Water Calligraphy 1 A green turtle in broth is brought to the table-- I stare at an irregular formation of rocks above a pond and spot, on the water's surface, a moon. As I step back and forth, the moon slides from partial to full to partial and then into emptiness; but no moon's in the sky, just slanting sunlight, leafing willows along Slender West Lake, parked cars outside an apartment complex where, against a background of chirping birds and car horns, two women bicker. Now it's midnight at noon; I hear an electric saw and the occasional sound of lumber striking pavement. At the bottom of a teacup, leaves form the character individual and, after a sip, the number eight. Snipped into pieces, a green turtle is returned to the table; while everyone eats, strands of thrown silk tighten, tighten in my gut. I blink, and a woodblock carver peels off pear shavings, stroke by stroke, and foregrounds characters against empty space. 2 Begging in a subway, a blind teen and his mother stagger through the swaying car-- a woman lights a bundle of incense and bows at a cauldron-- people raise their palms around the Nine-Dragon Juniper-- who knows the mind of a watermelon vendor picking his teeth? you glance up through layers of walnut leaves in a courtyard-- biting into marinated lotus stems-- in a drum tower, hours were measured as water rising then spilling from one kettle into another-- pomegranate trees flowering along a highway-- climbing to the top of a pagoda, you look down at rebuilt city walls-- a peacock cries-- always the clatter of mah-jongg tiles behind a door-- at a tower loom, a man and woman weave brocade silk-- squashing a cigarette above a urinal, a bus driver hurries back-- a musician strikes sticks, faster and faster-- cars honk along a street approaching a traffic circle-- when he lowers his fan, the actor's face has changed from black to white-- a child squats and shits in a palace courtyard-- yellow construction cranes pivot over the tops of high-rise apartments-- a woman throws a shuttle with green silk through the shed-- where are we headed, you wonder, as you pick a lychee and start to peel it-- 3 Lightning ignites a fire in the wilderness: in hours, 200 then 2,000 acres are aflame; when a hotshot crew hikes in to clear lines, a windstorm kicks up and veers the blaze back, traps them, and their fire shelters become their body bags. Piñons in the hills have red and yellow needles-- in a bamboo park, a woman dribbles liquefied sugar onto a plate, and it cools, on a stick, in the form of a butterfly; a man in red pants stills then moves through the Crane position. A droplet hangs at the tip of a fern--water spills into another kettle; you visualize how flames engulfed them at 50 miles per hour. In the West, wildfires scar each summer-- water beads on beer cans at a lunch counter-- you do not want to see exploding propane tanks; you try to root in the world, but events sizzle along razor wire, along a snapping end of a power line. 4 Two fawns graze on leaves in a yard-- as we go up the Pearl Tower, I gaze through smog at freighters along the river. A thunderstorm gathers: it rains and hails on two hikers in the Barrancas; the arroyo becomes a torrent, and they crouch for an hour. After a pelting storm, you spark into flame and draw the wax of the world into light-- ostrich and emu eggs in a basket by the door, the aroma of cumin and pepper in the air. In my mouth, a blister forms then disappears. At a teak table, with family and friends, we eat Dungeness crab, but, as I break apart shell and claws, I hear a wounded elk shot in the bosque. Canoers ask and receive permission to land; they beach a canoe with a yellow cedar wreath on the bow then catch a bus to the fairgrounds powwow. 5 --Sunrise: I fill my rubber bucket with water and come to this patch of blue-gray sidewalk-- I've made a sponge-tipped brush at the end of a waist-high plastic stick; and, as I dip it, I know water is my ink, memory my blood-- the tips of purple bamboo arch over the park-- I see a pitched battle at the entrance to a palace and rooftops issuing smoke and flames-- today, there's a white statue of a human figure, buses and cars drive across the blank square-- at that time, I researched carp in captivity and how they might reproduce and feed people in communes--I might have made a breakthrough, but Red Guards knocked at the door-- they beat me, woke me up at all hours until I didn't know whether it was midnight or noon-- I saw slaughtered pigs piled on wooden racks, snow in the spring sunshine--the confessions they handed me I signed--I just wanted it to end--then herded pigs on a farm--wait-- a masseur is striking someone's back, his hands clatter like wooden blocks-- now I block the past by writing the present-- as I write the strokes of moon, I let the brush swerve rest for a moment before I lift it and make the one stroke hook--ah, it's all in that hook--there, I levitate: no mistakes will last, even regret is lovely--my hand trembles; but if I find the gaps resting places, I cut the sinews of an ox, even as the sun moon waxes--the bones drop, my brush is sharp, sharper than steel--and though people murmur at the evaporating characters, I smile, frown fidget, let go--I draw the white, not the black-- 6 Tea leaves in the cup spell above then below-- outside the kitchen window, a spray of wisteria blossoms in May sunshine. What unfolds inside us? We sit at a tabletop that was once a wheel in Thailand: an iron hoop runs along the rim. On a fireplace mantel, a flame flickers at the bottom of a metal cup. As spokes to a hub, a chef cleans blowfish: turtles beach on white sand: a monk rakes gravel into scalloped waves in a garden: moans issue from an alley where men stir from last night's binge. If all time converges as light from stars, all situations reside here. In red-edged heat, I irrigate the peach trees; you bake a zucchini frittata; water buffalo browse in a field; hail has shredded lettuces, and, as a farmer paces and surveys damage, a coyote slips across a road, under barbed wire. 7 The letter A was once an inverted cow's head, but now, as I write, it resembles feet planted on the earth rising to a point. Once is glimpsing the Perseid meteor shower-- and, as emotion curves space, I find a constellation that arcs beyond the visible. A neighbor brings cucumbers and basil; when you open the bag and inhale, the world inside is fire in a night courtyard at summer solstice; we have limned the time here and will miss the bamboo arcing along the fence behind our bedroom, peonies leaning to earth. A mayordomo retrenches the opening to the ditch; water runs near the top of juniper poles that line our length-- in the bosque, the elk carcass decomposes into a stench of antlers and bones. Soon ducks will nest on the pond island, and as a retired violinist who fed skunks left a legacy-- one she least expected--we fold this in our pocket and carry it wherever we go. Excerpted from The Glass Constellation: New and Collected Poems by Arthur Sze All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.