What For
by Garrett Hongo
At six I lived for spells:
how a few Hawaiian words could call
up the rain, could hymn like the sea
in the long swirl of chambers
curling in the nautilus of a shell,
how Amida’s ballads of the Buddhaland
in the drone of the priest’s liturgy
could conjure money from the poor
and give them nothing but mantras,
the strange syllables that healed desire.
I lived for stories about the war
my grandfather told over hana cards,
slapping them down on the mats
with a sharp Japanese kiai.
I lived for songs my grandmother sang
stirring curry into a thick stew,
weaving a calligraphy of Kannon’s love
into grass mats and straw sandals.
I lived for the red volcano dirt
staining my toes, the salt residue
of surf and sea wind in my hair,
the arc of a flat stone skipping
in the hollow trough of a wave.
I lived in a child’s world, waited
for my father to drag himself home,
dusted with blasts of sand, powdered
and the strange ash of raw cement,
his deafness made worse by the clang
of pneumatic drills, sore in his bones
from the buckings of a jackhammer.
He’d hand me a scarred lunchpail,
let me unlace the hightop G.I. boots,
call him the new name I’d invented
that day in school, write it for him
on his newspaper. He’d rub my face
with hands that felt like gravel roads,
tell me to move, go play, and then he’d
walk to the laundry sink to scrub,
rinse the dirt of his long day
from a face brown and grained as koa wood.
I wanted to take away the pain
in his legs, the swelling in his joints,
give him back his hearing,
clear and rare as crystal chimes,
the fins of glass that wrinkled
and sparked the air with their sound.
I wanted to heal the sores that work
and war had sent to him,
let him play catch in the backyard
with me, tossing a tennis ball
past papaya trees without the shoulders
of pain shrugging back his arms.
I wanted to become a doctor of pure magic,
to string a necklace of sweet words
fragrant as pine needles and plumeria,
fragrant as the bread my mother baked,
place it like a lei of cowrie shells
and pikake flowers around my father’s neck,
and chant him a blessing, a sutra.
Garrett Hongo, “What For” from Yellow Light Copyright ©
1982 by Garrett Hongo. Reprinted with the
permission of Wesleyan University Press.
Source: Yellow Light (Wesleyan University Press, 1982)
Bats Steal
7/14 by GMWP 2014
With new friends in the Atrium at 8:49a.m. we wrote our way in:
How a few buttons could rinse through our memories
like rain on a cool metal roof in torrents of detail
and patterings of nostalgia and mystery and lime green chiffon,
because all great potlucks aspire towards chance,
how Zelda’s inquiry, “How to make kids want to write
like they want to shoot at one another with arrorws?”
could conjure attention and relevancy and inspiration
and give us all the choice, the chance, to think about spiders,
and Bob Dylan, and The Origins of Name.
We wrote for stories from small moments, and by not thinking
too much about any one artifact or scent for too long
because “sometimes we exaggerate in order to relay not just the
facts of an event or a time, but the feeling of it.”
We wrote because dialogue, and placing ourselves among history,
helps build circles of responsibility, because writing leads to the idea
And not the other way around. What are the stories told to you
about you?
We wrote for the chance for choice and to anticipate tomorrow’s
celebration which is sure to contain multitudes, but wait:
THIS I BELIEVE DRAFT DUE NEXT TUESDAY.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY ‘EDUCATOR’S OATH’?
MAKE SURE TO UPLOAD YOUR TW FEEDBACK
IN A TIMELY FASHION. What will this Jacob’s
tiny prophecies reveal about our fate?
We wrote for the chance for choice, for stacking Russian Dolls,
for the chance to yell, “GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU STUPID
ASS HOLE,” in our loudest toddler-voices.
We wrote for the chance for choice, to manipulate our mothers and
strange old ladies for one-cent gumballs because a writer’s life is
led by the writing, in the way that an appetite is led by reappearing delicious homemade cookies.