Two Poems
Things That Inspire
(A Homage to Sei Shōnagon c. 966–1017 or 1025)
Snow capped mountains. Five peaches in a silver bowl. Grass lush with green powder. A double rainbow.
Tar-stained telephone poles connected by dangling wire run parallel to train tracks. Water runs over river rocks creating mist.
A Buddha statue sits on a red pillow.
Two brown spotted sparrows fly from a koa tree to a windowsill. Sparrows stand on a ledge singing a song.
Sparrows’ heads move from side to side, up and down, chirping.
Lovers kissing.
A child learns to tie shoestrings making a bow with a big loop.
Scent of plumeria. Papaya seeds. Mango trees.
Yellow green seaweed. Creme on coffee. Pikake in bloom.
Matsumoto shave ice.
A family photograph with smiling faces. One person has her eyes closed. Orange carnelian ink soaks up paper. When it dries, the ink leaves an imprint resembling waves. A solitary canoe tied to a mooring.
Koi swimming.
Hibiscus closes at night.
A song of India opens in the morning.
O Teacher in the Toyo Theater
I sit in the Toyo theater
Kurosawa!
O Master of light
my father,
my teacher,
He sees life through a lens.
I listen in the Toyo theater
Yasujiro Ozu!
O Master of string
Forever my father,
a teacher,
He hears silence through a lens.
I cry in the Toyo theater
Mizoguchi!
O Master of dance
Forever a father,
Forever my teacher,
He feels desire through a lens.
I laugh in the Toyo theater
Teshigahara!
O Master of dunes
Forever a lover,
Forever a teacher,
He drinks sand through a lens.
Fiction
The Calligrapher from Kailua
The rocking of a train and rolling along tracks lulled me into a light sleep. It felt like I was transported to another place – to elementary school with Akemi. I heard her giggle. Boys and girls skipped around the playground in circles. They ran to a main building. We sat in an auditorium. Matsubayashi sensei called my name and gave me a fresh bouquet from Yoshimura’s nursery and florist.
Sensei said, “Haru-chan,” you earned this award.”
I caressed the flowers as I took in their aroma – stargazers, lilac, tulips, baby’s breath, statice and roses.
My head rolled back and forth to a slow sound of da-dum da-dum da-dum. I felt my neck jerk. I nodded awake for a second thinking I heard a song:
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars.
Let me see what spring is like on
On, Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand,
In other words, darling, kiss me.
My head swirled as my feet ached. I felt dizzy. For a second, I lost my way. I opened my eyes and sipped some water, realizing that I was on an express train bound to San Francisco with my childhood friends. I found Mi-chan and Sue-chan — two faces of girlfriends I adore.
All the swirling took place in less than sixty seconds. And yet, it felt like an eternity. Did I drool while I slept? Was my mouth opened? Did I swallow a fly? Did anyone see me? I heard Akemi’s beautiful voice humming to a sound on overhead speakers:
Fill my heart with song
And let me sing for ever more.
You are all I long for,
All I worship and adore.
In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you.
Natsue pushed down her cigarette in an ashtray. A ring of red lipstick color stuck to a filter, making a rouge circle. She turned to Dan, coyly smiled in a candid but not flirtatious manner, and requested, “May I please present you with our card?” He nodded yes.
“We’re members of the Jodies, a collegiate women’s social and service club that organizes a mochitsuki on the windward side of Oahu every year,” Natsue explained, as she presented a business-style card that had a giant “J” printed at the top.
Dan received a card, held it in his hands, and replied, “Thank you.” He pushed a gray silk tie to the side, reached into a breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers navy pin-striped linen jacket, and brought out a card.
To reciprocate a friendly gesture, Dan asked, “Please, would you take my card,” and nodded his head. Dan extended it to Natsue, which completed a traditional circle of social etiquette as he formally introduced himself. Natsue gracefully accepted it with both hands.
He paused, and without looking straight into her big open eyes, inquired, “The Jodies are from…which school?”
“Cal,” replied Natsue.
His face lit up.
Dan was about to say something when a head waiter sauntered to our table and stated, “We have a special menu item today called Santa Fe All The Way which includes a fine red wine, appetizer, salad, main entrée, dessert, and coffee, if you have meal tickets, please show me.”
“May I please ask, what’s the main entrée?” Akemi inquired.
“Yes, miss, it’s my pleasure. As for the main entrée…we have surf or turf. I recommend the château-briand with sautéed mushrooms.” He deftly poured a Napa Valley Burgundy into four long-stemmed glasses. Another waiter brought a basket brimming with freshly baked rolls and biscuits. He placed pads of butter on bread plates.
I took a moment to study our waiter. He looked middle-aged, sported a Clark Gable pencil thin style moustache, but was otherwise clean-shaven. His slicked-back hair covered a bald spot. Anticipating a follow up question about the menu, he continued, “For dessert, we have a medley of summer fruits with rainbow sherbet, petite French butter cakes and vanilla madeleines. In addition, we offer a chef’s specialty this evening, a dreamy white chocolate chiffon cake with fresh Bing cherries and crème fraîche on the side.”
The waiter stood tall, keeping his long arms and puffy hands behind his back like a soldier. He tipped his heels to shift his weight. “Both are excellent choices,” as he eyed Akemi squinting at the menu.
“We’ll have four Santa Fe’s today?” the waiter suggested. I reached for my purse and placed three meal tickets near a water glass. Mi-chan and Sue-chan winked at me.
All of a sudden, I noticed that Dan began to fidget — searching, patting down his suit jacket. He looked right and left as if he lost something. He checked around his seat, fudging with both hands in his drapes trousers. He leaned back in a chair to reach the depths of his pockets. His cigarette dangled from his mouth as smoke drifted into his blinking eyes.
Dan pulled out several items, setting them on the table as if making an inventory: three crumpled receipts, a book of matches, two sets of keys, a Boy Scouts of America Troop 197 patch, a metal container of sen-sen. From an inside jacket pocket, he extracted a Montblanc fountain pen, a black velvet sack that looked like a jewelry satchel, two broken toothpicks and a red Swiss Army knife.
Dan took out a leather billfold. He lowered it below a table’s edge before he examined its contents. He muttered under his breath, “Baka. Nincompoop. Where did I put it?” He said, “It appears my meal ticket is gone. I guess I’ll buy another one.”
He raised his hand to his forehead as if he had a migraine.
I looked at Dan’s face. I saw the items displayed on the tabletop in front of him. I was particularly drawn to the two broken toothpicks thinking that one looked used and should be thrown in a trash can. I also noticed a black velvet satchel because I have a similar one in size and shape. Dan began to rearrange the objects in front of him. I had not said a word until that moment.
Natsue boldly inquired, “Has something …?” but before she could finish her sentence, I produced another crisp new coupon from my handbag. I held it up like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat “Ta-dahh,” and offered, “Here’s an extra one if you’d like it.”
Dan looked surprised at first, then his raised thick black eyebrow appeared to express relief. He grinned — a bit watery eyed (from, I thought, carbon monoxide poisoning from the Lucky along with a chance to avoid a potential catastrophe). For the first time, he took a long look at me and held my gaze, as if to say: You have a heart of an angel, and a face of a bijin. I met his eyes, stared straight at him and watched his next move.
Dan reached across the table to accept a gift; our fingers slightly touched. Tiny spark flew but all he could think of came out of his tongue-tied mouth, “Oh, well, are you sure? Really, please, if you don’t mind, don’t mean to trouble you.” There was something self-conscious, something ill at ease in the way he tried to express his gratitude. Dan slowly placed his treasures back into his pockets. To my relief, he put the used toothpick in an ashtray.
The sun had set. The waiter brought our meal, one course at a time. We talked and ate until I thought my stomach would explode. The dinner went smoothly with impeccable service. I forgot about a forty minute wait. I left a large gratuity.
Akemi, Natsue, Dan and I spent the rest of our evening together on the upstairs deck in an observation lounge. That was aboard the Super Chief luxury train from Union Station en route to Chicago with passenger pickups in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Albuquerque, La Junta, Dodge City, Newton, and Kansas City. When the train drew near the Bay, a conductor announced, “Next stop FRISCO. Soon to arrive. NORCAL. San Francisco.” He shouted, “We’re pulling in…SANN-FRANN-SISS-CO!”
A fresh ocean breeze floated off the water, lingering like fog attached to Golden Gate. The train’s paced slowed.
As Dan put on his straw hat, he said to us: “Swell, I’m sure glad to meet you…what luck! Gosh, how fun! Why haven’t we met before today? I feel like I have known you from somewhere back home. Akemi-san, Natsue-san, what a pleasure…Haruko-san, do you have a way…need a lift to campus? My roommate Kazu has my wheels at the station.”
Before the Jodies and I could refuse his gentlemanly offer, Dan ran to the car as if to first base on a bunt. He and Kazu ran right back. The guys finished loading the luggage in three minutes flat. I squished in with Mi-chan and the others into a ’38 V8 coupe Cadillac LaSalle which Dan drove to the Campanile near Sproul Hall at the U of C Berkeley.
Midori Fujioka, a teacher, writer and artist, practices shodō everyday. She is gosei, a fifth generation American of Japanese and Pacific Islander descent with roots in California, Hawai’i and Japan. Her essays, poetry and visual artwork appear in Rice Magazine, Tozai Times, Transpacific, Career Development Quarterly, Bread Loaf School of English Journal and other Asian Pacific American print and online media. The Djerassi Resident Artists Program features her work.