Gardens in Tokyo

1. Kiyosumi

Cursive syllables
cut in the rock: “the frog leaps
the sound of water”.

Smiling small women pace
gravel paths, seeking
Basho’s blessing before
sitting down to lunch;
silver pencils held in new
leather caress haiku strokes
away from traffic noise,
financial crisis, commuters
competing to crowd
in subway cars.

Smooth stepping stones line
the pool’s edge: ducks on water
like pebbles on ice.

Driver Daimatsu bored
with waiting buys popcorn
casts it on the water: at first
incredulous ducks gather
joined by gulls garnered
on an avian internet;
an egret disgusted at such
gusto strides away
on thin yellow legs.

Market forces find
a garden: birds fight for food
the sound of water.

2. Kitanomaru Park

Bonzai, bushido – kimono, kamikazi –
useful words for the visitor says the book.

I’m similarly in two minds coming
from the crowds which waved
paper flags at the Emperor’s appearance.
Crows are in the pines. At the gate
families greet each other with bows,
light cigarettes and gossip,
their children play tag, pull faces,
poke out their tongues then giggle
as the pink-faced gaijin passes.

Bonzai, bushido – kimono, kamikazi –
useful words for the visitor says the book.

Black windowed buses line the road
the crude outline of all Japan’s islands
in white paint with slogans sinister
in their extent. The Rising Sun
flag flutters from bull bars.
A jack-booted man with swastika
armband passes unseeing policemen.
Crows are in the pines.

Bonzai, bushido – kimono, kamikazi –
useful words for the visitor says the book.

By the fountains a man props his bicycle
against a tree, sits and takes out bread.
Crows come down from the trees
swooping and squawking; pigeons
gather to gobble the man’s scraps
with quiet, orderly greed. The crows
keep their distance pecking each other
croaking frustration. Is this
the natural order? Will the crows
in time come to the front?

Bonzai, bushido – kimono, kamikazi –
useful words for the visitor says the book.

3. Hama-rikyu

A garden as old as the shoguns,
shorn to perfection, difficult to approach –
a skywalk across expressways or
you dodge juggernauts at the Tokyo
wholesale market. It’s raining:
I’m alone on new-raked gravel.

A heron rises from the reed-walls
of an imperial duck-shoot, skirts
symmetrical pines, flies seawards
under the muslined harbour bridge.
A lone machine dispenses
sweet coffee in hot slim cans.
From a log shelter I attempt a sketch.
The tidal pool is in no mood
for reflection. Planked bridge built
Kyoto style and teahouse sit
on a surface of corrugated card.
The mist lifts like a theatre trick
and skyscrapers stare down.

I lack the artist’s eye to filter
culture from capital, feudal
heritage from Forties’ horrors.
A wizened couple come near,
gesture their wish for me to snap
them with green cardboard Fujimatic.
Toothy thanks, grins, a raised hand
to show how tall the foreigner seems.
The tidal pool resumes reflecting
timber, trees, towering office blocks.