Something Whispered in the Shakuhachi

No one knew the secret of my flutes,

and I laugh now

because some said

I was enlightened.

But the truth is

I'm only a gardener

who before the War

was a dirt farmer and learned

how to grow the bamboo

in ditches next to the fields,

how to leave things alone

and let the silt build up

until it was deep enough to stink

bad as night soil, bad

as the long, witch-grey

hair of a ghost.

No secret in that.

My land was no good, rocky,

and so dry I had to sneak

water from the whites,

hacksaw the locks off the chutes at night,

and blame Mexicans, Filipinos,

or else some wicked spirit

of a migrant, murdered in his sleep

by sheriffs and wanting revenge.

Even though they never believed me,

it didn't matter--no witnesses,

and my land was never thick with rice,

only the bamboo

growing lush as old melodies

and whispering like brush strokes

against the fine scroll of wind.

I found some string in the shed

or else took a few stalks

and stripped off their skins,

wove the fibers, the floss,

into cords I could bind

around the feet, ankles, and throats

of only the best bamboos.

I used an ice pick for an awl,

a fish knife to carve finger holes,

and a scythe to shape the mouthpiece.

I had my flutes.

-- Garrett Hongo