No one knew the secret of my flutes, <br />and I laugh now <br />because some said <br />I was enlightened. <br />But the truth is <br />I'm only a gardener <br />who before the War <br />was a dirt farmer and learned <br />how to grow the bamboo <br />in ditches next to the fields, <br />how to leave things alone <br />and let the silt build up <br />until it was deep enough to stink <br />bad as night soil, bad <br />as the long, witch-grey <br />hair of a ghost. <br /> <br />No secret in that. <br /> <br />My land was no good, rocky, <br />and so dry I had to sneak <br />water from the whites, <br />hacksaw the locks off the chutes at night, <br />and blame Mexicans, Filipinos, <br />or else some wicked spirit <br />of a migrant, murdered in his sleep <br />by sheriffs and wanting revenge. <br />Even though they never believed me, <br />it didn't matter--no witnesses, <br />and my land was never thick with rice, <br />only the bamboo <br />growing lush as old melodies <br />and whispering like brush strokes <br />against the fine scroll of wind. <br /> <br />I found some string in the shed <br />or else took a few stalks <br />and stripped off their skins, <br />wove the fibers, the floss, <br />into cords I could bind <br />around the feet, ankles, and throats <br />of only the best bamboos. <br />I used an ice pick for an awl, <br />a fish knife to carve finger holes, <br />and a scythe to shape the mouthpiece. <br /> <br />I had my flutes.<br /><br />Garrett Hongo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/something-whispered-in-the-shakuhachi/
