Memory
Midnight 1943:
Waking
up in the empty dark-
ness of a bamboo hut
somewhere
in the hills far
from the old home
-town: At three, that’s
the first picture
in my memory:
alone, without
a blanket
on a cold morn-
ing, the sharp
passage of a fighter
plane, and wet
pants.
A month or two
later, perhaps a year,
a vegetable
patch on the side
of a hill and an under-
ground cave dug in the red
earth
for if the shooting
came. There were green
painted rattan
furniture, a sofa and
chairs, I can still see
them.
Perhaps it was
earlier: there was
the burst of light
from a cannon
and
blast following.
I cannot remember
where I was
or if it was real
or a dream.
Still later, towards
the end of the war,
my mother calling
my brothers and me
across the field
to eat the yams
she cooked
with a thick coat-
ing of melted brown
sugar.
In this landscape
there are no
clear faces, just objects
and places and sounds
and the long
walk barefoot on a rough,
hot road
with my older cousins
Dan and Letty
to the camp
where a Japanese
captain always fed
us a bowl of rice
soup.
I did not
know who
was fighting, why
the bombardment and the
dogfights in the sky.
I couldn’t read
the signs
saying Japan or America,
which cannon or plane
belonged
to which side.
But the fear
I knew.
The fear
remains
50 years
later
Rene J. Navarro
© RN 2020
THE OLD CALLIGRAPHER
His pink
kimono split the sun
Into a thousand rays: white cranes
Homing to his onyx eyes. He sat
In a full lotus on the meditation
Pillow, smiling, pale lips
Pressed to hide the smile, and
Remembering the girl in spring
Long ago in this stone garden.
He had given her a scroll of rice
Paper with a pictograph
Of the sun rising and a sketch of
Cherry blossoms gently
Falling. As she bowed, she slipped a
Phoenix-and-dragon
Ring into his priestly robe and
Left him to the Sunday crowd
That gathered to watch his work.
He glanced at the island
Mountains: five sacred peaks
In a sea of raked
Sand. He breathed deeply,
Drawing the landscape
In his mind. In a
Flash his eyes turned to
Gold, the islands and the sea
Eddied and glowed. And he was
Gone. Like washed ink,
His shadow in meditation remained
Etched on the bleached rock:
The first calligraphy of his
Death.
Footnote: The victims of Hiroshima did not know what hit them. To describe the Bomb, the word “picadon” was coined. “Pica” means flash or flicker, and “don” means loud noise or explosion.Certain victims left shadows. Bodhidharma, the legendary first patriarch of Buddhism in China, also left his shadow on a rock close to the spot where he meditated for 10 years. This rock is located near the Shaolin temple in Honan province. I read this poem for the first time at the 40th Anniversary Commemoration organized by the Lehigh Valley Peace Council/LEPOCO and the Inter-Faith Council at the Peace Garden in Bethlehem, PA.
Thinking of Li-Po
— for A. R.
In my wanderings, I think
of my mentor and friend Li-Po
every now and then,
wishing I had his company.
But after the armies
of empire
began massing along
the frontiers of a foreign
land, and the loud rhetorics
of battle filled the air,
he went
into seclusion
again. Away he went,
to quiet
his heartmind, write weary
poems
he would drop, like
peach
blossoms, on the flowing
stream. He would watch
the golden phoenixes,
and white cranes
riding the green wind,
listen for the crow
of heaven’s rooster,
await the loud peal
of thunder,
mourn
the useless deaths
of young warriors,
lament the horror
and anguish
of war,
I don’t know
which it is now.
Is he in Tientaishan,
among the immortals
toasting the elixir
of life?
He did not say
goodbye, he did not
say goodbye, just
disappeared
from the way
of man.
By Rene J. Navarro
© RJN 2003
First published in the website of Poets Against the War (Iraq), 2003.
Morning scene in doi Saket
Practicing Tai chi chuan
in the dark
of a Chiang mai dawn,
starlight comes down
from the sky
and from the distant temple
the chanting of monks
on the hill.
CHICHEN ITZA, MEXICO (1985)
The earth’s deep pool
Receives the sacrifice:
Water bursts, bubbles,
Explodes in a scream:
Gold and flesh
Sink to the depths
Together.
The serpent god descends
The stairs of the Pyramid.
At Your Grave in the August Rain
Ed Maranan: In Memoriam
November 7, 1947 – May 8, 2018
I shall stand in the August rain
I shall ring the Tibetan bell
Where will its sound go
Its ringing shall vibrate in your bones
Its ringing shall fill the empty graveyard
I shall light a sandalwood incense
Its ash shall stay below
Its smoke shall rise to the sky
I shall stand in the rain
And read my poem for you
My voice shall echo in the distance
My voice shall fill the silence
In the earth of your beloved Baguio
While I stand in the August rain
There’ll be no tears, my friend
You’ve given our country everything
Nothing else is required of you
Go wherever you want to
There’ll be no tears, my friend,
As I stand in the rain
Over your tombstone
Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate, bodhi svaha!*
By Rene J. Navarro/ 9 26 18/ Easton, PA 18045
After I wrote the first draft of this poem, I looked at google and saw that there are other poems with the line “stand in the rain.”
*Translation: Gone, beyond, beyond, everyone, to the other shore, hallelujah! –from the Heart Sutra, the Lord Buddha’s sermon to Shariputra.
*Many of my contemporaries have passed away. The last year alone saw the death of 3 of my friends. We are going, one by one. Some of these people I admired and loved. When I hear about their demise, I sit down and think about how they lived, what they have done, what they have contributed to the world. Sometimes, I am sad. This or that person died too early or did not fulfill his potential or his destiny. But I try to let them go. Saying goodbye to a loved one is definitely difficult. We cannot hold back tears, we want the deceased to come back and stay. It’s something I do not like to do. We should let them go. Death isn’t such a bad thing, especially when a person, like one of my close friends, a poet and writer, has suffered or was ravaged by disease or prolonged illness. If you believe that death is the end, it may be difficult to comfort you. If you believe that there is life after death – in some kind of a heaven or reincarnation – death may be easier to accept. We want permanence and eternity in life: we want love to continue, we want happiness not to end. Even when love and happiness have ended, we try to revive and hold on to them sometimes with terrible and fatal results. But as the Hindus, Buddhists and Daoists believe, much of life is impermanent, life is like a bubble or like the phases of the moon. Nothing really lasts. We want to hold on to something or somebody. We forget that we, too, have to go someday. But what is real – the Soul, the Self, the Consciousness – never dies. We transition in the bardo/the in-between. When did we begin to exist, when do we make our exit? What came before birth, what comes after death? We do not really know. What we do know is that nothing really dies The smoke of the incense, the sound of a bell dissolves in the eternal ether. Everything gets transformed into something else.
Kung Tuyo Na Ang Luha Mo, Aking Bayan
– Amado V. Hernandez
Lumuha ka, aking Bayan: buong lungkot mong iluha
ang kawawang kapalaran ng lupain mong kawawa:
ang bandilang sagisag mo’y lukob ng dayong bandila,
pati wikang minana mo’y busabos ng ibang wika;
ganito ring araw noon nang agawan ka ng laya,
labintatlo ng Agosto nang saklutin ang Maynila.
Lumuha ka, habang sila ay palalong nagdiriwang,
sa libingan ng maliit, ang malaki’y may libangan;
katulad mo ay si Huli, naaliping bayad-utang,
katulad mo ay si Sisa, binaliw ng kahirapan;
walang lakas na magtanggol, walang tapang na lumaban,
tumataghoy, kung paslangin; tumatangis, kung nakawan!
Iluha mo ang sambuntong kasawiang nagtalakop
na sa iyo’y pampahirap, sa banyaga’y pampalusog:
ang lahat mong kayamana’y kamal-kamal na naubos,
ang lahat mong kalayaa’y sabay-sabay na natapos;
masdan mo ang iyong lupa, dayong hukbo’y nakatanod,
masdan mo ang iyong dagat, dayong bapor, nasa laot!
Lumuha ka kung sa puso ay nagmaliw na ang layon,
kung ang araw sa langit mo ay lagi nang dapithapon,
kung ang alon sa dagat mo ay ayaw nang magdaluyong,
kung ang bulkan sa dibdib mo ay hindi man umuungol,
kung wala nang maglalamay sa gabi ng pagbabangon,
lumuha nang lumuha’t ang laya mo’y nakaburol.
May araw ding ang luha mo’y masasaid, matutuyo,
may araw ding di na luha sa mata mong namumugto
ang dadaloy, kundi apoy, at apoy na kulay dugo,
samantalang and dugo mo ay aserong kumukulo;
sisigaw kang buong giting sa liyab ng libong sulo
at ang lumang tanikala’y lalagutin mo ng punlo!
Translation by Rene J. Navarro (1980)
When Your Tears Are Dry, Pilipinas
Cry now, Pilipinas, cry with the deepest grief,
Cry over the sad fate of your sad land,
Your flag a hostage to a foreign flag.
Your speech a slave to a foreign tongue.
And so it was on freedom’s funeral,
On the 13th of August
America conquered the ancient capital.
Cry now, Pilipinas, as the foreign hordes exult on your graveyard.
For you a requiem, for them a glorious march.
You are like Juli, to servitude condemned.
You are like Sisa, by despair deranged.
Without strength to protest,
Without a will to fight,
You weep when abused,
You wail when victimized.
Cry for the loss of freedom’s lifebreath.
Your wealth plundered,
Your liberty curtailed.
Observe your land: over its brown soil flies a foreign flag.
Observe your sea: on its waters sails a foreign ship.
Cry now, Filipinas, if hope has withered in your breast.
Cry now if darkness lords your days.
Cry now if anger is frozen in your veins.
Cry now if no one stands vigil for the dawn.
Cry now, Filipinas, on your freedom’s deathbed.
But watch for the night when your tears dry up.
Watch for the night when from your eyes will flow,
Not tears but fire: fire that burns with the color of blood.
Blood that boils like molten lead.
And you will shout “Freedom!” amid a million lights.
Shout to the night that eternal word
And break the chain of bondage with a sword.
NB: On August 13, 1898, the US and Spain staged a mock battle in Intramuros, the walled City of Manila. The US “won.” Spain sold the Philippines to the US for$20. This was the prelude to the bloody annexation of the Philippines by the US. My translation is a work in progress. When I did the translation in 1980 I did not get any help. I did not have a dictionary. Recently I got a Tagalog-English dictionary and asked a friend, a Tagala, to look at the translation. I hope we’ll come up with a translation that the original deserves.
Through the Laughter
Father and Danny,
my younger brother, talking
in the living room
as I try to take a nap
on the sofa close by,
my eyes half-closed,
and I can see their
silhouettes in the half-light,
their words bouncing
through years
of fading remembrances,
and anecdotes,
my brother asking
all the questions,
my father answering
with amusement.
My brother avoids
recent events
my father cannot remember,
even those that happened
just yesterday
or a minute ago.
I was in my own world,
times flashing in my mind.
My father teaching me
how to box with gloves
when I was 7 or 8,
grandfather circumcising
the boys of the clan
in the river at dawn,
Uncle Odon catching
bats at the church
belfry after the war,
me and my cousins
cutting classes to swim
in the river.
Across the room,
Dad says my grandfather
was Miguel Navarro,
a Batangueno,
from the province
famous for the bravery
of its men and
the beauty
of its women.
He was henpecked
Dad says. Like all
the Navarros,
my brother adds.
Yes, my father says,
and I hear a laughter
so loud, childlike and joyous
as if death wasn’t
waiting around the corner.
Hiroshima Sutra
Nobody knew
In Hiroshima
Nobody knew what
It was
Nobody knew
What was
Unleashed from a
Bottle that shattered
On the ground
Nobody knew
What it was
That noise
That light
That whirlwind
Swallowed
The city
Sent a
Cloud billowing
Like a genie
To the morning sky
And blackened
the day
Nobody knew
In Hiroshima
Nobody knew
That the beautiful
Flash will bring
Sudden death to thousands
Slowly to many more
Nobody knew what it was
That genie with no name
Picadon it was called:
Bright noise
Nobody knew
What it was
For the first time
A weapon as bright
As a hundred suns
Death to thousands at once
But nobody knew
In Hiroshima
What it was
That brought
Quick death in one loud flash
Steel boiling from heat
Bodies turning to vapor
Shadows on concrete
Nobody knew
What it was
In Hiroshima
By Rene J. Navarro, August 6, 1985, Bethlehem, PA
*Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the movie by Alain Resnais (director) and Margaret Duras (script writer), was the inspiration for this poem and “The Old Calligrapher.” I read a version of the two poems in the Peace Garden in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania on the commemoration of the 40th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima.
Teaching the Blind Qigong
I was teaching a qigong movement:
Your sword hand should draw a circle
turning clockwise from 12 o’clock to 3
to 6, from 6 to 9 to 12 I said as I turned
my fingers in the space level with my head.
It was all so clear to me, as I saw the face
of a clock in front of my shoulder. The blind
man sitting to my left cocked his head
sideways. I realized later he could not
follow me or my instructions: he had no idea
what a clock was or how it looked. He had
never seen one before in his life. We who can
see tell time by a watch or the light, or the
position of the sun. But a blind man tells
time with his body, the sound of traffic
or voices, or the vibration of the world
around him, and how his bones register
the humming of the earth and
the pulsing of the heart.
10:45 pm/DEC 24/13.
Manila, Philippines
Seaweeds
Nights, Inday, I see you in the side streets
of this island town. There where the red
lights perched on bamboo poles tell
strangers where you are. Out by the beach
where seaweeds are floating, green
and plump and salty. Daughter of the South,
dark child of the islands: In the morning
you sleep a night of music and rum
and broiled squid. Now I hear your laughter
as I walk by the Paradise Bar and see,
through the screen of bamboo slats,
your face in the half-dark of this land
of lime and corals, breathing tropic heat
even as Perry Como is singing Bali Hai
to the empty market and children sleeping
on concrete. I can smell the morning
now with the fishermen coming in,
bringing their catch of tortugas, eels,
fish and clams. You are already asleep,
Inday, when the sun touches the hovels
and stalls from where dark smoke rises
like ghostly seaweeds floating at dawn,
above the polluted harbor, over the slums
and the withered palm trees, over your
head and the ebony crucifix
hanging from your neck.
Drawing the Characters
Q: What can I write?
A: Anything that will improve the page.
— Zen Koan
2 a.m. and I am writing more characters
in my notebook with a pentel pen.
There are verticals and horizontals
and diagonals … and drops and slides
and strokes I do not know the Chinese names
for. I study the length of this line: it’s longer
than the one above it. This character starts
hanging from a vertical, that one ends
where one line begins. Another
begins at the eaves of a roof. I start over
again and feel the pressure
on the pen and how it varies the shade
of the ink, a little darker here, little lighter
there, thicker here, thinner there.
The proportion strikes me for the first
time: balance, nothing weighted
down, nothing leaning this way
or that. I know I do not see
the perspective of the whole
character yet, not even each
drop. I notice that I have to learn
what it means to be light, to spread
the ink evenly like they show
in the manual I am following.
Repetitions, repetitions, as my teachers
used to tell me when I was training
in Shaolin and Tai chi: imitate and
follow, repeat the way they did
the movement and I did each
a hundred times, two hundred,
until my sweat dripped to the floor
of the old Buddhist Temple.
Now each page of my sketchbook
is covered with squiggles. There are
no erasures, no corrections. I can only
start all over again. I know a lot
more now. But I do not even have
an idea what ground I have yet to cover.
How about the Qi that each line
should manifest? How about the Shen?
How about the Life that breathes
through each stroke?
How did the ancients
write with brush and ink?
Friendship
Po-Ya has nobody to listen to his music.
He sits on a ridge overlooking the river
And plays his zither mounted on a rock.
Nobody listens to his music or understands
his love for this ancient instrument.
Po-Ya plays regardless.
It is in playing the zither
That he feels most himself. Even if nobody
Listens. He plucks the strings,
And he feels how each note vibrates
In his being and brings out the Po-Ya
That he knows is his true self.
Chung-chi, a wood gatherer, hears
Him play and says, That is beautiful.
Po-Ya is puzzled that a man finally
Appreciates the music nobody
Listens to. Po-Ya plays a passage
From the “High Mountain”
And asks Chung-chi what he heard.
Chung-chi says he felt like he was
On Taishan, the sacred mountain.
Po-Ya plays “Flowing Stream”
And Chung-Chi says he heard
The roaring ocean waves.
The two become friends,
The lonely zither master
and the ordinary wood gatherer.
Days they would sit on the ledge
And share the zither music
That transported them to different places.
Po-Ya is appointed to work
In the capital, as happens
To people who are talented,
And there nobody understands
The music he plays.
He misses Chung-Chi,
The only man who understands
Whatever he plays. He resigns
And goes back home.
But Chung-Chi had died.
Po-Ya destroys his zither
And does not play again.
“High Mountain, Flowing Stream,” one of the most famous compositions in China, often played on a zither,
commemorates and celebrates their friendship. The ledge on which they spent days listening to the zither
is called Ku Cheng T’ai, Ancient Zither Terrace.
Even today, the Chinese visit the spot in memory of Po-Ya and Chung-Chi and their frienship.
Thanks to Bill Porter/Red Pine, who wrote about the story in his book “Zen Baggage.” He says that in China, the expression “chih-yin-chih-yu” means a friend who knows your tune.
MEMORY
Midnight, 1943:
Waking
up in the empty dark-
ness of a bamboo hut
somewhere
in the hills far
from the old home
-town: At three, that’s
the first picture
in my memory.
Alone,without
a blanket
on a cold morn-
ing, the sharp
passage of a fighter
plane, and wet
pants.
A month or two
later, perhaps a year,
a vegetable
patch on
a hill and an under-
ground cave dug in the red
earth
for if the shooting
came. There were green
painted rattan
furniture, a sofa and
chairs, I can still see
them. Always there was
the forest, the last refuge
from the war of the powers.
Perhaps it was
earlier: there was
the burst of light
from a cannon
and the resonant
blast following.
Still later, towards
the end of the war,
my mother calling
my brothers and me
across the field
to eat the yams
she cooked
with a thick coat-
ing of melted brown
sugar.
In this landscape
there are no
clear faces, just objects
and places and sounds
and the long
walk barefoot on a rough,
hot road
with my older cousins
Dan and Letty
to the camp
where a Japanese
captain always fed
us a bowl of rice
soup.
I did not
know who
was fighting, why
the bombardment and the
dogfights in the sky.
I couldn’t read
the signs
saying Japan or America,
which cannon or plane
belonged
to which side.
But the fear
I knew.
50 years
later
the fear
remains.
Rene J. Navarro