A wilted tree stands
Daggers of icicles hang
Pierced by rays of light
The kiga in this haiku is "icicles" which connotes the season of winter. The first two lines of the haiku show the loneliness and scarcity of winter, as "a wilted tree" stands solitarily. The word "daggers" also paints the image of death in winter. The last line contrasts with these first two lines with "rays of light." Thus, although everything in winter is dormant, bare, and dying, there is still room to grow and for the ice to melt with rays of light and the presence of sunshine. "Pierced" in the third line is also a play on "Daggers" in the second line.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Ancient Voice Paper
River Kim
1/28/2007
World Literature
“Ancient Voices”
“The world speaks to me in disturbing music, my soul answers in quietness.”
People can make many different kinds of music. When they are wounded, their songs stagger disturbingly through the air in spurts of piercing cries. With spears and shark-toothed clubs gripped tightly in their hands they become louder music makers, yelling out war cries so that even the heavens become rattled with fear. Guns are their new foreign instruments which play a deathly rhythm; “bang, thud, bang, thud,” as one warrior shoots and another warrior falls to the cold, callous earth. Sometimes the warriors don’t make any music at all, lying there lifelessly face down on the ground with spears protruding out of their backs. I have seen these people with looks of craziness and ruthlessness painted across their faces perish time and time again in battle. Even those who have not been defeated, such as Kamehameha the first, will never win through violence and war. Man killing man can never bring harmony to the islands. The music of these warriors is terrifying to me.
My soul plays a softer music than the untamed souls of the warriors. While my father, my opposite, seizes every chance to fight in ferocious combat, I refuse to take part in the killing and brutalizing of warriors from other islands. Sadly, I could not escape my father’s wishes of fighting with him under the leadership of Kamehameha the first. Thus, with an unwilling heart I accompanied Kamehameha’s army from Hawai’i to Maui to Moloka’i. Kamehameha led with a powerful resolve and a thirst for dominance. I believed only Ku, the god of war, could have crafted a man so intense and fierce to engage in the brutality of battle. As Kamehameha and his army including my father raided each town and disposed of ruling chiefs, I had no other choice but to follow my father’s orders and fight. However, as warriors charged into battle, I drew back from the fighting, usually finding a coconut tree or tall fern bush to hide behind. Although I was concealed from view, I could still clearly hear the harsh music of war. The more wars I endured, the more the shrieking wails of fallen men rang shrilly in my ears. Like the cry of a lost ‘I‘iwi bird echoing deep in the valley, the cry of a dieing warrior for family and the precious gift of life resonates deep within my soul. What beautiful, lush islands and caring families these warriors leave behind when choosing to fight in war.
After conquering Hawai’i, Maui, and Moloka’i, Kamehameha’s interests turned to the vulnerable island of O’ahu with the hopes of further extending his reign over the island chain. As usual his warriors trained furiously by practicing hakoko, Hawaiian wrestling, and competing in foot races to see which warrior was the fastest. They greatly desired to overtake O’ahu and its chief Kalanikupule and thus prepared themselves for the rigorous war ahead. When my father realized I had not been training with the other men, he was livid, his eyes red with anger like Pele’s fiery streams of lava scorching everything in their path. I tried to justify my reasons for discontinuing my service to Kamehameha’s army, but my father in his rage did not empathize. He neither understood my abhorrence of killing other Hawaiians on neighboring islands nor allowed me to leave my duties as a warrior. He unsympathetically ordered me to become a warrior again, and I reluctantly listened to him, following the kupuna’s teachings of respecting one’s elders. Nonetheless, I still strongly opposed my father’s obsession for using violence to obtain new lands such as O’ahu. His narrow mindedness and longing for battle perturbed me. When you are a warrior, all you see is the enemy in front of you and miss the serene landscapes, tall pali cliffs, and people’s presence blossoming all around you. What a loss for my father to care solely for battle.
Soon, the whole village knew of my intentions to pull out of the impending war on O’ahu. They immediately labeled me a coward, attacking me for my withdrawal from Kamehameha’s army. Even my own cousin, a kalo planter, looked down on me disdainfully. When I walked past his kalo plants on my daily course to collect fresh water at the north end of the ahupua’a, he wanted nothing to do to me, gluing his head to the ground as I walked by. But why must I endure this shame and be called a coward for standing up for what I believe is kupono, just and right? Kamehameha’s warriors may be well-built and muscular, but they fear defeat and inferiority. Thus, they become intimidating on the outside but cowardly on the inside—my father. Even so, the village is still against me and I feel lonely and weak. Kona winds sweep over the mountains pushing heavy rain clouds towards our village. Rain falls and nurtures the kalo plants enabling them to grow. Yet I feel like I am withering.
Alone and in need of comfort, I made my way up the steep slopes of Mauna Kea in search for some sort of inspiration. Kamehameha and his army would voyage to O’ahu tomorrow morning and I with them as my father ordered. The sun now set beneath the horizon signaling the end of the day, as the soft murmur of voices lingered in the village below as men returned home to their families. As I reached the top of the vast mountain, layers of oranges and reds lighted the sky just as the red of blood stained the earth in war. But here atop Mauna Kea, warriors did not shed blood; their excruciating music did not ring within the mountains walls. Here, the life of the land speaks in shades of vivid colors and gentle breezes of the wind. This was my refuge, a place my father had never seen, a place where death did not reside. Remembering the battle on O’ahu tomorrow, I did not know if I would experience the intensity of life of this place ever again. Seeking wisdom and courage needed for the upcoming journey, I raised my hands to the heavens, chanting to the gods for guidance:
E ho mai ka ‘ike mai, luna mai e
O na mea huna no‘eau o na mele e
E ho mai, e ho mai, e ho mai e.
Grant me knowledge from above
Of the elusive words of wisdom within the chants
Grant me, grant me, grant me.
Just as I finished chanting, drops of rain began to wet my back and soon heavy rain clouds filled the sky pushed by swirling winds. Only Lono, god of wind and rain could bring such blessings to the earth. I smiled gratefully at the rain, for Lono was also the god of peace.
The voyage to O’ahu was speedy and tense. Warriors’ foreheads were damp with sweat and their hands shook with nervousness. Once on O’ahu’s eastern shore, Kamehameha led the army up the steep slopes of the Pali. It was there that we coldly met Kalanikupule, chief of O’ahu, and his forces. Like any other battle, Kamehameha and his men showed no mercy towards the O’ahu warriors, ruthlessly driving them back against the steep edges of the Pali cliffs. As the two sides fought, I could not help but think of the rain of Lono, god of peace, which fell the previous night on my visit to Mauna Kea. Would these spears and guns ever bring peace to the islands? The O’ahu warriors were now being pushed off the cliff and falling to their deaths. Some were clinging on to rocks for dear life with great fear in their eyes. They were no different than the warriors of Kamehameha. They were first and foremost Hawaiians, common brothers of these islands. A sudden urge to help them came over me and I rushed to the edge of the cliff to offer my assistance. I extended my spear to one of the O’ahu warriors about to fall off of the cliff and helped him back up. He too aided me in pulling clinging warriors back up to the stable earth in the midst of the chaotic jumble of flying spears and crazy war cries. All of a sudden, I saw my father making his way over to me. He had seen me help the O’ahu warrior escape a falling death on the rocks below. I began to back up until my feet inched over the edge of the cliff. My father came to where I was standing, confronting me face to face and clenching his jaw in fury. It seemed like hours that we stared into each other’s eyes, trying to understand each other and read each other’s mind. Then he pushed me off the cliff. As I fell, I could see my father standing at the edge of the cliff looking down at me. I pitied him for his inability to see the beauty around him. The piercing music of war played to loudly in his heart for him to hear my heart’s song, a song that sang for calm lands and good will between the people. As I fell, the music of the war above slowly faded away. The land at the bottom of the cliffs below the fighting was peaceful, softer, and not stained with blood. I became this land.
1/28/2007
World Literature
“Ancient Voices”
“The world speaks to me in disturbing music, my soul answers in quietness.”
People can make many different kinds of music. When they are wounded, their songs stagger disturbingly through the air in spurts of piercing cries. With spears and shark-toothed clubs gripped tightly in their hands they become louder music makers, yelling out war cries so that even the heavens become rattled with fear. Guns are their new foreign instruments which play a deathly rhythm; “bang, thud, bang, thud,” as one warrior shoots and another warrior falls to the cold, callous earth. Sometimes the warriors don’t make any music at all, lying there lifelessly face down on the ground with spears protruding out of their backs. I have seen these people with looks of craziness and ruthlessness painted across their faces perish time and time again in battle. Even those who have not been defeated, such as Kamehameha the first, will never win through violence and war. Man killing man can never bring harmony to the islands. The music of these warriors is terrifying to me.
My soul plays a softer music than the untamed souls of the warriors. While my father, my opposite, seizes every chance to fight in ferocious combat, I refuse to take part in the killing and brutalizing of warriors from other islands. Sadly, I could not escape my father’s wishes of fighting with him under the leadership of Kamehameha the first. Thus, with an unwilling heart I accompanied Kamehameha’s army from Hawai’i to Maui to Moloka’i. Kamehameha led with a powerful resolve and a thirst for dominance. I believed only Ku, the god of war, could have crafted a man so intense and fierce to engage in the brutality of battle. As Kamehameha and his army including my father raided each town and disposed of ruling chiefs, I had no other choice but to follow my father’s orders and fight. However, as warriors charged into battle, I drew back from the fighting, usually finding a coconut tree or tall fern bush to hide behind. Although I was concealed from view, I could still clearly hear the harsh music of war. The more wars I endured, the more the shrieking wails of fallen men rang shrilly in my ears. Like the cry of a lost ‘I‘iwi bird echoing deep in the valley, the cry of a dieing warrior for family and the precious gift of life resonates deep within my soul. What beautiful, lush islands and caring families these warriors leave behind when choosing to fight in war.
After conquering Hawai’i, Maui, and Moloka’i, Kamehameha’s interests turned to the vulnerable island of O’ahu with the hopes of further extending his reign over the island chain. As usual his warriors trained furiously by practicing hakoko, Hawaiian wrestling, and competing in foot races to see which warrior was the fastest. They greatly desired to overtake O’ahu and its chief Kalanikupule and thus prepared themselves for the rigorous war ahead. When my father realized I had not been training with the other men, he was livid, his eyes red with anger like Pele’s fiery streams of lava scorching everything in their path. I tried to justify my reasons for discontinuing my service to Kamehameha’s army, but my father in his rage did not empathize. He neither understood my abhorrence of killing other Hawaiians on neighboring islands nor allowed me to leave my duties as a warrior. He unsympathetically ordered me to become a warrior again, and I reluctantly listened to him, following the kupuna’s teachings of respecting one’s elders. Nonetheless, I still strongly opposed my father’s obsession for using violence to obtain new lands such as O’ahu. His narrow mindedness and longing for battle perturbed me. When you are a warrior, all you see is the enemy in front of you and miss the serene landscapes, tall pali cliffs, and people’s presence blossoming all around you. What a loss for my father to care solely for battle.
Soon, the whole village knew of my intentions to pull out of the impending war on O’ahu. They immediately labeled me a coward, attacking me for my withdrawal from Kamehameha’s army. Even my own cousin, a kalo planter, looked down on me disdainfully. When I walked past his kalo plants on my daily course to collect fresh water at the north end of the ahupua’a, he wanted nothing to do to me, gluing his head to the ground as I walked by. But why must I endure this shame and be called a coward for standing up for what I believe is kupono, just and right? Kamehameha’s warriors may be well-built and muscular, but they fear defeat and inferiority. Thus, they become intimidating on the outside but cowardly on the inside—my father. Even so, the village is still against me and I feel lonely and weak. Kona winds sweep over the mountains pushing heavy rain clouds towards our village. Rain falls and nurtures the kalo plants enabling them to grow. Yet I feel like I am withering.
Alone and in need of comfort, I made my way up the steep slopes of Mauna Kea in search for some sort of inspiration. Kamehameha and his army would voyage to O’ahu tomorrow morning and I with them as my father ordered. The sun now set beneath the horizon signaling the end of the day, as the soft murmur of voices lingered in the village below as men returned home to their families. As I reached the top of the vast mountain, layers of oranges and reds lighted the sky just as the red of blood stained the earth in war. But here atop Mauna Kea, warriors did not shed blood; their excruciating music did not ring within the mountains walls. Here, the life of the land speaks in shades of vivid colors and gentle breezes of the wind. This was my refuge, a place my father had never seen, a place where death did not reside. Remembering the battle on O’ahu tomorrow, I did not know if I would experience the intensity of life of this place ever again. Seeking wisdom and courage needed for the upcoming journey, I raised my hands to the heavens, chanting to the gods for guidance:
E ho mai ka ‘ike mai, luna mai e
O na mea huna no‘eau o na mele e
E ho mai, e ho mai, e ho mai e.
Grant me knowledge from above
Of the elusive words of wisdom within the chants
Grant me, grant me, grant me.
Just as I finished chanting, drops of rain began to wet my back and soon heavy rain clouds filled the sky pushed by swirling winds. Only Lono, god of wind and rain could bring such blessings to the earth. I smiled gratefully at the rain, for Lono was also the god of peace.
The voyage to O’ahu was speedy and tense. Warriors’ foreheads were damp with sweat and their hands shook with nervousness. Once on O’ahu’s eastern shore, Kamehameha led the army up the steep slopes of the Pali. It was there that we coldly met Kalanikupule, chief of O’ahu, and his forces. Like any other battle, Kamehameha and his men showed no mercy towards the O’ahu warriors, ruthlessly driving them back against the steep edges of the Pali cliffs. As the two sides fought, I could not help but think of the rain of Lono, god of peace, which fell the previous night on my visit to Mauna Kea. Would these spears and guns ever bring peace to the islands? The O’ahu warriors were now being pushed off the cliff and falling to their deaths. Some were clinging on to rocks for dear life with great fear in their eyes. They were no different than the warriors of Kamehameha. They were first and foremost Hawaiians, common brothers of these islands. A sudden urge to help them came over me and I rushed to the edge of the cliff to offer my assistance. I extended my spear to one of the O’ahu warriors about to fall off of the cliff and helped him back up. He too aided me in pulling clinging warriors back up to the stable earth in the midst of the chaotic jumble of flying spears and crazy war cries. All of a sudden, I saw my father making his way over to me. He had seen me help the O’ahu warrior escape a falling death on the rocks below. I began to back up until my feet inched over the edge of the cliff. My father came to where I was standing, confronting me face to face and clenching his jaw in fury. It seemed like hours that we stared into each other’s eyes, trying to understand each other and read each other’s mind. Then he pushed me off the cliff. As I fell, I could see my father standing at the edge of the cliff looking down at me. I pitied him for his inability to see the beauty around him. The piercing music of war played to loudly in his heart for him to hear my heart’s song, a song that sang for calm lands and good will between the people. As I fell, the music of the war above slowly faded away. The land at the bottom of the cliffs below the fighting was peaceful, softer, and not stained with blood. I became this land.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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