαι ένα που δεσμεύεται στη γη,

Είμαι ένα που δεσμεύεται από το Θεό.

κοιτάξτε, αγαπητός!

ποια είναι ι?

με συγχωρήστε.

Πού είστε(Where

are you?)?

VIII. Ninth, 1271-1272

To Acre, by the sea,

our sword shall go to Jerusalem.

Father, I have sinned.

(Do you hear me, dear?)

Raise your sword. Raise

your shield, men.

Forget the transgression,

Forget the Lord.

Today is the past,

and there is no tomorrow.

Painting of the Seine Near Les Invalides at 1 AM

By the débord, after hearing rain,

bright lights ease into the river.

The flame of deck-light,

one boat skimming by,

rends glowless waters.

Near, a woman sits

swathed in autumnal wind.

The Vorticist Returns

I. Letter

Everything is new.

No urban night

is like any night anywhere.

Dear Ezra,

I heard you scream over the

radio. Wartime and everything.

You damned the desert, Yehudah,

they say. Damned the synagogue

listeners in Aleinu. The path of

travels across the earth,

each step.

And I was young,

And I did not understand.

I've paid homage to your pen, you sharp voice.

"The better craftsman." I admit too.

II. Judea Declares War on Germany, 1933

In the grass by the lake one son lies,

pallor layered, paler,

paler, by wind,

and it is raining now, we move on,

no one's fault, kid.

Crouch among the deaf tallgrass and speak,

the chaste land will take our sin -

Imah would speak, when I was little,

"beat your swords into plowshares

and spears to pruning hooks.

Isaiah two. Three and four."

and I laxed my youth-addled fist.

Peter easy able charlie easy, brother.

I hear the murmur too,

Their fire approaches,

"incoming! incoming! incom

sugar how able love oboe mike

III. Night at Camden Arms After Coming Home

straggled into Camden Town, feeling alright and Ma's

up and left north to Holloway so I felt sick; in Arms,

swore I saw Fawcett. I saw Julian in the pond again,

Eli, broken, in dreadful arid fields.

sat with the old keep, running gray, clacked some bones

and thought of Pa with his brass set, lost in a bet and

beat me that night. keep plays spinners, two-two,

four-four, cocked his head high and sneered: "its

over." I turned: "so?"

and he: "Henri's dead."

"And I am not."

had enough left for board,

dreamt but couldn't sleep -

Lewis's shop.

behind me coursed a streak

of puce and tan.

IV. Every Quiet Morning

After Holloway, up to Muswell,

Ma said, to quiet. Fed her

porridge in the mornings,

listened to the box, took

a job at market.

Shut up, Pound,

despicable anti-semite,

shaking your fist at lands

shrouded in powder-smoke

and misted in blood-scent.

Oh, Jules, your grave

is stagnant water and mud,

oh, Eli in sanguine grass,

oh, Henri, your brush.

benedicat tibi Dominus

et custodiat te,

illuminet Dominus faciem

suam super te et

misereatur tui.

Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.

Noise

I.

The drains do not always work.

Near Laie town men and women must leave;

all things deteriorate. When the water rose

to the knees I knew it was time to leave.

Home was gone, there would be no dove.

"Never again,"

He said.

II.

I lived in Kanagawa once,

mind you, I can tell when

I should get on my knees

and pray.

But surely not yet, suijin,

mizu no kamisama,

spare one, saint,

I have been in your dank cave.

My child, only child,

knows your name.

Yet your storm is coming.

I've heard "never again" before

and you aren't supposed

to hear it twice.

The Nature of Dreams

and sometimes I am in woods like

apparitions I can hear that sound

where leaves crackle and twigs snap

like I talk to myself and if I turn a wrong way

men with guns shout "join or we

shoot" and I can say no cause though

war has no qualms I can blink

awake but I will turn and return

But The Soul Can Hope

nobody knows

that not even the Thoughtful

can carry in him one

so heavy of a greater power

like a crown of gold,

a singing sun.

Reverence

The delicate bracts of bougainvillea,

bright red, purple, pink: That is you.

And the little whirlwind of its swirling

leaves on the ground, the dry warm air

rising, short-lived. It's July now.

Never do you see clouds so defined

and tangible you could hold and

shape them if you wished very hard

you were that tall.

Do you see the faint moon climbing,

fading into sight? I see her at six now.

She is waiting, patiently, for the sun

to go down a sky of azurite. I kept

telling you, the whole time, we are lucky.

Old Pennsylvania Railroad

a bird-arrow of fifteen passes over an empty train track.

quivering below, aspens cast off leaves unwillingly. such

is a stolid tribute to algid winds from the north. further

along, a patch of buttonwood; arms bowed and skewed

with nothing to give. the skein does not stop to rest.

the arms beckon, but tundra swans are notably resilient,

and Erie is far-away.

a young woman departs from her row house at dawn. the

city is quiet as the cold snap approaches. "it's silly

to be out before 7 here," her father says. she is not

used to wintery air in spring. the city does not love

her back as he said it would.

the steel of the track is numbing to the touch. she

presses her hands to rail anyway, and walks along,

a tightrope walker, one foot in front of the other.

she smiles, she falls. lying prostrate, she turns

to face the grey sky. the overarching sycamore arms

and frigid winds are alien still. but this is home now.

she rolls onto the track, knowing no freight has passed

in years, and pretends the gusts are train-spawn.

she is young still.

miles north, the formation continues, beaten ceaselessly

by the high cold. Erie is in sight. swans follow the railroad,

for it will lead them home.

untitled 4

"life is a canvas, so paint it."

a painter i knew once was markedly restless.

an uneasiness lay within her brush strokes, one

hastily lapped over another. the colors could not

move freely; her painting was stiff and dull.

but critics are a pair of outside eyes; one must

stand away to watch. judgement served

by the remotest man is distorted by strain,

scornful and longing. i am one viewing from afar,

and i am no painter.

untitled 3

now is springtime,

pear tree in bloom.

summer comes;

flowers wither.

fall, in time.

leaves adrift.

then will be winter,

a dour old man approaching.

untitled 2

Koi Haiku

between two lilies

floating on water, a koi,

alone, swims between.

a silence rises,

fractured by tail-fin-splashing.

an era passes.

nana ka maka

"Nana ka maka,"

the kupuna say.

The winds of the āliapa`akai are ceaseless.

Lono sends missives to Hi`iaka, ones

she never receives. Kaua`i men gather

the salt of his aqueous messages in

ha`apa`akai o ka lehu `ula- as the

sun climbs in the sky, words effloresce

in their pools, from the sea onto

compacted red dirt. Furious,

Hi`iaka spits gusts - incessant, forceful,

unsalted and dry. Men hold the gods' will

in cupped hands, gathering with avid eyes.

You see, child, this is our past. Watch

with your eyes, the kupuna say.

In everything there is mo`olelo, deep

and grand. When all is in memory,

your ho`omana`o`ana,

everything is clear. but

for now, child, aloha`ia,

hiki mai e ka lā ma ma`ane`i -

the sun sets here.

chinese ghetto

my father grew up in the chinese ghetto.

the roofs are made of tin

and walls do not always

have paint on them.

the roads are full of potholes, and are

never walked down.

he says he played there

when he was young.

his parents have lived in their

tired house forever. he says

no one he remembers

still lives on the street.

next door near a rat

filled couch, a sign reads

"heavy garbage -

Please pick up." in chinese.

he says it has never left.

áskēsis

they say if

you do not want,

you can be free.

oh, for the sophos

i will not dream,

i will not wait.

in trees

in trees there is a quiet strength

when old leaves fall they do not weep,

through cold long night stand tall and yet

they never shiver, never ache.

and in fierce wind they merely bend

as old reds did across the street

and though the city cut them down

their stumps remain, roots cannot break.

as distant moon

as distant moon fades into sight,
let cool earth don her evening gown.
as lovers ride their midnight lines,
the poor man lays his bedding down.
in shadowed alleys of concrete,
the dull hum of lace-winged mayflies
lit dimly by the craning light
fatigued and weary, slows and dies.
let wet wings break through old clear shell
as monarchs from still treetops fall.
above the pauper’s restless sleep
let graceful, cool wind catch them all.
The quiet town’s at rest and still
moon’s lucent ring and windowsill.

Ko'olau

in the tired folds the lush range wears,

over the rugged creases all lined with verdure gently,

a cool breath courses down its steep untouched face.

the leaden stratus hangs low, brushes the slope with mist,

showers a hushed murmur upon the ancient facade.

in summer

in summer, when the kids got bored, they'd shut the garage and light up.

man when i biked down my friend didnt recognize me she drank from the bottle,

her fingers were charred, her shirt was off. her mom dont care, her

dad died last year. her friends, they left theirs on the ground and watched the

smoke gather on the ceiling; once in a while they screamed - i left. school started,

i saw her she jogged around our block and something grew in her abdomen

so she waved but i didnt. when we sat in the garage last summer with the

door closed we were playing cards and her eyes were red only when she cried.

there was that one time

there was that one time,

when we waited alone at the bus stop back before

it became a large station where seventy people

could wait for the 31 at 6 and

there was only one bench under the low roof

and the sides were made of glass where the

troubled teens would smoke and leave their

cigarette ends all over the place and etch

their identity into the panes

and it was night.

before the rain started there was wind.

i offered you my jacket but you smiled

and bet me that it wasn’t going to

even though you could feel the drops so

i didnt put it on

things i saw in japan

この春休み日本行きました。楽しかっただ。この写真は僕のだ。

I went to Japan this spring break; these are some of the things I saw.  I took these with my little point-and-shoot digital camera, so don't mind the poor quality.