Ira

The poetry contest is in a few days, Ira. Agnes was ironing Ira's koromo on the kitchen counter. You could bring your Red notebook.
Ira ignored her, fidgeting with the koromo's sleeve.

You'll never get a nagasamue without passing the contest, she chided.

Was he really still interested in priesthood? The goal had been so much a part of his life he could no longer remember the reason. Ira got up and went to the library table he used as a writing desk. On top of the oak table was a writing pad, a corked inkwell and a redwood box with his calligraphy pens. The three books of poetry were in the left drawer: Blue, containing his earliest works from school; Green, from the monastery in Denver; and Red, the current work book. He opened Red to the bookmark and flipped backwards. He read aloud

An empty street at nightfall
Fades from orange to gray
Below the silent moon

Agnes stopped ironing. What was that last line? she asked. Ira repeated the whole poem. 'Bellows the silent moon' would be better, his wife said. Ira brushed more pages, then read again.

The mountain and the valley
are one and the same.
Without the mountain, no valley.
Without the valley, no mountain.
The only difference is in the naming.

Sounds like something out of The Tao of Pooh, she said. Ira smiled, and flipped again. Just listen to this, he said. The dreamer descends / The spirit arises / No thought pretends / No dream surprises! It sounds like a George Harrison song!

Now Ira... Agnes handed him a cup of tea.
And this:

Release the broken crutch
that
undermines your insight.

I have no memory of writing these words. Ira flipped to the front, then shut the book. Any of them. Have I lost my mind?

Agnes unplugged the iron. Why don't you call Sensei Imori? He once called your imagery iridescent.

Iridescent? Ira chewed on the word like gamey meat. Saito won't be at the reading. He's too busy designing the new Hall. He took a sip of tea, then put the cup down on the Red book. Even the biggest benefactors to the monastery only get a ten minute audience.

He loves you, Ira. Agnes leaned forward, her blue eyes flicking back and forth as she read his mind.

Zen love, Agnes, Zen love. He also loves the fleas that bite his ankle. Ira stood up quickly, then turned toward the bookshelf. What I need is an agent. Someone to proof and sell my work. Ira took a book from the shelf, anxiously scanning the first pages. Not finding what he was looking for, he dropped the book and picked the next from the shelf. Doesn't a publisher have to list the agency that handled the author?

Isn't the point that the poems come from you? Not through some filter...

Ira snapped the book shut, eyes blazing. That's the problem Agnes:. what comes from me is just me. It isn't pure enough to say what I mean or convey the truth. It's ... already filtered. By me. He slowly pushed the book back onto the shelf. Agnes stepped into her slippers and came to him. What I need to say is from not me, Agnes. It's supposed to be pure.

It is pure, Ira. There's never more to say. She reached for him.

To you, maybe...

She nodded.
To me, maybe.