Empty Cup
I set down my cup, pour
tea and think this day, too,
may never end.
With what do we quantify love? How does grief measure us? Nine days ago I wrote “My father is dying and I’m sipping a beer.” More words followed, but I did not write them, choosing instead to let them gather where they would – among the darkening fringe at light’s edge, in that space between the shakuhachi’s notes, in the fragrance of spices toasting in the skillet. In unwept tears. Everywhere. Nowhere.
Seven days ago I wrote “My father is dead.” Again, I chose to let the unwritten words gather and linger, allowing them to spread in their own time, attaching themselves to one another, long chains of emptiness dragging through the days.
If experience reflects truth, sorrow’s scroll will unravel slowly for me, and will never stop. I feel it beginning to quiver, but only the tiniest edge emerges. I am nothing, I say. I am voice, I am loss, I am name. I am memory. I am son.
I have fifty-nine years
and no wisdom to show for it.
Never enough. Too much.
Reblogged this on Sarah Russell Poetry and commented:
The haibun originally served as the poetic log of a journey Basho took in the late 17th century. Robert Okaji is documenting a journey here too, the words as tightly held as his grief.
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This is so well done, Robert. Hope you don’t mind that I reblogged it.
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I don’t mind at all, Sarah. Thank you.
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I’m sorry, Robert. I’ve been there. It’s never simple.
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Thank you, Ellen. My second time on this journey, and you’re right – it’s never simple.
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The wisdom is in the unwritten, as well as the written word, and this holds all of that. Condolences, Bob.
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Thanks, Ken. The unspoken does not always need to be voiced.
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As always you are eloquent… but never alone. Your fans and friends are here for you.
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Thank you, Daniel. My heart is not heavy, though I miss him. Dad had a rough go of it over the past few years, and he was ready.
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May he be blissfully lost in the tender embrace of Amaterasu O-mikami…
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How exquisitely phrased and poignant, Bob! Powerfully resonant – a bell I hear ringing long after it’s stopped.
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Thanks so much, Lynne.
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As one of the people commented above…..your fans and friends, and I’d add, your pupils, are here for you, Bob.
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Thank you, Sudhanshu. It is difficult to let go, but he lived a good, long life filled with much laughter and love.
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Reblogged this on The Bard.
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Thank you for reblogging.
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You’re welcome, Bob.
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Reblogged this on Frank J. Tassone and commented:
#Haiku Happenings #9: Robert Okaji’s heartfelt #haibun, shared by Sarah Russell!
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Thanks for reblogging this, Frank.
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Sorry for your loss Robert. Just know that your words never cease to inspire.
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Thank you, Marian.
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I’m so sorry for your loss, Robert. This is beautiful said, the sorrow palpable, though you say above he was ready to go. It’s been many years, but I still miss my dad.
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Thank you, Merril. That type of loss stays with us.
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Your sorrow in these lines is so very personal … yet stirs my own sorrows … gratitude for that, as a good stir shakes my words loose.
I like the form you chose for this.
Such wisdom in your lines “let the unwritten words gather and linger, allowing them to spread in their own time, attaching themselves to one another” … words and emotions make for odd coupling, time brings resonance.
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Thanks, Jazz. I think this is a small part of a universal sorrow, one easily, but perhaps not readily, shared.
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It’s a lovely poem, and the your emotion comes over in such a delicate and tender way. I was thirty-five when my dad died and the shock made me physically ill. If it was time, it was time. Be happy with that.
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Thank you, Jane. It was indeed time.
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🙂
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I’m sorry, Bob. Even when everyone involved is “ready,” the felt experience cannot be anticipated. Be gentle to yourself, friend, allowing those words to remain unwritten until they bid you otherwise.
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We were fortunate to have him for so long – he died six days after his 89th birthday. I am so glad his suffering has ended.
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It is such a sublime image to describe the unfurling of who we are human to soul: the neverending scroll.
I’m sorry about the loss of your father.
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Thank you for your kind words and empathy.
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So sorry about your loss.
Such a profoundly wise and beautiful poem. You really are “O at the Edges” here – at the edges of sorrow, and life, and loss – giving expression to all those deepest parts of human experience that are, essentially, inexpressible. It helped “unravel” a little more of my own sorrow scroll. Thank you.
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Thank you, Carmel. You are very generous.
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Wow, so very moving… I know what you mean about the words gathering… so often I look at the words I have penned and wonder where they came from and how they got on the page…. especially in times of grief.. my peace to you. Michelle
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Thank you, Michelle.
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Hi Mr. Okaji, my deepest condolences to you and your family. Thanks for such a moving prose; indeed there are times when we feel like nothing, yet full. Peace jjf
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Thank you. Much appreciated.
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Time stops doesn’t it? It does. And yet it also becomes no-time.
Of course there are no words. Not the right ones.
I’m so sorry, Robert. (K)
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Thank you, Kerfe. Words are seldom enough, but sometimes they’re all we have.
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My heart hurts for you.
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Thank you, Leslie. I feel that I can exhale now. The last two months were so tough on Dad.
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My father lived with us the last three years of his life. We had some terrific times and towards the end some almost unbearably difficult times. The peace finally felt right.
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Sorry for your loss. Your words are brave and honest. Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you, V.J.
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My condolences, Robert. It’s hard to lose parents. Empathizing with you….
(Am having trouble posting a comment here – this is my second attempt…)
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Thank you, Betty. My mother died 12 years ago. The only inscription my dad wanted on their shared headstone reads “Together Again.”
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That’s both sweet and poignant. Hope you’re doing as well as possible, Robert, and that you can find comfort in the good memories.
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I am in a good place emotionally, and yes, there are many good memories.
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“Some seeds are buried, some scattered…” There’s no prescribed way to do this, amico, and if you had any wisdom, it would be as good for this as a high wind is for dousing a wildfire, anyway. You are buried and scattered and everywhere exactly how much you’re supposed to be, where I’m always no more than a step away. 💓
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Buried and scattered describes my emotional landscape perfectly. And thank you. It is good to have you nearby.
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Oh I’m so sorry Bob. You got me choked up. I don’t think any number of years can ever make it easy.
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Thank you, Mek. It was expected, but not easy. But is it ever?
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A grieving so well expressed. My condolences
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Much appreciated, Derrick. Thank you.
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Such a great piece. Moving and heartfelt. I always find writing about loss polarizing: the words come thundering in and then stop cold, or stick inside you. This is so powerful. Thank you for sharing.
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Thanks, A.M. I process these emotions slowly, and eventually they’ll emerge.
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I feel your loss, Robert. It’s soaked in love for your father; yet, the words just never come. I’m deeply sorry.
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Thank you. He was a great father, and while I miss him, I also rejoice in his release.
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You have my sincerest sympathy!
This piece is so moving, so well written. Thank you for sharing it.
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Thank you, Vanessa.
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🌸
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I’m so sorry, Robert.
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Thank you, Andrew.
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You’re welcome.
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I have been there, too. I’m so sorry for your loss.
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Ah, Jilanne. Thank you.
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Stirring, Sir.
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Thank you, Lee.
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Time. Perspective. But you already know that.
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Oh, yes.
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