Something Whispered in the Shakuhachi

　　by Garrett Hongo

　　 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.

　　 When the War came，

　　 I told myself I lost nothing.

　　 My land， which was barren，

　　 was not actually mine but leased

　　 （we could not own property）

　　 and the shacks didn't matter.

　　 What did were the power lines nearby

　　 and that sabotage was suspected.

　　 What mattered to me

　　 were the flutes I burned

　　 in a small fire

　　 by the bath house.

　　 All through Relocation，

　　 in the desert where they put us，

　　 at night when the stars talked

　　 and the sky came down

　　 and drummed against the mesas，

　　 I could hear my flutes

　　 wail like fists of wind

　　 whistling through the barracks.

　　 I came out of Camp，

　　 a blanket slung over my shoulder，

　　 found land next to this swamp，

　　 planted strawberries and beanplants，

　　 planted the dwarf pines and tended them，

　　 got rich enough to quit

　　 and leave things alone，

　　 let the ditches clog with silt again

　　 and the bamboo grow thick as history.

　　 So， when it's bad now，

　　 when I can't remember what's lost

　　 and all I have for the world to take means nothing，

　　 I go out back of the greenhouse at the far end of my land

　　 where the grasses go wild and the arroyos come up with cat's-claw and giant dahlias，

　　 where the children of my neighbors consult with the wise heads of sunflowers， huge against the sky，

　　 where the rivers of weather and the charred ghosts of old melodies converge to flood my land and sustain the one thicket of memory that calls for me to come and sit among the tall canes and shape full-throated songs out of wind， out of bamboo，

　　 out of a voice that only whispers.