The Inky Raindrops Of Calligraphy Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

The Inky Raindrops Of Calligraphy



Finally at the furthest point of my walk
I prepared for the harbour to have its say
But first popping into the Academy of Fine Arts
I found myself almost alone wishing bright life:
Listening to Hokai Shibayama's brush strokes
And the imaginary inky sounds of Japanese calligraphy.

Apricot blossoms on the way
Are in beautiful bloom
Spring birds are calling in a sweet voice
Everywhere in the mountains:
I have help while I am unaware of it.

I have no container
I will take it in my hands -
Is it the sound of drizzling rain?
Go into the rain and listen
And understand feelings with heaviness.

And Akiko sort of materialized
In a most beautiful kimono
Smiling that sweet, blinking slight smile
That is something of a Japanese speciality
And I said: Are you the calligrapher?
‘No' she replied ‘But I also practice'

As for me, I am at home I told her
Having somewhat studied Zen -
Minded of the Paramita Heart Sutra
And the Identity of Relative and Absolute -
Like the foot before and the foot behind in walking:
We are nothing special but nothing is lacking.

Let me respectfully remind you
That Life and Death are of Supreme Importance:
Time Swiftly Passes and Opportunity is Lost
Each of us should strive to awaken
Awaken! Take heed:
Do Not Squander Your Life.

And we bowed to each other with gentle hearts
But cynic that I am, I later recalled
That everything in the sacred is profane
And everything in the profane is sacred,
When mulling a wheat beer by the harbour.

So I watched a young crowd joss and dance
To a lazy Sunday afternoon of groovy music
The girls jumping into the laps of their men
Playfully smooching and mounting other girls
With one brave-heart tipsy sailing a skate-board.

As the froth fell in my glass - foam ring by foam ring
I thought again of one of my earliest memories
Of the farm that we had moved to when I was four
And of sitting at the window of the farm kitchen,
Watching the raindrops in the darkening autumn,

Waiting for them to coalesce and resolve
On the glass and for the heavy droplets
To suddenly streak down, racing each other
To the broken paintwork of the window sill
Disappearing like mirages in mirror form.

And how this always reminded me of the first story
That I had been read by my primary school teacher
About a scarecrow that had come to stuffed-straw life,
Miraculously animated by her stern but smiling face,
As she communed with words and their mysterious letters

And how all my conscious life, words had befriended me
With their letters like the gentle patter of rain -
Or droplets of words rushing to a meaning -
And I laughed, as I walked near Frank Kitts' Park,
That somebody had written in chalk in an excellent hand
"Save the Whales - Eat the Japanese".

Tuesday, December 6, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: poetry
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Seamus O Brian 06 December 2016

I feel like a reveler on a boardwalk who has, for laughs, poked his head through a curtained stall to make some meaningless joke, and found myself face to face with something unexpectedly beautiful. Such is the charm of PoemHunter, combing through stacks of thrift-store merchandise and exclaiming here and there, Hey, look at what I found! Thank you for this delightful work of verbal calligraphy. I shall look forward to further browsing in your remarkable stall.

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