The Decadent Poets of Kyoto

Their poetry is remembered for a detailed calligraphy

hard to decipher, less factual than fireflies in the night:

the picture-letters, the characters, the stuff

their words were made from were part of the meaning.

A word like "summer" included a branch of plum blossoms,

writing about "summer in a city street"

carried the weight of the blossoming branch,

while "a walk on a summer afternoon"

carried the same beautiful purple shade.

They dealt with such matters distractedly,

as though "as though" were enough-as though

the little Japanese woman with the broom

returning to her husband's grave to keep it tidy

was less loving than the handsome woman in the café

off the lobby of the Imperial Hotel,

who kissed the inside of her lover's wrist.

Their public representations now shadows,

their generals and admirals took musicians

with them to war, certain their codes

would not be deciphered, in an age when hats

and rings were signs of authority and style.

They thought their secrets were impenetrable,

they thought they had the power to speak and write

and not be understood, they could hide the facts

behind a gold-leaf screen of weather reports.

It was Buddha who had an ear for facts:

coins dropping into the ancient cedar box,

hands clapping, the sound of temple bells and drums.

Codes were broken, ships sank, men screamed

under the giant waves, and a small hat

remained afloat longer than a battleship. 2s