Deposit #13

robert d. wilson's

LOUSY MIRROR

A depository for over 3 decades of

poetry and haiga art by

robert d. wilson

It is with great sadness that I announce to you that Professor Micheal F. Marra has passed away.

A mentor, and a brilliant researcher, he was one of the English speaking world's leading experts in the fields of Japanese Hermeneutics, Aesthetics, and Interpretation.

I promised him a month ago that I would do everything in my power to keep his memory and the fruits of his research alive and accessible to readers of Simply Haiku and Lousy Mirror.
Michael was a kind, warm hearted, humble scholar who didn't toot his own horn. He taught and did research until he passed away on Wednesday morning. He told me he was experiencing unbearable pain but wasn't afraid of death, that he looked as death the same way as most Japanese do. He also had a sense of humor which few would have considering the pain he was going through and had gone through having a rare form of cancer. When I encouraged him to fight the good fight, he said, "If I don't die, everyone will think I'm a liar."

ESSENTIAL READING: Books by Professor Michael F. Marra 

1. Japan's Frames of Meaning: A Hermeneutics Reader

2. Essays on Japan: Between Aesthetics & Literature

3. Modern Japanese Aesthetics: A Reader

4. Japanese Hermeneutics: Current Debates on Aesthetics & Interpretation




The above four books are essential reading for anyone seriously studying Japanese poetics and wanting to improve their art. His scholarship is second to none. Granted they are deep textbooks and not light reading, but one needs meat before they can have dessert.  Studying his works and corresponding with him has changed my view of and deepened my understanding of Japanese short form poetry.

"Makoto [true essence] came to inform the poetics of haiku, culminating in Basho's notion  of the "sincerity of poetry (fuga no makoto), which he considered to be a 'constant' (fueki) in the composition of haiku: 'a style based firmly on sincerity' that does not change with time or fashion, and that stands in tension with the principle of the 'natural.' or 'ever-changing' (ryuko), that is, the natural renovation of haiku within the framework of unchanging sincerity. This tension corresponds to the  strain between the renovation of things during the shifting of the four seasons and the unchanging truth of the repetitiveness of the seasonal cycles."

where are you
now that soil has swallowed
your body . . .
the words you left, searching
for blossoms to inhabit?


Written for Michael F. Marra




poor ant,
ninety days to live
and no mask






egret,
your wings, can they 
carry me
through the unsaid
into zoka's heart?






sing for me,.
kami, in the tree limbs . . .
that bore you






your words . . .
again they speak to me
at night
in the whispers
of loose screen doors






sweet wind . . .
teach me how to sculpt
sea cliffs






the surplus
of words burrowed in
spring darkness . . .
a mole eating his way
through the may or may not






cold wind . . 
the fish seller
sits alone






am i a
sperm swimming upstream
in a race . . .
lured by an egg with
a sick sense of humor?






salt me,
vendor, with a lazy
spring smile

sampaguita

even in the darkest

corners

when i learned

that you died, i

swallowed

the darkness you

saw when words failed

nothing is

static, your breath

cradling stars

unlike alice's

my mirror doesn't

talk back . . . 

a cheshire cat

coughing up pool balls

     autumn moon . . . 

a tumor in my

wife's chest

rose thorns . . . 

i paste one on

my forehead . . . 

pretending to be

a rhinocerous

     this foot hill . . . 
and i, starring up
at winter






and madness,
a windmill slaying
     knights . . . 
in a field of
shattered mirrors






your back
at night, deepens
my winter






    bathe me, wind . . .
in a canyon filled
with stars

     sampaguita . . . 
even in the darkest
corners






in the
darkest corners, hungry
children
peeing on walls 
their father's built






sunrise
the same old wall . . .
laughing




makiling,
your visage, a prayer
i too sing . . .
waiting for time to
reunite what is


*Maria Makiling, is a faerie princess, who lived
in a village near where I live. She lived during
a time when gods walked with humans.
Maria fell in love with a human, which was
forbidden. She was stripped of almost all of
her powers and banished to the jungle. Her
lover was banished forever from seeing her.
Mount Makiling, a dormant volcano, is shaped
like a sleeping woman. According to legend,
she is waiting for her human lover to return






      green bamboo . . .
waiting for the flute
player's knife






always changing,
the wind weaving through
      the mountains . . . 
a vagabond poet
carrying thistles






i breathe
your spirit at night, pressed
against walls






chase after
who, the clouds with
dark smiles 
holding up mirrors
for spanish priests?




     
    where to think . . . 
when night shrinks into
globs of then?






i sense you
in my breath, walking
downstream . . . 
to the spot our son
scattered your ashes




what to feed
      the starling's brood . . .
when rain falls?

our minds
without words to 
assemble . . .
sit on tree limbs
eating termites


/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_


Vietnam Ruminations

transplanting new rice

before the cricket sleeps

this humid morning

I had it good compared to the Vietnamese working in the rice paddies. I got

up in the morning, put on a uniform laundered and pressed by a Vietnamese

laundrywoman, and walked with my shipmates to the chowhall on base to

eat an all-you-can-eat breakfast featuring a choice of entrees, fresh fruit, and

pastries. After breakfast, we returned to the YRBM-17, where we did our

regularly assigned chores, complete with breaks, and an ample supply of soda

pop. The Vietnamese villagers we were there to protect, didnʼt have it so good.

For most, the day started before sunrise. Breakfast was scant, if they had any at

all. They worked long hours under a scorching sun. The humidity was 100%.

Breaks were nonexistent. They relieved themselves where they worked. Lunch

was a bowl of rice with, possibly, a piece of fruit, or a duck egg. The water

they drank was polluted, drawn from the Mytho River. Their workday ended

at sundown. Some went home to their families. Others fought with the Viet

Cong. My buddies and I partied with one another when we didnʼt have guard

duty. We knew so little about our hosts...how they lived, how they thought, and

what they believed. Most werenʼt there because they cared about the Vietnamese.

Many servicemen called the Vietnamese, Gooks...a racially derogatory

term. Most served there either because they had no choice or because they felt

duty bound to oppose communism. It wasnʼt for a love of the country or its

people.

Listen! A duck

complaining to its master

before the cock crows

Coming from middle class America, my culinary experiences were limited.

That was soon to change. The Vietnamese people ate food Iʼd never heard of

or dreamed of eating. One of their favorite delicacies is the Thousand Year

Old Egg. It is a nearly mature duck egg that has been buried in the ground

for a long time, then dug up. The egg is cracked and its contents swallowed

quickly. The smell is putrid.

When villagers ate shrimp, they ate them heads and all. They dined on small

frogs, small birds, and lizards. They chased their meals down with polluted

water. Soda pop was for the rich. Milk was nonexistent. The water buffalo is

not known for milk production. Funny thing. Now that I am older and married

to a fi lipina, I have dined on many of the foods Iʼve just mentioned, including

lizards and whole shrimp. The only one I donʼt like is the thousand year old

egg. I didnʼt like it in Vietnam and I donʼt like it now.

eerie spring night,

mortars walking across the bay --

footsteps of Godzilla?

For three weeks straight, during the TET Offensive in 1968, my base was

hit by mortars six or seven times a night. The mortars were a psychological

tool used by the Viet Cong to deprive us of sleep and to scare us. They

never hit anything. They hurled one mortar after another into the narrow

bay that separated the Navy from the Army side of our base in Dong Tam.

The sound of the mortars reminded me of the footsteps of Godzilla as

he walked through Tokyo on a rampage in the original Godzilla movie I

saw as a kid. It was eerie. A few weeks prior, a team of naval and army

engineers hired Vietnamese citizens from a nearby village to help with a

fi eld survey of the base. No wonder the mortars walked in a straight line

across the bay inching closer and closer to our living quarters and work

spaces with perfect precision. We were overjoyed when the mortar attacks

stopped three weeks later. The lack of hitting a target by the Viet Cong

became a joke. We thought they were blind as bats. We were sure theyʼd

never hit us. Later that year, when we least expected it, they hit again; this

time with deadly accuracy, hitting buildings, ships, and friends.

Dali painted me

into someone elseʼs dream

that Spring and walked away

The Spanish Surrealist, Salvadore Dali, is noted for his wild dreamlike

paintings that fl irt with madness. Nothing in his paintings are like they

seem. On closer look, the viewer sees pictures within pictures, some of

them shocking. I was not prepared for what I experienced in Vietnam

as a teenager just out of high school. I had no idea what the Vietnamese

people believed or how they thought. My only realm of experience

was my own from back home. As servicemen, we were taught nothing

about the Vietnamese. In high school, we learned nothing about

their history. Most of us originally didnʼt come to Vietnam to help the

Vietnamese people. We knew nothing about them. We came because

we were told that communism was knocking at our door and had to

be stopped to avoid a domino effect. I went, I saw, and got my mind blown.

We looked forward to the weekends. This was our time to go into

Mytho for a little rest and relaxation. Mytho is the nearest port city.

Just a few miles from our base. 

It was a half hourʼs cruise by

patrol boat up the polluted 

Mytho River, a tributary of the

Mekong River.  

Ashore, we behaved as typical 

sailors, visiting 

the bars, 

brothels, 

restaurants, dance halls, 

and curio shops. 

In our

wake 

was a cloud of children, hoping 

for handouts 

of gum and 

candy. In a way, we were their 

entertainment 

for the weekend.

I remember one child well. 

She was a nine 

year old orphan 

with a bowl shaped hairdo. And

what a mouth! She cussed like 

a sailor and possessed a cocky

personality. She also spoke 

good English. Whenever a certain

noncommissioned officer 

came ashore, sheʼd cling to him

like glue to paper. The NCO 

was the consummate drunk;

weaving in and out of the red 

light district with a bottle of

Crown Royal whiskey in his 

hand. She served dutifully as

his protector, negotiator, and 

interpreter. Where he was, she

was. In return, he gave her special attention, made her feel 

important, 

and provided her with food and money. It was as if she 

had a father. 

Then the man was shipped Stateside.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

_/_/_/_/

_/_/_/_

I can

think

of

you

day and night

and still

the clouds

refuse me

entrance into

 dreams

we shared

once upon a time

when mermaids 

and

big blue oxen

were

all the rage

and bambi 

hadn't

been squashed 

by

Godzilla

who was 

busy

signing autographs

with 

his own star

on 

hollywood bouevard

in 1954

as a 

black and white 

monster

with a heart 

and 

a bad case

of

hypoglycemia

thankful

that 

raymond burr

was edited 

into

the american version

because

without him,

no one 

would have

understood

what the hell

was going on

because 

only 

the Japanese

knew 

the horror

of 

   the A-bomb . . .

shattered teacups

charred babies

dismembered 

school children

no father

no mother

no monk

no mat

to

sit on and pray

to

an emperor

who

didn't answer

prayers

and waited 

for 

flying ban'ya

to

hum

you 

are 

my 

sunshine

in

the key

of

E-minor

robert d. wilson

©2011

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