Now, the next few points in this sequence
are particularly related to an island
far off the southernmost main island of Japan
called Suwanosejima Island.
It's a small active volcano with a population of 40 villagers
and a population of 20 Japanese hippies
who are running a little commune.
The land in Japan, which is so hard up on land.
This place is so far away that land can still be homesteaded.
They got the land free.
If they wanted to clear the bamboo jungle
and plant their sweet potatoes and live off of the fish
they could catch.
That's where my wife and I were married on the volcano.
And I spent the last two summers learning
about subtropical jungle agriculture.
Learning about what it is to clear
with a hole and a brush up instead of having
any mechanical equipment.
The island always smokes.
They call it a Stromboli type volcano.
I didn't know what that was until I looked it up.
It means a volcano which is constantly
erupting rather than saving itself up and then
blowing in a big way every once in a while.
This one rumbles steam mostly continually
and so it never has any big eruptions.
But because it's always smoking, the fishermen who come down
from Kyushu, it's about a two day sailing trip
from Kyushu the fishermen who fish off the island
call it burning island.
So I titled this poem "Burning Island".
Oh wave god who broke through me today.
Sea bream, massive pink and silver,
cool swimming down with me.
Watching, staying away from my spear.
Volcano belly keeper who lifted this island
for our own beaded bodies adornment
and sprinkles us all with his laugh.
ash in the eye.
Mist or smoke on the bare high limits.
Underwater lava flows easing to coral.
Holes filled with striped feeding swimmers.
Oh sky gods cartwheeling out of Pacific.
Turning rain squalls over like lids on us
then shine on our sudden.
Scanned at a rainbow today at the cow drinking trough,
sluicing off lacks of crystal buddha-fields
right on the hair of the arm.
Who wavers right now in the bamboo?
A half gone waning moon.
Drank down a bowl full of shochu,
that's a distilled sweet potato liquor they make down there.
In praise of Antares gazing far up the lanes of Sagittarius
richest stream of our sky.
A cup to the center of the galaxy and let the eyes
stray right angling the pitch of the Milky Way.
Horse heads, rings, clouds, too distant to be.
Slide free on the crest of the wave.
Each night oh Earth mother, I have wrapped my hand
over the jut of your Cobra hood sleeping.
Left my ear all night long by your mouth.
Oh god's tides, capes, currents, flows,
and spirals of pools and powers as we
hoe the field let sweet potatoes grow.
And us sit us all down when we may to consider the Dharma,
bring with a flower and a glimmer.
Let us all sleep in peace together.
Bless Masa and me as we marry at new moon on the crater
this summer.