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Do the right thing Multicultural life New Media Musings Reading Minds

Exploring new ways of seeing

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anonymous artist – Outsider art exhibit at local library

I haven’t had the chance to get to this place lately. Been traveling about and reading books on the treatment of the peasant class during the pre-modern and modern era of Japan. Once again, I am opening my eyes wider to what is in the hidden history of Japan and starting to recognize important interconnections with the history of the Ainu here in Hokkaido and to the poor all over Japan and, ultimately, the world.

It seems to me quite obvious that the controlling power base tries to define as many differentiating (and often arbitrary) characteristics of others to weigh in as losers against their own perceived supremacy of group characteristics in order to justify the continued unequal and inhumane treatment of those ‘undesirables.’

The undesirables are meant to stay undesirable, in other words. Thus, the under-class has a role, it seems in part, to keep the elites feeling superior and justifiably self-righteous.

I have always found social history much more fascinating than the standard fare drilled in young minds. The book I mentioned I am in the process of reading above is Peasants, Rebels, Women, and Outcastes by Mikiso Hane. He argues that the road to modernization for the majority of Japanese was slow, and wretched, filled with disease, starvation and discrimination. I recommend it, but of course it won’t be a cheerful read! More like a bucket of ice water thrown on a sleeping bear.

I also met a woman scholar yesterday who trained at SIT in Brattleboro, VT, and is now an intercultural trainer. She built a website recently to open the dialogue up within Japan on multicultural issues. It’s entirely in Japanese but here it is! I was thrilled to see this sort of positive action being taken within Japan.

Categories
Ordinary Miracles

Watching Clouds

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Categories
Poems & art

A Language No One Knows

My son said, What you think as a problem,
think as a skill. To speak a language no one knows –
but for me – crushes dandelion dust under my chin
and love’s butter seeps into my marrow as deep as those
who utter moo, meow, and ba-ba
black sheep have you any wool.

No arf, no peep, no neigh, a rare choo-choo.
Those sounds carry no impact
on the current state of planet earth
or guarantee happy thoughts when old.

To be in the realm of non-language may be a gift
from me to you. A reminder that words fly
and never land; they spill and dissipate.
Toward emptiness all speech crawls.
When I look at you with all my love
limitations of the tongue shall melt away
like ice painted to the branches of trees.

Categories
Ordinary Muse Poems & art

Spring

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(anonymous outsider art at the local public library)

The hawk hovers above the courtyard and knows
that the earth is awakening. It is mindful of the movement
below the soil, the stretching of limbs and the assembly-line
yawns. Rivers rippling past creaking bones.

Any animal with a nose knows the same. The wind kisses
each face awake with the thermal smells of melting snow and loam.
Butter on morning bread melts faster, luxuriously
releasing its frigid opaque form. Everything stirs.

And the sounds! The eaves of every man-made box plink and plonk
a free-style jazz of tin cans, wooden spoons, and stones shaken in jars.
Such music sets us free. Snow on rooftops slips on invisible shoes and leaps.

Small feet patter the earth as if millions of children trapped inside
brick schools and steel factories broke free. Horizon is a far distant fence
in a field of mud and seeds. Hearts thump chaotic bliss and bodies pulsate
heat and breathe. The deity manifest in the hawk surveys the earth spinning

toward Spring. In its tendons and in its wings, it sees a brimming lake below,
overflowing mirror of sky. Near the surface, fish glide by on silver fins.
In the center of yellow-black peonies reveal a multitude of opening eyes.

Categories
Poems & art

Open Spaces

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Faith doesn’t materialize in human breath,
in an utterance of Sanskrit or ancient Hebrew or
in the foam at the top of a tall glass of milk
directly brought from the udder to your lips.

Faith has more to do with silence than speech,
more with the open spaces among the notes and words.
I have never seen it, unless it might be those floating
colored specks a child sees, eyes closed, when facing the sun.

Grass turns to velvet. And ants, beads of lapis lazuli.

There’s another kind of faith people like to talk about,
while chasing azures with nets, but it never fills the soul
with triumphant towering clouds or human wings.
At best, it stuffs the mouth with cotton and sedulously
sets copper coins on man’s closed eyes.

Let go of the notions of acquiring hope via the holes
of the body and re-frame the journey by hoisting
an ax to the five gilded frames of your world. Chop away!

My advice, at surface, appears noisy, violent, extreme.
But if you took my initial advice to heart
then it’s in the pause before and after where belief
cradles your head and whispers your wordless name.

Lean into the silence
of a cut lemon and dance to the symphony
of an orange tree in bloom. Faith roams freely
the earth, the body, the mind. No shadow slows it down.

Categories
Poems & art

Spiral

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Categories
Poems & art

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Categories
Ordinary Muse

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Categories
Ordinary Muse Poems & art

White Sky

When three hawks flew by in straight lines
I knew something must be done straightaway
to pull the thread taut and flatten the seam
of the quilt. Enough unraveling!

We have a world here before us of drizzly snow
and shiny black branches against white sky.
Something is being said in Chinese
and it’s time to translate the text.

Underneath the grey sedimentary lines of snow sleeps
a tiny red mitten. Its owner has a song to sing
that only those who love him hear.
It sounds like the voice of an angel,

an archangel, and not Gabriel who’s busy
dictating the Qur’an and visiting Mary. And it’s not Varuna,
the Sky God of Sun and Rain. 1000 eyes watch without sound.
Listen. Maybe it’s Pleiades or Paramita or Norway Pine.

Does the name matter? If the song sung is plein (sailing)
or peleiades (flock of doves), will you still dance with love?
Everyone dances who loves this child, and that’s why we’re here,
tugging your hand. We keep the hearts safe, under here.

The telephone won’t be answered in seven languages.
The last sip of coffee grows hearty limbs and
stands as a lemon tree atop a hill in Rio.
There are boxes humans make of windows and homes, a child.

Even the car in repose is a box with something almost human inside.
Walls don’t smile or laugh or give hope. The trees speak quickly.
One blink and the fractals shatter unread.
The message spreads like a blue flame searing

across the palm of my hand, up collarbone, beneath my tongue.
Ask the red mitten! She’ll tell you that to be lost
in snow is fine with her. She has memories of being
whispered to, and she grasps the words inside the very fibers

of her being. She has nothing else left
to hold. There is the pair of eyes, large as bowls
filled with black ink, and inside them
a boy lives a life those who love him need near.

In the space of one of the hawk’s wings is a tear
from a crow who wanted its home to itself, not in the mood to share.
If it’s a tear or a tear doesn’t matter to the branches right now.

To be saved from this world you must first
bury yourself in the snow, close your hands over
your ears and hum. A blue glass bottle is today.
The white sky signifies infinite hope.

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