Classic Poem

An evening
when you hear a needle
hit the floor.
A whisky glass on a table breaks
and from the drawer
of countless pasts
emerge unfamiliar cards
incomprehensible codes
the notes
of a mind that is missing.
This is
a world of light and shadow
a world of negatives:
the files of records of the K University Hospital surgical ward.
Blood vessels like the veins of an orchid
make ash-white rivers,
the skin and subcutaneous fat enfolds
a world of darkness.
The dull tactile sense
suitable for touching by rubber gloves,
the overripe flesh
suitable for groping
with tweezers and knives of alloyed metals.
If the flesh enfolds a dead heart
ask a poet you like
what bread he can imagine,
ask a painter you like
what wine he can see
in the flow of milky blood.
Ah
a slight intrusion of meaning
and any modern city becomes shattered,
a slight intrusion of light
and the world of negatives collapses.
The needle leaps up from the floor.
The milky rivers turn into the color of blood
and under the smooth skin
appears the heart that has feigned death.
The window opens.
The door opens with a violent noise
and someone goes out.
Or
someone comes in.

If the heart has died,
any attempt at reviving it
will be useless.
For his resurrection
what rituals
what mobs
what powers
what traitors
what doctrines
what skies
what horizons are there?
Perhaps Breughel
might have silently painted large trees
with tones heavier than gravity.
To make blanks.
Because he can only answer it with blanks
because he wants a blank perspective no matter what
because he wants to hear a blank rhythm.
Incidentally
if it's a missing heart
you can't bury it casually.
There's no trouble forging
a death certificate
or a cremation permit
but you can't forge a heart.
Perhaps Mozart
would need a flute.
With a flute
the boy with curled hair would set out on a journey,
with a flute
he would roam countries of all living things.
From all thirsts
the boy would find a uniform dream.
Perhaps Miro
would give the uniform dream
a uniform color.
From the uniform color wild lines would be born
and soon the lines would cross,
dots echo each other,
and toward a center
paint a fertile territory.
The black earth
where all beings were born
and all beings died,
the black earth will spread its wings as wide as it can
and divide the sky and the horizon.
Sometimes
showers will come
or they will accompany thunderclaps as well.
Lightning will pierce the space,
numerous dolphins copulate
and gigantic whales spout rainbows.
Often
the trade wind will be sent to the Ivory Coast
and Henri Rousseau's
dark green trees will flourish.
In the East the stars yet to be named will twinkle
and by the time their light reaches the earth
St John's
John Donne's
Baudelaire's
and Mallarme's metaphors will be created.
By these metaphors
billions of days and nights part,
millions of days and nights keep harmony
and oh
in my mind
four thousand days and nights engage in battle.

8

Where day and night part
where there are harmony and order of day and night
where there are battles between day and night
this is
the tip of a needle
the tip that shines by the light of unnamed stars
the spear of history's fire
the tip of the trembling spear

7

to the tower
to the fort
to the mansion
they rush
they roar
they loot
they rape
they arson
they express
they express the domain of every art
the white-heated rhythm
the image that multiplies
the original metaphor
the dangerous simile
the expose-type manifesto
the most hypocritical art movement that suppresses hypocrisy

6

If you really want to see things, gouge your eyes.
If you really want to hear rhythms, slash your ears.
What connects image to image is the king's power.
What creates image from image is the angel's glory.
Submission is the slave's joy.
Enjoyment is the secret pleasure of the ruled.
Therefore
the king must be greater than the mass.
Therefore
the angel above must be more powerful than any king.
All critics on earth, get lost.
Look at the eyes of generations of kings:
their eyes were gouged thousands of years ago,
their eyes are in the stone.
Look at the ears of the angel. If
you can see your own angel
his ears are in his wings.

5

the trembling wings
the trembling tongue
in the backyard of the K University Hospital
I saw the pink legs of a wild pigeon
the trembling tongue
the ripping tongue
on the premises of Kaizen Temple on the Kamikawa route, Shinshu
I saw a genuine blue snake
the trembling tongue
the beautiful tongue
in Rokurigahara in the autumn wind
I met Sakuraiwa Kwannon

4

where
a needle lies
light comes from anywhere
the darkness is in the voice of the wild pigeon
in the resplendent design of the snake
and in
the hands of Sakuraiwa Kwannon

3

from the deer's horn
to the french horn
from the blokfleute
to the flute
the histories of musical instruments belong to light and dark
to the blank
of the heart that is missing
from Mozart to Debussy
from the deer's horn
to the french horn
from the blokfleute
to the flute

2

the light drives the heart
into rhythm
the darkness drives it into instrumental form
as the hunter chases his quarry
as hunger chases a wild beast

1

where there's a needle
there's a silence

where the angel above intercepts
there's a trembling tongue

I see a tower
our life is too long to commit sins

I see a castle
our life is too short to atone for sins

the soul is a form
from the deer's horn
to the french horn
from the blokfleute
to the flute