The HyperTexts
Hiroshima Poetry, Prose and Art
Hibakusha Poetry, Prose and Art
compiled and edited by Michael R. Burch
The following poems, prose and works of art about Hiroshima should remind us of the
fragility of life, and how very important it is for human beings to resolve
their differences without violence, now that our ability to inflict suffering
and death on each other has become near-infinite. A number of the poems and
works of art to follow are by a hibakusha (atomic bomb survivor), Takashi "Thomas" Tanemori,
whose story appears toward the end of this page. But to give our readers a quick
glimpse into the world we are about to view together, please allow me to share a
few sentences of Takashi's story now:
Long ago I was
lifted from the ashes of Hiroshima to find my way in the world. Before then my
Father, a descendent of a proud Samurai family, dressed in a kimono emblazoned
with the family crest Maru ni Tachi Aoi, of the "hollyhock" [Tokugawa
Shogunate lineage], taught me patiently to live by the ancient code of
Samurai. How important it was to him to make sure that he had correctly passed
on to me the "Seven Codes of the Samurai," as he insisted that we must repay our
debts to our ancestors by passing on to our children what we have received. On
September 3, 1945, I bade farewell to my Father. I became a hibakusha, leaving the charred cradle of
childhood with a heart twisted by hatred, for a harsh journey toward manhood. As
a teenager, I immigrated to America, my youthful mind thinking it my duty to
seek revenge for the destruction of my family . . .
You can learn what happened to Takashi later on this page. But for a moment, let
us turn to the words of the man perhaps most responsible for the creation of the
atomic bomb:
Now I am become Death [Shiva],
the Destroyer of Worlds.
The words above are those of Robert
Oppenheimer, the Supervising Scientist of the Manhattan Project, often called
"the father of the atomic bomb." He quoted them from the poetry of the Bhagavad-Gita,
after watching the first detonation of a nuclear weapon.
If the radiance of a thousand suns
Were to burst at once into the sky
That would be like the splendor of the Mighty One ...
I am become Death,
The Destroyer of Worlds.
—Bhagavad-Gita
Seeing Your great form
with many faces, many eyes, many arms, many thighs and
feet,
and many terrible tusks and stomachs,
O Mighty Armed,
the worlds are
terrified and so am I.
—Bhagavad-Gita
The Atomic Age began at exactly 5:30 Mountain War Time on the morning of
July 15, 1945, on a stretch of semi-desert land about five airline miles from
Alamogordo, New Mexico. And just at that instance there rose from the bowels of
the earth a light not of this world, the light of many suns in one.—William Laurence,
New York Times, September 26, 1945
O Krishna, son of Devaki,
Lord of the universe, of inexhaustible powers,
Krishna of the blue-lotus
skin,
Krishna of the white-lily
eyes,
Saffron-robed Krishna,
Help me now!
—Draupadi's cry to Krishna in Book Three The Forest (P. Lal)
Let Us Be Midwives!
by Hiroshima survivor Kurihara Sadako
translated by Michael R. Burch
Midnight . . .
the basement of a shattered building . . .
atomic bomb survivors sniveling in the darkness . . .
not a single candle between them . . .
the odor of blood . . .
the stench of death . . .
the sickly-sweet smell of decaying humanity . . .
the groans . . .
the moans . . .
Out of all that, suddenly, miraculously, a voice:
"The baby's coming!"
In the hellish basement, unexpectedly,
a young mother had gone into labor.
In the dark, lacking a single match, what to do?
Scrambling to her side,
forgetting their own . . .
I don't know what weapons World War III will be
fought with,
but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.—Albert
Einstein
Excerpts from Under Siege
by Mahmoud Darwish
translated by Marjolijn De Jager
Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the
cannon of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
We cultivate hope.
A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligent
For we closely watch the hour of victory:
No night in our night lit up by the shelling
Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us
In the darkness of cellars.
Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.
When the planes disappear, the white, white doves
Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven
With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking
possession
Of the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the
white, white doves
Fly off. Ah, if only the sky
Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].
Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment
Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.
Oh watchmen! Are you not weary
Of lying in wait for the light in our salt
And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound
Are you not weary, oh watchmen?
A little of this absolute and blue infinity
Would be enough
To lighten the burden of these times
And to cleanse the mire of this place.
Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart’s health,
The health of the testicles and of your tenacious
disease:
The disease of hope.
Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to
The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in
the
Blackness of this tunnel!
Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me
In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces:
Greetings to my apparition.
My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me,
A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees
A marble epitaph of time
And always I anticipate them at the funeral:
Who then has died...who?
Our technology has exceeded our humanity.—Albert
Einstein
But what happens if we don't learn
from the voices of the past?
Of what use to the world
is a poet
or a prophet
whose words go unheeded? . . .
—Miklós Radnóti, translated
by Gina
Gönczi
The poem that follows is based on a vision of Zyskandar Jaimot. I believe this
is a poem he was working on up to his death, as he emailed me (Mike Burch)
revisions to the poem shortly before he died on the evening of March 30, 2010.
As Miklós Radnóti, a victim of the Holocaust, asked in his poem above, what
happens if we don't learn from the voices of the past, and don't heed the word
of poets and prophets? . . .
The future of Iran and Israel
by Zyskandar Jaimot
unleashed in a nanosecond – DAEMONS to despoil the world . . .
wisps of a dream
a vision
pornographic in nature
i am alone
watching our destruction
by beings created — created in our fervid ejaculatory madness
the egg lies there waiting to hatch — alembic in amoral innocence
and i feel cold
i shiver
from fear
and from the air temperature
kept frigid
by giant refrigeration systems
chilling those hot coils
freezing destructive desire
those mechanical prods
raw
undressed
about the size and width
of an adult porpoise
innocent
frolic freely
while losing
heat to
the universe’s quantum waves
each encased
in a latex bodice
like
a
dominant mistress
shiny
silvery
stainless steel struts
hold
parts
conjoined in breathless expectation
as the corset inhibits
every damned gasp of air
wrapped
by layers of valuable
oh-so valuable gold leaf
to increase desire’s fervor
fashioned
with priapic polyethylene protrusions
little fake dildos
only to penetrate once
to extract life’s essence
only for an instant of transmogrified time
like the allure of film stars
able to entice via mere visions and sounds
a shuddering momentary
breathless encounter
seduced
by the power of fission
to shatter
the air’s invulnerability
with copper threads
that strangle and cut
the dark dull grey core of plutonium
lusting
to escape with a whoosh of heat
more vicious
than ten thousand thousand suns’
able to melt the colours
from butterflies’ wings
thin bands of deuterium
as translucent as white frothy sea foam
relentlessly breaking the sandy shore
of our indurate creation
pornography has a new permissive nature
to destroy us all in waves of sudden desire
amorality awaits —to immolate all life
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
—Michael R. Burch,
"Epitaph of a Hiroshima Child"
At the Peace Park, Hiroshima
—Zyskandar Jaimot
The tilted dome stands
and reflects like a silent mirror
While balding grey-feathered pigeons hide
among twisted agonized steel
Long naked metal fingers open
strive to grasp the still empty air
Emaciated shadows linger among
ruins of anonymous burial mounds
Murmurs of weeping fountains add background calm
to hours devoted to atomic remembrance
Forgotten ashen silences yield
miraculously to clean lanes swept continuously
But before you, one street segregated by bitter hatreds
A single cement pole inscribed with Korean names
marks slave laborers' forbidden even in death
Proper respect to mingle in the teary Japanese sky.
But what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
I lived to see that and this,
the air feels heavy to me.
A war sound-filled silence hugs me
as before my nativity.
—Miklós Radnóti, translated
by Gina
Gönczi
Lucifer, to the Enola Gay
—Michael R. Burch
Go then, and give them my meaning
so that their teeming
streets
become my city.
Bring back a pretty
flower,
a chrysanthemum,
perhaps, to bloom
if but an hour,
within a certain room
of mine
where
the sun does not rise or fall,
and the moon,
though it is content to shine,
helps nothing at all.
There,
if I hear the wistful call
of their voices
regretting choices
made
or perhaps not made
in time,
I can look back upon it and recall,
in all of its forms sublime,
still
Death will never be holy again.
Whoever fights monsters should see to it
That in the process he does not become a monster.
If you gaze too long into an abyss,
the abyss gazes also into you.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee
And I'll forgive the great big one on me.
—Robert Frost
The Unreturning
—Wilfred Owen
Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled
Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled.
Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled
When far-gone dead return upon the world.
There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke.
Each one whom Life exiled I named and called.
But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled,
And never one fared back to me or spoke.
Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn
With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds,
The weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained.
And while I wondered on their being withdrawn,
Gagged—the smothering Wing which none unbinds,
I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
—Leonard Cohen
What indeed is Earth but a Nest
from whose rim we are all falling?
—Emily Dickinson
I took one Draught of Life—
I'll tell you what I paid—
Precisely an existence—
The market price, they said.
—Emily Dickinson
Heaven will not be as good as earth,
unless it bring with it
that sweet power to remember,
which is the Staple of Heaven—here.
—Emily Dickinson
Those who do not learn from the past
are doomed to repeat it.
—George Santayana
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
—Stanley
Kunitz
I know the truth – give up
all other
truths!
No need for people anywhere on earth to struggle.
Look – it is evening, look , it is nearly night:
What do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals?
The wind is level
now, the earth is wet with dew,
the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
who never let each other sleep above it.
—Marina Tsvetaeva, translated by Elaine
Feinstein
Which plunderer’s hand
ransacked the pure gold statute of your
dreams
In this horrendous storm?
—Nadia Anjuman, Afghani poet
I was angry with my friend,
I told my wrath, my wrath did end;
I was angry with my foe,
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
—William Blake
... For we are guilty too, as other peoples are,
knowing full-well when and how and why we've sinned so far,
but workers live here too, and poets, without sin
and tiny babies in whom intellect will flourish;
it shines in them and they guard it, hiding in dark cellars
until the finger of peace once again marks our nation,
and with fresh voices they will answer our muffled words.
Cover us with your big wings, vigil-keeping evening cloud!
—Miklós Radnóti, translated
by Gina
Gönczi
You Who Read No Calm
—T. Merrill
You, who read no calm reportings
Of alien, distant, dire events,
But shriek and keen as loves go down
Beyond all help, to violence;
Whose temple's walls, stormstruck and split
by sizzling bolts collapse around,
While mid the crash of chaos hope
Whirls in a death-spin to the ground;
You, who alone in deep distress
Cry out for help where there is none,
All you whom I shall never know:
I know a portion nonetheless
Of cruel trials you undergo.
Killers in many guises come:
Sudden as electric shock
Or looming ghostly as a shark
Leisurely finning toward its mark.
I who breathless and sweating once
Wrestled a devil to the floor,
And saw him rise again when he
Finished what he began before,
I who re-learned each childhood prayer
Forgotten, to the stars once more
Send up a poor and hopeless plea
For spirit's peace beyond despair.
How could I understand?
—Michael R. Burch
How could I understand
that light
might
be painful?
That sight
might
be crossed?
How could I understand
the cost
of my ignorance,
or the sun’s
inflorescence?
Who was there to tell me
that I, too,
was one of the
Lost?
If more politicians knew poetry,
and more poets knew politics,
I am convinced the world
would be a little better place to live.
—John
Fitzgerald Kennedy
I have torn speech like a tattered robe and let words go;
you who are still dressed in your clothes, sleep on.
—Jalaluddin Rumi, translated by Jack Marshall
We must never forget
that art is not a form of propaganda;
it
is a form of truth.
—John F. Kennedy
Oh my heart, you know it is spring
And time to celebrate.
What should I do with a trapped wing,
Which does not let me fly?
I have been silent too long,
But I never forget the melody,
Since every moment I whisper
The songs from my heart,
Reminding myself of
The day I will break this cage,
Fly from this solitude
And sing like a melancholic.
—Nadia Anjuman, translated
by Mahnaz Badihian
Even though I am the daughter of poem and songs
My poem was novice and broken
My autonomous twig did not recognize the hand of the gardener
—Nadia Anjuman
Do not question love as it is the inspiration of your pen
My loving words had in mind death
—Nadia Anjuman
To see a World in a grain of sand
And a Heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
—William Blake
The day the Cloud reigned
—Michael R. Burch
The sky was clear on Hiroshima,
sealing her fate.
The report of the weather plane,
neither early nor late,
was certainly plain.
The few innocuous clouds did not refrain
from abandoning the city.
Only the silence, monstrous in its complicity,
regarding man’s error
acknowledged the horror.
Only the small, astonished victims
understood the immaculate heavens:
the inconceivable light
igniting their bones;
the Cloud, all of a sudden,
billowing unbidden,
and then the apocalyptic rain
descending again and again.
So that where white chrysanthemums
had once whispered with bemused tongues
instantly only ashen ruins remained
the day the Cloud reigned.
War Close Up
by Hiroshima survivor Kurihara Sadako
translated by Michael R. Burch
Stirring bugles! Rousing martial music!
The announcer reporting "victory"
like some messenger from on high,
fanning, fanning the fervored flames of battle!
Masterful state magicians materializing
in a wizardly procession,
spreading cleverly poisoned words
to bewilder reason!
Artistic expression abracadabra-ed into state-sponsored magic!
The sound of boots, guns, bombs, cannons
as our army advances, advances, advances toward the enemy!
The thunder of our invincible tanks advancing! Alleluia!
The sudden, sweet gurgles of drowning enemy ships!
The radio broadcasts the sounds of battle:
A war hymn resounding to the skies,
sung by courageous men and women
who worship this cruel idol, War.
Oh, so powerful the merest whiff
addles even the most independent spirit—
the opium of patriotism!
the religion of race!
While on scenic islands
scattered like stepping stones across the globe,
and on farflung continents,
driven by boundless avarice,
the landlords rage and rave again,
instilling hatred in indigenous populations
then prodding, driving them into battle.
Full of high-sounding pretexts
inevitably adapted to expediency
they raise indisputable banners—
God is on our side!
Righteous war!
Holy war!
"Right" becomes the password of thieves.
They square their shoulders:
"To secure world peace
annihilate
the evil opponent!"
They bark commands:
"For ten years, a hundred years,
fight to the last man, the last woman!"
The master magicians' martial music
resounds magisterially;
fanatic bull-mad patriots
roar and run amok;
completely bewitched, the people carol in unison:
"O, let me die by the side of my sweet Sovereign!"
We must extirpate false patriotic ideas from the minds of our youth, just as we
must extirpate them
from those of
the false patriots, out of love for our mothers, the concept of the nation as
Mother. How could she ever be our mother if, as you tell us, we have to give the
last drop of our blood for her! We must be the sons of the true fatherland: the
fatherland of love and equality.—Federico Garcia Lorca
The Blade of Grass in a Dreamless Field
by
Takashi "Thomas" Tanemori
Only a few knew it existed;
No one knew its power;
The world would never be the same again,
Changing irrevocably and forever.
The six-hundred-year history of Hiroshima
Disappeared in the ashes,
On this Judgment Day, on this Morning!
(i)
Blameless souls forever vanish
on this morning, this judgment day.
Our silent cries, to heaven we appeal,
scattered like the ash of withered leaves.
Our ebbing souls
cling to that lonely sky;
we try in vain to escape this sea of flame.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my haven,
why has your life been sacrificed?
(ii)
The abounding sadness within my heart . . .
drowning my loneliness in tears of self-pity.
Four abandoned children;
wishing to feel our mother's love,
just once more;
if only in our dreams.
The heat of yet another long night lingers.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my home,
my tears run dry waiting for the breaking dawn.
(iii)
My soul is torn—this rage inside,
an orphan of war;
why does this make me feel guilty?
Why do my neighbors turn away
or, close their ears when I speak?
Bitterness poisons this innocent child,
I madly waste away.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my cradle,
I am waiting to die.
(iv)
Gathering remnants of my courage,
I stand alone in this notorious America, land of the enemy.
An outcast with slanted eyes,
I fall before the indifference of strangers;
sightlessly, they trample upon my dignity.
This life of anguish seems to be my destiny.
Praying for death, I endure time.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my comfort,
I am lost in dreams of revenge.
(v)
Budding leaves renew this tired place, this tired soul;
gently the rain is embraced—your love,
comforting this savaged heart.
A blade of grass emerges from the ashes,
and my heart becomes a light,
connecting me to heaven.
Living for one another, this is my path!
Oh Hiroshima, forever my love,
may my life become a bridge from you and others.
(vi)
At the dawn of the 21st century,
we honor this passage through darkness.
We must have the courage to enter
the void again . . . and again,
emerging with the gift of new life.
Healing only comes through learning to forgive
and making peace with our past.
Only then, will the wind whisper:
"Hibakusha, you have not lived in vain!"
Measure of a Heart
by
Takashi "Thomas" Tanemori
No one can Measure a "Heart"
—a yardstick or a scale;
nor can it be touched like a tender petal;
or inhaled like the fragrance of a rose.
No one can Measure a "Heart"
—a dazzling revelation of wealth;
nor—shiny golden trophies on the mantle;
or bronze statues in the city square.
No one can Measure a "Heart"
—the glittering lights on a Christmas tree;
nor—the number of gifts underneath;
or the extravagance they display.
A "Heart" cannot be Measured, but...
it is demonstrated in so many ways:
as hands that wash the feet of others
in a humble spirit;
as the hands that reach out to the lost
in a kind spirit;
as hands that lift the burdens of the afflicted
in a courageous spirit;
as hands that bandage the wounds of the injured
in a merciful spirit;
as hands that embrace the lonely
in a compassionate spirit;
as hands that visit the fatherless and the elderly
in a tender spirit;
as hands that feed the hungry and the feeble
in a loving spirit;
as the hands that wipe the tears of sorrow
in a sharing spirit;
as the hands that soothe the distress of the mourning
in a sympathetic spirit;
as hands that pray for supplication
in a selfless spirit;
as hands that touch the "heartbeat" of others...
No one can measure a "Heart",
for it is never still,
but like the flowing river,
is known only—its path.
Personal Journey
by
Takashi "Thomas" Tanemori
No one knew your purpose or destiny
As you entered into this world.
Safely cradled in the arms of mother,
You wonder to yourself "Who am I?"
As you journey through life...
From the cradle to the grave;
Climbing hills, crooked roads and deep water;
Your soul is forged, tempered—life's "fiery" trials.
Rain falls both good and evil;
Tragedy, a falling sparrow known only to the Maker.
Hearts fill with countless blessings-
Food, shelter, clothing and friends to be encircled.
Choose your friends and destination well,
Be a friend along the way, but do not hurry there.
You will arrive soon enough to spare the time.
Remember the back roads and forgotten paths.
Keep your destination in your heart
Like the fixed point of a compass guiding your ship.
Do not fear troubled visions and unknown harbors,
Never forget where your journey began.
Treasure your past, but seek out new and old
Venture out into strange sights,
Embrace ideas foreign to your own.
Such things are riches for the soul.
And if, upon arrival, you find that your destination
Is not exactly as you had chartered.
Do not be dismayed, neither be disappointed.
The journey itself is the true worth of your travels.
Think of all you would have missed,
If you had not journeyed, and reflect,
How stumbling steps have become a path.
Know that on this lonely road you have never been alone.
Discovering your pilgrimage through life,
Lies not in what path you traveled, who was with you,
Or how you arrived at journey's end, but
In who you come to be along the way!
My Reflections
by
Takashi "Thomas" Tanemori
Turning my face to Heaven
I sense rather than see the endless blue.
Beyond the dancing leaves and soaring hawk.
Its immeasurable stillness reflects the wonder of all Creation.
Morning dew glittering in the dawn,
like precious jewels;
and twinkling stars echoing in the silent night,
like the songs of angels,
We gather the fruits of the earth,
till the barn is overflowing with bounty.
My heart fills with countless blessings—
food, shelter, clothing and friends to be encircled.
Looking back, I see how
my stumbling steps have become a path—
and how, on this lonely road
I have never been alone.
Kindness of many has been like a spring rain,
bringing new life to my heart,
as a "Blade of Grass" ever emerged
from the ashes of the Past.
I stand, amazed at my blessings,
grateful for the wonder!
Looking forward to even greater New Year
"The Artist"
by
Takashi "Thomas" Tanemori
Casting my "eyes" towards the rolling hills,
laminated—the white mystic-spells,
a sense of "peace" embraces the air,
like a mother cradling a baby.
Watching the sleepy rolling hills,
tenderly cuddled—the mid-day sun;
a mystic warmth disappearing in the air
enlivens the iridescent green below.
Seeing myself surrounded—the rolling hills,
my soul fills with irresistible lightness and wonder;
I stand, not alone,
touched—the "Artist"!
Looking into Heaven
with
Love and Gratitude
on Thanksgiving Day, November 23, 2006
by
Takashi "Thomas" Tanemori
Turning my face to Heaven
I sense rather than see
the endless blue.
Beyond the dancing leaves and soaring hawk,
its immeasurable stillness
reflects the wonder of all Creation.
Morning dew glittering in the dawn,
like precious jewels;
and twinkling stars echoing in the silent night,
like the songs of angels,
We gather the fruits of the earth,
till the barn is overflowing with bounty.
My heart fills with countless blessings:
food, shelter, clothing and friends to be encircled.
Looking back, I see how
my stumbling steps have become a path
and how, on this lonely road,
I have never been alone.
The kindness of many has been
like a spring rain,
bringing new life to my heart,
as a "Blade of Grass" ever emerging
from the ashes of the Past,
I stand, Amazed at my blessings,
grateful for His Wonders!
Poetry is with us from the start.
Like loving,
like hunger, like the plague, like war.
At times my verses were embarrassingly foolish.
But I make no excuse.
I believe that seeking beautiful words
is better
than killing and murdering.
—Iaroslav Seifert
I expect to pass this way but once;
any good therefore that I
can do,
or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature,
let me do it
now.
Let me not defer or neglect it,
for I shall not pass this way
again.
—Etienne Griellet
We live upon one another according
to the law, ancient and timeless.
Let us live thus in loving-kindness.
—Khalil Gibran
go my friend,
bestow your love
even on your enemies
if you touch their hearts
what do you think will happen
—Jalaluddin Rumi, translated by Nader Khalili
I am convinced
That if all mankind
Could only gather together
In one circle
Arms around each other's shoulders
And dance, laugh and cry
Together
Then much
of the tension and burden
of life
Would fall away
In the knowledge that
We are all children
Needing and wanting
Each other's
Comfort and
Understanding
We are all children
Searching for love
—
Leonard Nimoy
I am an incurable romantic
I believe in hope, dreams and decency
I believe in love,
Tenderness and kindness.
I believe in mankind.
I believe in goodness,
Mercy and charity
I believe in a universal spirit
I believe in casting bread
Upon the waters.
I am awed—the snow-capped mountains
—the vastness of oceans.
I am moved—a couple
Of any age – holding hands
As they walk through city streets.
A living creature in pain
Makes me shudder with sorrow
A seagull’s cry fills me
With a sense of mystery.
A river or stream
Can move me to tears
A lake nestling in a valley
Can bring me peace.
I wish for all mankind
The sweet simple joy
That we have found together.
I know that it will be.
And we shall celebrate
We shall taste the wine
And the fruit.
Celebrate the sunset and the sunrise
the cold and the warmth
the sounds and the silences
the voices of the children.
Celebrate the dreams and hopes
Which have filled the souls of
All decent men and women.
We shall lift our glasses and toast
With tears of joy.
—
Leonard Nimoy
Peace cannot be kept by force.
It can only be achieved by understanding.
—Albert
Einstein
There never was a good war
nor a bad peace.
—Benjamin Franklin
Takashi's Story
This is the story of Takashi “Thomas” Tanemori, the descendent of a proud Samurai family, who
survived the Hiroshima atomic bomb blast to become a
peace activist, poet and artist, in his own
words ...
My life, since I was eight years old, has been a long struggle to
understand the demise of my home town, the confiscation of my childhood, and
the horrible indignity of a bomb attack that marked the beginning of the
Nuclear Age. It has led me to finding peace in my heart, and becoming a man of
peace.
Long ago I was lifted from the ashes of Hiroshima to find my way in the
world. Before then my Father, a descendent of a proud Samurai family, dressed
in a kimono emblazoned with the family crest, "Maru ni Tachi Aoi," of the
"hollyhock" [Tokugawa Shogunate lineage], taught me patiently to live—the
ancient code of Samurai. How important it was to him to make sure that he
had correctly passed on to me the "Seven Codes of the Samurai", as he insisted
that we must repay our debts to our ancestors—passing on to our children
what we have received. On September 3, 1945 I bade farewell to my Father.
I became a "hibakusha" (a survivor of the Hiroshima atomic bombing) leaving
the charred cradle of childhood with a heart twisted—hatred, for a harsh
journey toward manhood. As a teenager, I immigrated to America, my youthful
mind thinking it my duty to seek revenge for the destruction of my family.
Now a naturalized American citizen, my Father's teaching has become the
touchstone of my life, enabling me to survive and setting me on the "Path of
Peace" to the wisdom of manhood with an open heart of love and forgiveness. I
am now a product of two cultures—traditional Japan, the nation of my
birth—and America, my adopted nation.
Looking back on the last 60 years of my life, my life-journey has not been
what I expected; my final destination not exactly as I had charted it. But I
am neither dismayed nor disappointed. The conflicts of my past shaped and
redirected me. I now honor both the past and the present while expressing my
love for two countries that both wounded and nurtured me. My life is like
embroidery, many different lengths of threads, crisscrossing in many colors,
adding to an iridescent tapestry of human dignity.
Although I was young and filled with anger, after many turbulent years both
in postwar Japan and America, I had to search into the deepest chamber
of my soul in my deepest anguishing hour. I realized that I had not only
survived the bombing of Hiroshima, but that my Father’s teaching of the Seven Codes
of the Samurai had kept my heart and soul intact, preserved the essence of who I
am, and saved me from self-destruction!
On August 5, 1985 I had a personal epiphany that changed my life’s direction.
In a moment of anger, I suddenly
remembered the dream about a white Crane and Butterfly I had the night before
the bombing in Hiroshima.
I would like to share the story of the crane and the butterfly, and my journey
from revenge to forgiveness and peace, symbolized—folding an origami paper
crane and transforming it into a butterfly. This story begins the night before
the bombing, as I sat in a community bomb shelter with my family. I had a
transcendent vision of the crane and the butterfly. In my vision, I was taken
to see the white crane, Senba-zuru, as mighty as a thousand cranes, who talked
to me of loss, survival and transformation. I was shown many of the horrors to
come and also told that the keys to survival were to remember who I am and to
follow the light within. At the end of the vision, I was horrified to see
Senba-zuru perish in a giant fireball. But then, as I lay desolate, sobbing on
the ground, I saw him return as a white butterfly.
In the aftermath of the bombing, I forgot this vision for
forty years until August 5, 1985, while driving to a remembrance rally in San
Francisco—a mushroom-shaped cloud formation in the distance brought
the memory flooding back. A white butterfly flew into my car, gracefully
landing on the dashboard. It stayed there momentarily, a fluttering pair of
iridescent wings, recreating the symphonic melodies that I had heard on that
night of the vision—then it flew out, soaring freely into the blue
sky. At that moment, the weight of the past was lifted from my heart. Looking
back, I realize that the crane and the butterfly had been guiding me like an
unseen rudder through stormy seas of hatred and revenge to forgiveness to
peace.
My spiritual journey, reconnecting with and reconciling my past with the
events of history and applying this experience to the present, for the benefit
of future generations, is my life goal. The message is clear and simple. At
last, I come home to my real promise to my Father, a place called "PEACE
through forgiveness"—letting go of my painful past. I can say at last I
am now a man of "PEACE".
I was finally able to embrace my Father’s teaching, the Seven Codes of
Samurai, which has allowed me, having gone through the darkest clouds of raging
storms, to enter into the “eye of the storm”, where I am now able to see the
world from a different perspective. I set a lifetime goal of helping future
generations live in Heiwa: peace, with harmony and equality. At
the Silkworm Peace Institute, a nonprofit organization I founded, we foster
the message of hope, healing, cultural understanding, attempting to transform
revenge and anger into peace and forgiveness to others.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,
and have
not love,
I am become as sounding brass,
or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have
the gift of prophecy,
and understand all mysteries,
and all knowledge;
and
though I have all faith,
so that I could remove mountains,
and have not love,
I
am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor,
and though I give
my body to be burned,
and have not love,
it profiteth me nothing.
Love suffereth
long, and is kind;
love envieth not;
love vaunteth not itself,
is not puffed up,
doth not behave itself unseemly,
seeketh not her own,
is not easily provoked,
thinketh no evil;
rejoiceth not in iniquity,
but rejoiceth in the truth;
beareth
all things,
believeth all things,
hopeth all things,
endureth all things.
Love
never faileth:
but whether there be prophecies,
they shall fail;
whether there
be tongues,
they shall cease;
whether there be knowledge,
it shall vanish away.
For we know in part,
and we prophesy in part.
But when that which is perfect is
come,
then that which is in part shall be done away.
When I was a child,
I spake
as a child,
I understood as a child,
I thought as a child:
but when I became a
man,
I put away childish things.
For now we see through a glass, darkly;
but
then face to face:
now I know in part;
but then shall I know even as also I am
known.
And now abideth faith, hope, love,
these three;
but the greatest of these
is love.
—1 Corinthians 13, generally attributed to
St. Paul
The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
—lines from the "Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam"
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!
—lines from the "Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam"
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
—lines from the "Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam"
Brother
Iran, I feel your pain.
I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain.
As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span,
I feel your pain, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I know you
are noble!
I too fear Hiroshima and
Chernobyl.
But though my heart shudders, I have a plan,
and I know you are noble, Brother
Iran.
Brother
Iran, I salute your Poets!
your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits!
O, come join the earth’s great Caravan.
We’ll include your Poets, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I love
your Verse!
Come take my hand now, let’s rehearse
the "Rubaiyat" of Omar Khayyam.
For I love your Verse, Brother
Iran.
Bother Iran,
civilization’s Flower!
How high grew your spires in man’s early hours!
Let us build them yet higher, for that’s my plan,
civilization’s first flower, Brother Iran.
—Michael R. Burch,
"Brother Iran," (click here for the Farsi version)
The HyperTexts