Thank you for
dropping in.
What an amazing
thing it is, that I can talk to you, and to myself, like this!
Well, welcome to
you – and to me, this being my first blog.
I thought it’d be
interesting – for me anyway – each month to print out a poem of mine, and to
review it; to gather a few of my thoughts and perhaps gather some of yours?
I’d love to hear
what you think.
Here’s a poem
which I’m fond of.
Does everyone
have favourite poems of their own – I mean, that they’ve written?
Of course, an
acceptance by a magazine, a placing in a competition, commendation, short or
long listing – any sort of mention in despatches – has to generate a warm
feeling about that particular piece.
Which is what
happened here.
But sometimes –
even when, to tell the truth, it’s not what I’d think is one of my best – I
just feel warm towards it. Maybe if this
one hadn’t done very well in the big wide world, I’d still be fond of it.
Why might that
be?
Well, I love dogs
– their ability to offer companionship, their living in the present,
unconcerned with the past and what’s yet to come, their honesty and
transparency, their response to love.
And one little puppy plays as large a part in this poem as all the various
people – the group of school girls, the innumerable seamstresses, the other
pilots and the whole unmentioned military hierarchy.
Sometimes it’s
like that: one small apparent insignificance determines the outcome.
And there’s
something too about inevitability, about how once a path is chosen and taken,
things just have to follow.
So it’s strange,
but I can sort of imagine being Yukio; doing that extraordinary thing without
feeling at all heroic, and not actually thinking about the effects of the
action on others, but doing it just because you have to, as it’s expected of
you and you said you would. Definitely
not being brave, or particularly loyal, patriotic or devoted to a cause.
Just a late
teenager, observing a rite of passage into a weird, unreal and in the event
never-to-be-achieved manhood.
Poor Yukio.
And of course,
poor US sailors. But Yukio (and I) never
really thought much about them.
I wrote the poem
after splashing around on the net and coming across a photo of the little group
of pilots, complete with puppy. There
they were, waiting for what tomorrow might bring. And there they still are, in black and white,
still waiting – unlike the unseen school girls, who dropped their branches and
went back into the class room.
I hope the poem
has something to say to you.
Corporal
Yukio Araki, age 17
of
the 72nd Shinbu Squadron, 27th May 1945
The
school girls wave their cherry blossom branches
then
he flies south towards Mount Kaimon,
wearing
the Rising Sun, his waist hemmed in
by
a thousand single stitches.
Yukio
remembers the flop-eared puppy
passed
between them the night before –
his
life ahead – and those branches that waved
between
girls, releasing their fragrance.
There
is the spirit: there in the passage and passing
from
one to another – each girl with her branch,
and
of one little dog who is scented by milk
with
no fears of his own, yet
shifting
his weight to balance himself.
Yukio
flies on. He must aim for the middle –
the
gap between gunwale and waterline –
while
bearing the Rising Sun.
Each
stitch disappears before it emerges.
The
school girls have gone back indoors.
Some
other pilot will steady the bowl
which
whitens the tips of a puppy dog’s ears.
Yukio
has said goodbye to the mountain.
The
gap narrows. As he draws close
He’s
sure he sees waving again, and deep
in
his throat as he cries, he tastes milk.
Kamikaze pilots
wore a headband with the Rising Sun, a belt of a thousand stitches (one each
from a different woman, it was said) and flew past the southernmost tip of
Japan, Mount Kaimon, on their final mission.
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