Thank You . . .

by bookindian

To all the people who have taken the time to visit the blog – “Thank ya, thank ya, thank ya,” as Gomer Pyle used to say . . . and arigatogozaimashita (thank you for all that you have done), I think that should be all one word.

The blog views went over the 2,000 mark (500/month) since December – I know that’s not huge, but it’s a milestone. The page is evolving, no gimmicks or hoaxes to draw viewers, just commentary and photos – a sharing of some of the things I’ve undertaken and personal experiences since being fired last May. It’s been interesting to say the least.

“B” Street

One day, walking on “B” Street,
I thought of drinking sake,
eating rice,
medaka,
Little Tokyo,
Boyle Heights.

Hideo said,
You are an old Japanese
come back
as a Paiute Indian
.”

We drank and talked
far into the past.

The poem is from “36 Views of Manzanar” and was composed during the time I was leading interpretive tours at Manzanar National Historic Site (MNHS)(1997) – I finished writing the series of poems about the experiences and people I met who had been interned at the Manzanar War Relocation Center from 1942 to 1945, the collection of poetry is titled “36 Views of Manzanar” – influenced by Hokusai Katsushige’s “36 views of Mt. Fuji” and Basho’s haiku and renka about his travels on the Tokaido Road. (The Narrow Road to the Deep North). Hiroshige Ando also produced a collection of woodblock prints titled “36 Views of Mt. Fuji“.

THANKS

Woodblock print from Hokusai’s “36 Views of Mt. Fuji“.

Several of my poems from “36 Views of Manzanar” were published in “The Dirt Is Red Here” (Heyday Books, Berkeley, California).

I had finished leading a tour of MNHS for Wilbur Sato and his friend, and Wilbur, who had been at the Manzanar War Relocation Center, said, “So when are the poems going to be finished?” At the time the poems were just a thought, but somehow Wilbur knew that the solitude and history of the site was working its subtle magic . . .

Here’s one for the road . . .

Kami

Peering over a clump
of wild rose bushes
a young coyote
watched me
as I listened to the wind

spilling

through the tree leaves.

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