Willawaw Journal Fall 2019 Issue 7

Aileen Bassis is a visual artist and poet in New York City working in book arts, printmaking, photography and installation. Her use of text in art led her to explore another creative life as a poet. She was awarded two artist residencies in poetry to the Atlantic Center for the Arts. Her poems have been nominated for Pushcart prizes and two poems appear in anthologies on the subject of migration. Her journal publications include B o d y Literature, Spillway, Grey Sparrow Journal, Canary, The Pinch Journal and Prelude.

For the Simple Things

Ramshackle rickety run-down near-ruin,
Barely fit for the spiders and flies,
But the roof is sound, and the floor is dry,
And there’s firewood stacked good and high.

A flickering fire on the low corner hearth
Adds to the rafters’ smoke stains
But a cough or two is little to pay
For walls between me and the rain.

The turkey is done with little for fixin’s,
Only biscuits and beans but they’re hot.
Cold water for wine, straight from the spring,
And canned peaches will do for dessert.

Haunting wind whines in a low minor key
A prelude to winter in “A.”
Someone piled bracken fern deep on the bunk
And I’ll sleep like a calf in the hay.

So thanks for the food and thanks for the roof,
The water, the wind song, and the bed.
Thanks for the fire, so warm and so bright,
And whatever may still lie ahead.

I can’t think of Anything

where once words poured
out of my chest
only the sound of isolation
‌        betrayal
‌                 rejection
drives a pointed nail
through my membrane

where once words were the only solace
to an ever-changing world
that claws its way into your heart
and leaves it empty
just so the words cannot come out and play
‌        cannot form the lines you want to hear

melodies once shared the space
where pen met paper
and words flew all around
dropping into verses
but as time ages you
the less there are of words
and a need for sharing what’s inside

Maria A. Arana is a teacher, writer, and poet from California. Her poetry has been published in various journals including Spectrum, Peeking Cat Anthology, Cholla Needles, and Nasty Women’s Almanac. You can also find her on twitter.

Redeye

Outside my window:
cities are flung like galaxies
across the sky-dark earth.
In the mirror of the wing,
the moon is a pot of fire.

Between stars and earth, movement
is the white noise of engines,
murmur of midnight conversations, hiss
of recirculated air.  My tablet is tedious;
my seatmate thumbs a well-worn magazine.
Across the aisle, an old man gently snores.

No god of Olympian stature,
no up nor down
just the trundling snack cart,
tomato juice, pretzels,
and a window unsure of earth and sky

Galaxies drift on.  Words cease,
and thought;  finally we hover in blackness,
blessed .

Hugh Anderson lives and writes on Vancouver Island, but sometimes his prairie roots show.  He has published in numerous literary publications, but most recently in 3 Elements Review, Grain, Right Hand Pointing, The Willawaw Journal, The Tulane Review and Vallum.  He has one Pushcart Prize nomination.

From Iyana-Ipaja to Ado-Ekiti

Sundai in Edo

Katsushika Hokusai, picture #5

Birds bring mystery to music.

Some men are working on the road. The way the men carry bags of dirt and stone has tilted their bodies. A large pine tree squiggles against the sky. The shogun’s retainers fill a mansion. At this elevation, we can all see the city of Edo; but I hear the music of love.

Where I stand, a corner of a grey-tiled roof tries to block my view of Mount Fuji in the distance. The highlands gradually rise from the center of my viewpoint, and at the top of the hill are more trees. This creates a dip in the center of the world; but I listen for the love that creates the music.

Men carry box-shaped luggage on their backs, ascending and descending the hill. I can imagine anything I want inside the boxes — none of the boxes belongs to me. If I open one of the boxes, I might find a blue roof tile, or a bag of soil and stones, or the scent of Edo. But what I want to find when I open every box is music and love.

At this height, I have a shadow like any samurai. My shadow moves pine tree branches. The world sags and swells, drifting temporary shadows. My shadow loves to play with the music, as if the notes were birds perching and resting on my hands.

No one reaches Fuji by traveling on this road, but my brush will. I paint with the mystery of bird music.

On a tree near sky
I open clouds of boxes.
What might be inside?

A Sketch of the Mitsui Shop in Suruga in Edo

Katsushika Hokusai, picture # 11

Sometimes, you begin with a simple plan. Miso soup has become money in the Mitsui shop in Edo. This is an unusual way to deal with business. I do not have any money to exchange.

I tried to give the shopkeeper some moonlight in exchange for food, but he laughs at my offering.  Instead, I begin sketching this building while men begin working on the roof. Over time, they will finish before I do. It takes me a long time to find a good place to stand. The sun is especially hot when I cannot afford shade.

There are two kites trying to mate in mid-air. I am sad because I never tried that with my wife when we were young as clouds.

It costs more to stand still and paint than it does to dream about my wife, ruffling her kimono as I loosen the obi from her waist, releasing it to the wind, abandoned like kite strings.

I came without money, and I will leave rich with love. Even as an old man, past the midnight of his life, I can still find the wonder of my wife. No money can buy love.

Kites find breeze in sun,
workers nail moonlight to roof,
I select wife’s hand.

Nihonbashi Bridge in Edo

Katsushika Hokusai, painting # 21

The Nihonbashi district is a mercantile center with a river dividing the city into before and after. This wooden bridge holds the two sides from drifting further apart. I have made the mistake of trying to cross in a crowd. No one can move until another person moves. Inching across takes a whole day. I feel as crushed as wheat under a grindstone.

Packages crash into me and never apologize. I find more elbows than there are arms.  A cart filled with round packages is held down by netting, but no one pushes or pulls it. Someone holds a tray full of fresh baked buns high in the air to get past my greedy hands. Someone else is carrying some wooden planks. A man stares over the bridge trying to decide if it is easier to walk on water instead of being trapped in the middle of the bridge with nowhere to go.

Three boats pole on the river. The boats have enough room to maneuver. There are other boats tied to walls, and the boats only begin moving when the water laps against the grey wall.

I can see both Mount Fuji and Edo Castle in the distance. They are as near as the moon and sun, and just as far. I cannot move anywhere in this crowd; nor can I get in a boat and sail anywhere. In this crowd, I cannot get closer to my home and wife; but when I am shoved back, I am even further, taking longer, and my longing is trapped with nowhere to go.

I am wearing a large white hat that is hiding my face. I am almost to the center. If I touch the post, will it be real?

My feet tell me that I have not moved in hours. Perhaps, I am the bridge, with people walking all over me, aimlessly starting, hesitating and stopping. Life flows like a backwards river.

The bridge never moves —
snails are faster than people,
days go spring to fall.

Tsukuda Island in Musashi Province

Katsushika Hokusai, painting # 29

Evening is approaching with sails from the far horizon heading to this port. All fishermen and transport boats are pushing their long poles to get to here. Some ships tied to the docks near the village sell fish fresh from baskets.

The water is meditating. Beyond the grassy shores and trees, further than the hills, Mount Fuji is watching and counting the sails flapping like kimonos billowing in winds.

The boat closest to mine is a transport. It is laden with goods I cannot afford. The man who pushes the boat using a pole has no time to talk to a lowly person like me. The quick plops of a pole in water speaks to his restlessness of getting in before dark. He refuses to admit, once again, he has forgotten a lantern.

I have reconciled with the water. I promise not to drink the water if it promises not to drown me. I have to be careful; all promises have ending dates. I cannot see the bottom of the water, and the water cannot see the bottom of my heart.

The ferryman poles toward the shoreline. It is still a great distance away. Measure for measure, we inch closer. Can the pole feel my anxiety or excitement?

Hurry, pole, hurry; this water is one of the elements, and I do not want to join it just yet. When I am floating in this familiar terror, I know that I am still alive. Is dread a part of enlightenment?

A feather sinking
still has time to save itself.
A duck swims away.

Ushibori in Hitachi Province

Katsushika Hokusai, painting # 36

This inland harbor connects to Chöshi. A boat with a kaya grass roof has anchored in the marshy water. Its bow rises diagonally to the left. A dune conceals its stern.

The boatman is washing rice for his dinner. He leans against the gunwale, tossing out the rinse water, disturbing the nearby cranes into flight.

He shows me his cargo. Sacks and reed mats are stowed in an orderly pile. On a cabin shelf are his books and ledgers. According to the numbers, he is prosperous. I conclude I do not need a ledger to keep track of my poverty.

However, my life has been rich. I have been with my wife for about fifty years. I still appreciate her, even when I am away — especially, when I have been gone away for too long. I can count the stars and the fleas as part of my riches. I can count every one of my wrinkles, and I have earned each of them. I can count the stars and the fleas as part of my riches.

I have asked myself along the way, What do I know about silence? The answer is Mount Fuji. It is now in my heart, eyes, and hands. When I paint these images, I cannot speak, for I am intense within the moment. When I remember the roads, the cliffs, the cluster of trees, the people I have met along the trail, no one can take away my speechless feelings. Mount Fuji has moved with me, yet it never moved.

The boatman showed me numbers that were meaningless to me. The workers showed me the meaninglessness of repetition.  Children showed me that the best appreciation of nature and time is to enjoy each moment as it happens. Now, I will play with colors and paint.

Today, I am a toddler with a toddler’s surprised eyes. Fuji is a spinning top!

A horse, a spider,
a marble, a hat, a snail–
a child plays with rocks.

Martin Willitts Jr., Syracuse, New York, has 24 chapbooks including the winner of the Turtle Island Quarterly Editor’s Choice Award, “The Wire Fence Holding Back the World” (Flowstone Press, 2017), plus 16 full-length collections “The Uncertain Lover”, “Coming Home Celebration”. Forthcoming books include “Harvest Time” (Deerbrook Press) and the Blue Light Award winner “The Temporary World”. He is an editor for Comstock Review.

Artist Statement:  Katsushika Hokusai (October 31, 1760 – May 10, 1849) was 70 years old when he began his journey for two years, creating his famous Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji. This was a long journey as he stopped along the way to find the “stations” where travelers would recognize certain viewpoints. His block prints could make many copies to sell, and they were so popular he created 10 more.

I started writing these poems on my own 70^th year. I am pretending to be Hokusai, sharing the same journey, using the 36 original pictures as a guide. I chose writing in the form of the haibun. Since Basho was dead before Hokusai was born, Hokusai would have been familiar with that style of writing. Haibun was created by Basho as a journal about a spiritual journey, each entry ending with a haiku.