ON
New and Selected Poems
by
Matsuo Takahashi
Daedalus Press/Dufour Editions
Paper, 126 pages, $18.95
ISBN 1-904556-49.3
On Two Shores is the poetic record of
Matsuo Takahashi s journey from the shores of
Poetry, Takahashi says, grants us a forum where we are allowed to have a dialogue with people who died a thousand years ago. This allows us to connect not only with the past but also the future, for the dead help the living write. And there is much here about death, and the end of the world, such as this from Morning:
One morning, you open your front door, and
find
the world has ended.
This jarring of our senses becomes even more abstract in Courier:
Under a halo of morning light, a
courier-bike
arrives backward without
a sound.
The end of the world
must be as bright,
blinding us in a single glar.
From here Takahashi takes a page from DesCartes and questions our very existence, as if only what we might perceive right now is all that exists, and even what seems to exist now is a large question, as in The Letter:
You who wrote the letter
are a light-source that
ceased with the letter.
And I, reading the
letter today,
am an eye that didn t
exist then.
The essence of a letter
between
a non-existent light
source
and a non-existent eye
is light transmitted through darkness.
Yet Takahashi does not forego hope, or faith, or a belief in what might exist in death. He sees such a world like a tree with roots and leaves, even if is a mystery. In The Olive Tree he explains:
One of these days, death will pay us a
visit,
and we ll join the serried ranks of the
dead.
Siphoned-in by slender roots, we ll be
reborn
and flow out of the shimmering leaves as
light.
That much we know.
These
poems are wide-ranging, from Yeats and Ezra Pound, from the Sarin terrorist
attack on the Tokyo subway to 9/11, and how our arrogant stock exchange swelled
up and sucked two iron birds into its twin towers of Babel ( To the
Terrorists, Ezra Pound ), to the nightwalker who walks alone on one dark shore
while sensing, in the waves, somewhere beyond the wind, the far shore from
which he came, so that the sea and shore kept changing places. ( On
A bilingual edition, with translations by Mitsuko Ohno and Frank Sewell, this work of Takahashi is a type of metaphysical illumination that poetry might often strive to be but rarely is. Perhaps, as in Ebola, it is because Takahashi recognizes that the origin of what might kill us, such as a virus, is something which is ancient, as ancient as our source is invisible. But of course he means more than a virus when he says:
Huddled closely together, with nothing
dividing us,
our voice lowered to a
whisper,
we flow under the skin
of time
on a dark riverbed.
The darkness Takahashi sees may not be what we want to see, but we live deeper for having seen it the way he does, if only briefly.
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