“The burning man is represented in the saint’s halo and the king’s crown, both of which are analogues of the sun-god…” Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism
Sakura-pink, moth-eaten time is up
to something. “Sleep on it,” the distant ear
of yesteryear may counsel you; a cup
of sake too soft-spoken and too near
to see. Mean-spirited, time-eaten moths,
in secondhand kimonos, dance to paint’s
tuition, aboard the train tomorrow’s myths
upbraid. Ferocity takes tea with saints.
But Corri tells me cities offer tea
a fishing pond to steep in, if its priest
is dressed in honesty’s clear blue. To me,
all cities say, “Sit down till you’re released.”
And sometimes they mean, “See the Meiji Shrine.”
All cities have a soft spot full of wine.
All cities have a soft spot full of wine
between a rock and a stiff darkness. Bolts
of boulevards crisscross the open sign
of spring’s activity. No store consults
a building full of exits when there’s yen
at stake. Omotesando’s boldest tree –
zelkova; right in front of Tod’s – would lean
above Sumida-gawa’s mouth for free.
But that would mean Roppongi Hills should step
aside for matcha and Metabolists.
(Those architects of capsules eyeballs schlep.)
And pernio’s afflicted history’s fists.
So let swan pedal boats at Ueno Park
skip ramen days, like stones, above the dark.
Skip ramen days, like stones, above the dark
tuition tucked behind the art museum.
Grandeur is one-eighth man; Hachikō’s bark
is too. Though out of earshot, I can see him
still waiting at Shibuya Station. Red
bean paste and salted plums await the crowds
at Sensō-ji. Away day went, misread
but not unfed; its surgery mask of clouds.
However, moonlight’s mutiny was lost
each night to cat cafes and Junie Moon;
Jakuchū knows Akihabara’s cost:
his rooster crows at moonrise (“Crazy loon.”).
The wind at night gets so expressionless,
you’d swear it wears the mask of pricelessness.
You’d swear it wears the mask of pricelessness,
the Blythe doll Maddie got. Ikayaki
was washed down with a pils, Polybius
and Bacon’s Essays in Jinbōchō. I
forgot to not resist the Kit Kat bars
and moat around the palace. All in all,
as jetlag caught a tailwind, Tokyo Tower’s
athletic height became a Tylenol.
Having said that, we tossed and turned like fish
or fishing boats on our tatami mats.
Tsukiji Market caught our palates’ wish
and threw it back, in soy sauce-coated nets.
Those ancient blocks in Shitamachi own
it’s hard to square the heart with fact alone.
It’s hard to square the heart with fact alone
among the orchids, where you’ll feel it in
the part that beauty frightens. Budokan
pretended to advise me, “Reel it in,”
as Corri sketched camellias. Angry young
impressions stood astonished when a flute
offstage descended from a dragon’s tongue
of fire; outside, Kabuki-za was mute.
“In any case, tamagoyaki must
be served with dashi if it’s for an ogre,”
said Maddie, as she fed komainu trust
and fries. I said, “Let’s go.” They said, “Don’t hog her.”
Tuition comes in pairs, but not as friends
to cats, Daruma dolls or dividends.
To cats, Daruma dolls and dividends
are chewable ideas to deepen you.
The airport’s robot greeter’s ‘Hi’ transcends
crab innards; fans the sun to leap in you
like fuel, but not to cheapen you. “Your jib –
its cut – is so kawaii, Edo bows
and gardens bloom when you go by.” “You fib,”
my wife replied. (Suntory’s cruel vows.)
In schoolgirl outfits, pushing baby strollers,
time passes cemeteries; wooden sticks
and sutras knock about and stir like molars.
Pagodas watch the wind play politics.
Five stories travel fast, but slowly tell
a life to slow its roll; its role to sell.
A life too slow unrolls its role to sell
a grown-up ‘thank you’ to a grown-up like
a blown up understanding. Shake it well,
your heart, before you see Mt. Fuji hike
into your dreams from the horizon. Lost
in Hiroo, Maddie said, “They’re howling at
the sun, dad,” rubbed her feet and all but bossed
the day to end; my little shogunate.
Just the same, arigato never grew
decayed. Back home, spring set the fields on fire;
so much so, roosters crowed at noon. The blue
and Corri both wore poppies in their hair
and said, “In, in my arms, my Shiba pup,
Sakura-pink, moth-eaten time is up.”
Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He's married with a daughter and pets. Poems and stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing).