SADASAE   The personal website of John Bruce Cantrell

Poetry and Prose

---

The Misty Valley of the Mia Road
on the second day of the summer rains

Mia slumbers at the foot of the mountain
dreaming its morning reddish-brown dream;
A cloud passes - swallows dance
above the yellow flower of the melon vine.

 

---

(From the Paek Chul-min novel. set in Korea )

 

Light flooded the room.  In the East the sun was above the mountains, golden white against an azure sky.

            Hurry, Momma said.  When I had gotten my shoes on, she turned me in the light, round and round.  Hurry, dear, Papa's waiting.  But then she stood me still and looked me up and down.  Your dress is just like Mrs. Lee's.  I promise.  I read a description in the newspaper.  Now quickly, quickly.            

            It's all right, Papa said from the bottom of the stairs.  We have all the time in the world.            

            But the ceremony starts in less than one hour, Momma said, hurrying me to the top of the stairs.            

           The dress was stuff and one shoe a bit too large, the other too small.  I'm hurrying, Papa.  I'm hurrying.  Papa was usually impatient with me, and with Momma, too.  But this morning he was different.            

           Mi-sook, we have all the time in the world, he said.  This is just the beginning.

 

---

Desert Time

I have gone into the stony ground to wait,
to draw the plates together, to appeal
to each for listening, only to find
techtonics beyond the powers of the mind
to heal, to reconcile. Knowledge and ignorance
incline their ragged humps on one another, parade
in mummery of life. The silence is overwhelming.
Busy burghers in their walled desert cities,
holy savages pricking on the plain, their distant mouths
moving rapidly or slowly, arms upraised
to fathom the mysteries of deceit, of advantage,
backs bristling with darts, with arrows arching
aloof, remote stooping birds of prey. All is bright
and hard in the searing god-like sun creeping
its shadow around and around the rock, its skin
rough and dry and beautiful like the rhino's, grey
beneath the brown dust, with aureoles dry-pitted
from the heavy desert dews, the teats of night.
So long now, so long, the vault clicks and grinds out
the line of dark and light on the pasty ground.
I have lost what I ever meant to say in crumbles,
in the dry heat, the keen dampness from the stone,
questing first-contact of the scout become routine
of waiting, first impatiently, now ... I must dust
the stone again and tidy this pile of small bones
and remain always in the sweeping umbra of my dial.

 

---

 

Friendship

(for Kim Hyon-p'ung and Cho Gil-ja)

After the storm, the mountain pine
lays down its burden of snow--
far away, the hours trailing in the cold,
friends wait, the same white moon and stars.

 

(From the Paek Chul-min novel. set in Korea )

 

Hey, shithead!  You fucking fascist!

            Shhhhuuuuu, for god's sake, Saeng-won!

            Below, in the sharp rubble beneath the west end of the bridge, a man sat in a torn and bloody undershirt and filthy trousers with his arms and hands bound tightly behind his back.  He was sobbing, obviously in great pain.  At the sound of Shim Saeng-won's voice he looked up pleadingly.  The uniformed policeman who had been stabbing at his bound arms with a nightstick stood back and glared at the detectives on the bridge.

            Paek pulled Shim away from the balustrade.  Strange spot to dump a body, wouldn't you say?

            Yeah, I guess!  A hundred yards from a police station in plain daylight.  You don't think someone's trying to tell us something, do you?

            One thing's for sure, this poor son-of-a-bitch is not going to make it if we don't come up with some answers quickly, before the good colonel arrives with his interrogation team.  Paek looked down the bridge to the far side where Mi-sook stood with the lady constable and waved.  Let's see what he has to say.

 

In the shadows, it is hard and flinty, like a beaver’s pelt
Bound in ice. Where it swells into the curve of trees
And flattens against the cliff, in the frozen glare
It melts golden and molds like honey
Into every cranny of the sky. In a mottled round, green
And black, white-tailed deer graze, stand and chew
The tangled grass and tender vines in a dream
Of what just happened, gaze upon the blur
Of intermittent cars and trucks, dark tendrils of vine
Hanging from their mouths, and bend once more to the ground.
They are there, across the river some quarter mile or so,
And I am here, with the road speeding from town to town,
In the footsteps of some angler trying to find the river
With his eyes. I step where he has stepped
Not to disturb the fragile earth, black and crumbly
Beside the stream, not to disturb the hush
Of the river’s edge where it meets lea water
And bright round pebbles in the sun. I watch the deer.
I step into the still water, the outside edge spreading
Molten around my waders, my knees, my hips,
And cast a Black-nosed Dace into the current. In a dream
I swim it in an arc. I wait and count each minute blade of grass.

 

 

The Heron in Winter

For the heron, time is nothing, a bluish shadow,
Present passing, overhead the intermittent tyranny
Of clouds, below the rigid stickleback in ice.
Now the cherry and the rose, now the maple
Red and gold. Japan comes with rattling rain and wind,
Manchuria with snow, the stragglers anxious, bewildered,
Noisy, then still. Beneath the twisted pine, the people
Crouch, fret, despair in craggy winter mountains:
They growl and turn away. They are hungry for more time.
For the heron, poised and serene, the still moment is eternal.

 

---

 

The Promise

Hand over icy hand he drags himself
along the gunwale from stern to bow
the frozen block and tackle to loosen,
plunge the anchor, the water thick and slow
as sap squeezing through the frozen vein,
haddock nudging the gelatinous mass
aside, herring calm in Morpheus' embrace.

The Ellabelle rides low on the current
the sharp wind drives against the hull, tethered
in the midst of fine sailboats and power
moored massively all around (the skippers
her usefulness praise, clean strake and deck,
thick ribs and brackets, smiling, their boats
compare, their speed and cost, expense of care
and feeding, bragging some to be more brave
in the wake of change to smaller, weaker class)
in the round bay, the lair of the black bear
starboard in the scrubby islands north of Goat,
the water freezing on the locker, lichen
in the light, anchor holding in the mud
and rocky sand, ignorant of the boats
pricking and preening on the silvery plain
in winter light, rests from labor on the tide
without remorse or faith, unaware alike
of flattery or comparison--passion
billowing on the swell, on reef and rock
the bright airy flies fall gently down, wide
under cumulous skies mirrored in the water--
nor envious of the yachts, oars straining
through the enormity of ketch and yawl,
cocktail parties, muffled and swaddled laughter
holding warm and gay in the straining hulls,
passing outside the narrow compass of the bay.

Hand over icy hand, he drags himself
from bow to stern, grasping frozen cleat and rail,
pumping fuel from the tank, dragging on the cord,
in wind and intermittent rain, pulling
thick water amidships, boating oars, throttle
turning in his hand, eastward making way,
planing high and fast on a black and following sea.

 

(From the Paek Chul-min novel. set in Korea )

 

Why don't you let our friends help you?  You can be a teacher again.  Please!

            Peak turned to his wife, unbuttoned his coat, and stuck his belly out.  He flapped his coat tails as a bird might do its tail feathers.  He looked just like an owl with his large round glasses and tufts of hair about his ears.

            I'm serious, his wife said, smiling.

            Me, too.  I am what I am, Paek said.  What you see is what I have become.  A three piece suit.

            College professors wear suits, you silly.

            Yes, but their suits don't mask depravity.  They are just clothing.  They are not the mark of a tyrant.

            What would the police be without the likes of you?  And others.  You're not the only good policeman.

            My point exactly!  And so I must remain in these heavy leather plates--he strode about the room, crouching and waving his arms about like a bear on a chain--until all the wars are ended.

            Here, give these to Kim for his mother.  Paek's wife handed him a bundle wrapped in newspaper and tied with a string.  Persimmons, she said.  Don't let the juice get on your clothes.  And brush your hair, Superintendent.  To inspire your little army into battle.

The Sea at Kamakura

A bird as big as a house would scour the world          
Of men, like insects on the night air, grubs
In a patch of earth freshly turned; but two
Of such magnitude would do each other
First, for spite, and ground, whatever the need
Or lack thereof. Birds then are mankind's help
And mentors. But the lessons . . . ah, who can tell?

"Oh, do not ask, `What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit."

 

I.  Knuckles

You thick-necked savage, sharkskin shiny thug,
Pompadour slicked back, grey-dry, pointed blue
And brittle, why the ridiculous vest,
Friend?  You idiot!  Why play your trumps
With these light citizens?  bosomy dove,
Shy cardinal scarfing nuts unobserved,
Industrious tit, protestant and shrill,
Tongue-wagging sparrow (snitch, squeal, you bastard),
Shadowy grackle, proud tail-pumping wren?
Why waste your jibes on these country bumpkins,
Tough guy? Go back to Queens, you greasy ape!
These hicks have steely death to break their wings.

II. Knife

The spigot's his alone all afternoon
Moisture, the random insect, will suffice.
And early morn.  Grateful the yardbirds small
He's a carnivore and not seedeater;
Just the same, they stay away, hid out and quiet
When he's about the tin pan of downy water,
Looking down his black stiletto at foe
And victim alike.  Indifferent fear
Or malice, chiffon or sharkskin the same:
He hates them all democratically
And could he would he eat them foot and nail.
Old steely death is mean all by himself.


III. Plume

Big jugs front and broad behind, Momma Mauve
Stays on my mind, says Bud the Cat, resting
On a mat of smelly geranium stems
And leaves, where the flowers turn
Inside the hairy monkey grass, listening:
Momma Mauve will make a little sound, moan,
No matter what, he knows, when her titties
Touch the bed of grass, ass settles in seed;
In a while her long lashes close on pleasure,
She's dumb as a post, all sighs and remorse
And ripe for taking in her grey peignoir.
I'll just give her a slap, Bud says, this time.


IV.  Mitre

Saint Francis of the slums you'd like to be,
Right?  In your red habit sneaking out nights
In the large world, to tempt sunflower seeds
From the poor, unobserved.  Watch it, churchy, now
Your bright ass is a bullseye for street smart
Lesser birds of prey, not carnivorous
But mean; best back it into a corner
Somewhere, and keen your flanks.  Whoa, what is this?
A little anchoress in her dull brown dress;
You hop, and feeding her a nut, bloodless
Body of Christ, you woo her.   Take her
In the leafy boughs, hypocrite.  Keep still!


V.  Mask

Small and circumspect, but full of bitter gall,
He doesn't care who's watching when he takes
His pleasure.  "To hell with 'em, and you too,
Sire. (Just put out them nuts, fatso.  And now!
So's I can git my own 'fore others come,
Scarf clean this little house, damn cracker  birds!")
The red priest will run him off, the nun too,
And boattail, blue hair, old steely death--
But bandits know advantage how to take:
"'Tween times is best."  ("Let 'em kill each  other,
I don't care.  There's cover to rest in close
And watch 'em do their goddamn thing, the twits!"

 

---

Cynthia, in Winter

(for Dee Anna Dotson, my childhood friend)

Do you still remember me,
goddess of the white moon
rising through the vines,
honeysuckle, and mimosa?
Do you still recall
the infant kisses we exchanged,
the eyebrightness
rising through the mottled air,
torch-lit dusk of infancy,
our childhood do you remember?

Or is this moon rising
through the scattering pines
a moon not of remembrance
but decay, cold and white
mutability, forgetfulness,
a sidelong glance?
Speak, speak to me now,
again, once more
Speak to me now
in my hour of need.

. . .

I see you love, I think, yet see you not
clearly, would speak yet dare not speak—
you've grown so old, so sad—
or kiss your mouth, for fear
that your cold lips might stop my heart
with grief, that you are so afraid.
Farewell.

 

(From the Paek Chul-min novel. set in Korea )

 

Han had been around to all the banks, to no avail.  So, when Maeng Ko came to his shop with an offer of just enough money to put things right, Han was more interested in not offending the loan shark than in finding out how he had gotten his name.  The bankers, he assumed, in their western-style suits and dark ties, who were not adverse to sharing their trade with less reputable financiers.  Maeng had simply given him the money in small bills and started for the door.

            Who are you? Han had asked.

            Maeng Ko had returned to the counter, where he stood for a moment scrutinizing Han's face.  Do you really want to know? he asked.

            Only that I might thank you properly, Han thought.  But then he said, No.

            Maeng Ko, Maeng said.  Now you know my name.  He smiled, the lines around his eyes grimy from walking in the dusty streets, his hands dark an menacing on the counter top.  He shook his head, as if to say, I'm sorry, and left, stirring the dust motes that hung in the air.  I'll be back, he had said.  Han stood silently behind the counter, the inquisitive words stuck in his throat.  Who am I dealing with?  What do they want? Why? Where?  When?

            Han was not naive.  He knew that a special favor would be asked of him, and, as the days turned into weeks, he scurried about his small general store nervously restocking the shelves with the few cans of kerosene, some rusty second-hand lanterns, cheap hibachis left over from the Japanese occupation, coal scuttles, pokers, and tongs made from scrap iron, brown with rust for lack of painting.  His hands were always dirty, his nails black even after he had washed.  Why? he wondered.  What difference does it make?  His wife had returned to Taejon with the children.  He had given up the two-room house on top of the mountain, the cheapest place they had been able to find, and slept now in the back room of the shop.  There was a toilet in the floor and a spigot with cold running water, from before the war when things had been better, but to make ends meet before he got the money he had hung a blanket on a bamboo pole and rented out a corner of the room to the old woman whose daughter was having the baby.  Now, in the night, the old woman stumbled about with the slop jar, smelling of excrement and urine, and Han had to roll over on his pallet and turn his head to the wall. When he slept, which wasn't often, and then for but an hour or two at a time, he dreamed of open fields with poplars and paddy dikes and longed for his wife and children.  When? he wondered.

            Then, after three weeks, Maeng Ko returned to the shop.  He was with a girl, pretty, about sixteen or seventeen, with a good figure and nice clothes, though worn, who looked frightened, desperate, and alone, despite the presence of her burly companion, who might have been her lover, Han thought, or brother, husband, or cousin, but not her friend.  Tomorrow, Maeng Ko said, be at Seoul Station, Track 2, at 12 noon, with this--he hung a sign around Han's neck that said, Destitute--and someone will contact you.  Wear old clothes.  Maeng walked out of the shop.  The girl remained, motionless at the counter, thinking.  Then she turned to go as well.

            Miss, Han said.  But he didn't know what he really wanted to say.  Something, then nothing.  He felt cold and dirty.

            The girl moved aimlessly, Han thought, from the darkness of Han's shop into the sunlit street, transformed before his eyes from substantial shadow into insubstantial light.

 

---

 

Pontius Pilate in Hell

"Ecce homo."  John, 19.

May the gods damn you forever, you scurrilous                       
dogs.  And you, Dante, you sodomite, you woman, 
f ... you.  You ruined us, you faggot son of a bitch, 
men of grace, honor, you demeaned, consigned, you whore!

My friends here, what are they to think?  I see their eyes 
downcast, squinting, twitching eyes.  I know the look,
detest their kindness, pain, discomfort, sorrowful
sorrowing hearts.  They know the truth.  But ...

I am like the Nazarene before them, like the Jew, the rabbi
Jesus, that pathetic wretch, the man his gutless countrymen
tricked me, in a wink of reason, a moment of weakness,
To destroy.  What difference, really?  God damn them!

I am naked.  I hate their pity, their prying
eyes boring into my soul, the look of others
boring, probing, pushing into my guts, burning, searing.
You stupid bastards, get your hands off me!

Get your eyes off me!  Look at the dogs, the rabble,
jostling fat stinking bodies, their open mouths, foul breath
stinking to heaven.  My legionnaires desecrating,
behind their backs.  They spit on me who spit on mine.

For that alone I should have murdered them all,
man, woman, and child in that despicable place.
For that alone I should have said, "Your timid laws
be damned, f ... your laws!  Pilate is the law, you dogs!"

Pigs, stinking pigs!  And I, Pontius Pilate, gens
of the Pontii, scion of Samnite generals, sixth Roman prefect
of Judaca, limed by this hussy Dante into the pit of Hell, my ass!
This place is a pleasure garden, with its share even of suicides.

I did what an equestrian does.   I died by my own hand
in Vienna, where a column stands to mark my passing there,
albeit in bitterness and defeat.   Disrespect
greater far than mine he lavished on Brutus and Cassius.

I shall never see him here.  A man has to know his own mind,
make decisions.  I knew what I knew, the edicts:
the carpenter was innocent.  Everyone knew that.  A fool,
but free, innocent of the testiment god's bloody lust

For laws, lawyers, legalities.  I knew what I knew.
I wrote what I wrote.   Pontius Pilate spoke and wrote
the truth.  So why am I so bitter in this quiet place,
with philosophers, pius, sad, greater men than I.

I shall have to wait, I think, a longer sentence still more unjust.
God knows.  The insane must be appeased,
those stupid smelly hoards placated with glass beads
and inferior machines.  Yes, but then, ... !  Ha!

 

Celedon Toads

By various convergent paths some go
In the wide world, to keen their way alone.
And seldom glitter do they find at once,
But stern toil and meanness only of drear
Contagion, Lady Staleness hight with glee
And worshipped by well-meaning souls and fair,
Til fine and fair all circumspect become,
And niceties, and platitudes, are read
In faces lined and worn, the musty stink
Of Poverty, empty hands, empty mouths.

Turn, hide your proud eyes, listen, listen now:
The jingle-jangle ever graceful Presence
Of Gentility circling round and round
In motors, in tight circles of success,
Despair so gaily madly dressed in weeds
That gold the branch is now and not the root
And splendid is where succor needful lies
Amid the glass and chrome above the graves,
Master masterful the statehouse to descry
And coax from blood the molecules of iron.

 

---

 

Faerie

(for Alberta Black, Belfast, Northern Ireland)

Airy or incorporate,
in gay or solemn attire,
Discovered are you always
in proper guise: mind
Wide-eyed or pensive
in scrupulous measure found.

(Merlin counsels the Pixies on the subject of deportment)

Alone, larger and lighter you seemed,
Leading them about, the wee astonished
Grown-up brutes, essential white-limbs
And hair, deep glances cold-chiseled
Enchanting to them as the cloud-cast sea,

Yet seemed so small to them in parting,
Solidly diminutive, recreative flighty
Child-like things, in your playful looks
Uncertain of the clumsy well-meaning oafs
To warrant even nourishment, much less flight,

Shooting, diving, pulling, resting,
Staring down their blubbering confusion
At your presence in a ring, singing songs . . .
A kindness, note, more patient than you know
To endure midsummer chilling of the bone:

Not wanting you to be disturbed, to feel
Their fear and frailty, the horror of waiting,
Shuffling of feet and thoughts passionate
In bitter anticipation, the cold recollection
Of bygone piping voices, faerie's knowing looks.

You might be more companionable next time,
Except that love is insufficient to forestall
Even from faerie the meanness it entails
In emotional trade. Better leave, like so,
Naughty pensive sprites, and not look back.

 

 

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