Beachcombing on a Sunday Morning in Japan, November, 2012
Today I found a monkey skull
Washed up on the beach
Washed up on the beach
Rolled in the black sand surf
With the sparkling stones
With the sparkling stones
And wrenched up seaweed tossed
With whispering shells
With whispering shells
Fresh, not yet picked pristine,
And young, the pinkish teeth
And young, the pinkish teeth
Not yet stained or chipped
I picked it up, like a doll’s head
I picked it up, like a doll’s head
A girl’s breast, cupped in my palm,
Golf ball gapes where eyes recently
Golf ball gapes where eyes recently
Flickered and darted at birds and butterflies
And rippling leaves -
And rippling leaves -
I wonder if she fell
Was she washed to a river and drowned?
Was she washed to a river and drowned?
What did she see as she slipped
Teetering out on her own?
Teetering out on her own?
Her mother’s flashed alarm?
Too late, gone, out of reach?
Too late, gone, out of reach?
I often wander this beach
Looking for shells and driftwood,
Rounded stones and beach glass
Plastic toy figures lost
Sanded over by children’s feet,
Looking for shells and driftwood,
Rounded stones and beach glass
Plastic toy figures lost
Sanded over by children’s feet,
And translucent coloured lighters dropped or thrown
– bird bones –
– bird bones –
But the head dome of a fellow primate
Whose non-eyes feign surprise or open wonder
Held here in my hand, rescued
From the seething washback waves,
Whose non-eyes feign surprise or open wonder
Held here in my hand, rescued
From the seething washback waves,
The obscure deep,
Pulses a primal button marked care for me,
For this needy trusting child
Pulses a primal button marked care for me,
For this needy trusting child
I wonder what they make of me, the locals
Always there, always alone,
Strolling
What’s he doing now? What’s he got?
– chotto hen - weird gaijin -
I pass a cluster of them, or us
The 30-something son, the local wife,
The white-haired grand father
Come to see his offspring sprung
This side of the planet,
Clearly his first time
The brand-new thick cords,
The pocketed hands, slightly raised chin,
The air of nonchalant bewilderment
Always there, always alone,
Strolling
What’s he doing now? What’s he got?
– chotto hen - weird gaijin -
I pass a cluster of them, or us
The 30-something son, the local wife,
The white-haired grand father
Come to see his offspring sprung
This side of the planet,
Clearly his first time
The brand-new thick cords,
The pocketed hands, slightly raised chin,
The air of nonchalant bewilderment
Not quite concealed, trying to
take it in,
To accept, to understand why
His son is rooting in such a foreign land
To accept, to understand why
His son is rooting in such a foreign land
And there an office Dad plays beach ball
With his nippers,
His wife sun-dozing
And there a pair of Tokyo escapees
Earnestly boil a kettle for tea
With his nippers,
His wife sun-dozing
And there a pair of Tokyo escapees
Earnestly boil a kettle for tea
Wrapped up like sherpas
Huddled by their flapping tent
Huddled by their flapping tent
And everywhere the shapely wetsuits,
Cheerfully come to surf,
Bobbing half in hope and fear
On their expectant boards,
Like a rodeo, gazing out to sea -
Cheerfully come to surf,
Bobbing half in hope and fear
On their expectant boards,
Like a rodeo, gazing out to sea -
Today the waves are crashing in
Bright sunshine spray
Bright sunshine spray
Roaring, racing, long-travelled sea miles
Night and day, for this,
Night and day, for this,
their last climactic glory
- then broken, defeated
Spent by grains of sand -
- then broken, defeated
Spent by grains of sand -
My beach – I know her well –
Where her beaten rocks are lurking
Her suffering curves
Every day she’s little changed
Typhoon-shifted, fresh detritus strewn -
And though we’ve spun through the universe
She’s still here, the same
Her breathing heartbeat soothes me
While I’m lost in the newness of now
Where her beaten rocks are lurking
Her suffering curves
Every day she’s little changed
Typhoon-shifted, fresh detritus strewn -
And though we’ve spun through the universe
She’s still here, the same
Her breathing heartbeat soothes me
While I’m lost in the newness of now
In the need to simply be
with the wind and the waves
And the monkey skull
with the wind and the waves
And the monkey skull
Back home, in minutes, and the TV screen is full
Of more dead in Palestine, more dead in Kabul