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Samurai -- Two Swords
Bushido Existence
Daniel Raphael ~ 2001
First Sword
“Oi – yaaaaaah!”
The sword stopped 1 mm
from the granite block
that would have broken it.
Placing foot with power,
turning on toe-point
warrior garment flies
in the air
‘round his body,
his face seems
so grim,
yet,
in his eyes there is …
…there is a hint
of yet
unused power
from deep within.
“Master!”
I call
to my warrior idol,
“Water?”
“Eeeee – yaaaaah!”
and the sword again
stops within 1 mm
of the granite block.
He rises up,
Swings the sword behind him
and bows to me,
me, his own servant,
student, and
apprentice in the making.
Could I ever be a master
as he?
Perhaps,
but not in this lifetime,
though I will study,
practice, meditate, worship,
and hopefully die
with my sword
in my hand.
*******
Second Sword
“Oi – yaaaaaah!
I am thirty-one years old,
and I have a
Master Samurai Sword
in my hand.
It is old,
three centuries old and
has freed the blood
of many noble enemies.
When I first saw the sword
I knew that I would
one day hold it in my hand,
and it would be an extension
of my arm, my mind,
my whole being.
It swings as one thought --
swings in one mind –
from thought to action.
There is no delay.
It is as though it
were an extension
of the Creator’s will
to create.
I have served
my Governor well,
very well.
He is safe,
his family is safe,
his wealth is secure.
And I, I am the Master
of our dojo,
the dojo that trains
our Governor’s warriors.
War is not obsolete,
but has been
temporarily replaced
by The Contest of Masters
who are encouraged
by their Governors
to travel abroad
and test
the skills of war
of their neighboring
Governor’s dojo masters.
And so, they came to me
one day to test
the proficiency
of my skills.
And die we must
rather than lose
the territory
of our Governor.
Contests to the death
are not uncommon in our day,
but an accepted daily
tragedy of our trade.
Seven challengers have come
to test my Governor’s
capacity to withstand
attacks from those
from other lands.
So odd that we all
are Samurai
dedicated to the same
common destinies
of our lives.
Yet we try to defend …
… but then
as so often occurs,
blood flows freely
on our dojo floors.
How many will die
on the floor
of my dojo today?
Will I
become a loser like
so many before?
They come to me
not in any manner of order
but from pluck
and courage,
and from the pointed urging
of their master’s adjutant
who came to report the results
of the contests
we are now to begin.
#1
We stand face to face,
our swords held
with edge before us,
upright in honor
of what is to become.
My opponent
I know
is an honorable one
from the province
next door.
As if in slow motion
the swords sing
a cappella
in harmony
for the conductor
and the audience.
He swings wide,
and turns with
sword held high,
but mine is on its assault.
Its tip glides
through his wrist,
and his hand and sword
fall slowly
to the floor.
Holding his handless
arm he bows to me,
provides a smiling grimace,
turns and leaves
the dojo floor.
#2
We dance
to the rhythm of the swords;
swing, rotate,
turn and stand,
then once again,
and again, and again.
My opponent
is my colleague and
former companion in
the dojo when
we were interns
in training.
Yes, we are friends
but not in this province,
not on this floor,
not when the cost
of hundreds of soldiers
could be counted
on the dry paddies
of our Governor.
Today
my friend is not an enemy
but an adversary
one who I love,
but whom I
would not die for,
and he not for I.
His mighty
sword is almost twice
the length of mine,
and, yes,
twice as heavy
as well.
I am halfway through
a turn when
his long, long sword
comes at my knees …
… but too soon.
The heavy sword
continues its arc,
and I move, turn
‘round behind him,
and swing
to the back of his knee
severing his leg.
He falls down in agony,
clutching the stump.
His face discloses
the instantaneous insight
that he,
he the best of his province
will soon hobble
in the streets
as any other beggar.
#3
Comes to me
from across the mountains,
a huge man
of immense proportions.
Big of arm,
tall of leg,
mighty of body,
but slow of foot.
So sad to see
such a magnificent man,
a man of physical majesty,
a rare find,
a man who could
be stud
to many young warriors
in future generations,
who has the courage of ten,
and aware enough that
he too will be disarmed,
disfigured, disheartened –
in the end
losing his family
of brother warriors,
for no loser ever
becomes a mentor.
He rushes upon me,
aggressive to distract me,
screaming
and bellowing in my ear
as he passes by
in a rush that
cannot be stopped.
And so,
yes and so,
I swing behind him
cutting the muscles
in his back
that hold his arm,
his sword,
his life,
and his future.
#4
We rest first,
clear water for my thirst.
My student wipes
the sweat
from my body –
not from the work
but from life’s threats.
Sweet tea
is so refreshing,
and I pour it
‘round my loin cloth
underneath my
warrior’s garment.
He is so wary,
so, so wary
that he gives me
no choice,
no opportunity to engage him
in pursuit.
Yes, I am weary,
I am weary of giving
so many men
the opportunity
that others call death.
To pass by this geisha’s play
that we call life.
Seven men?
This one
and three more?
What is my cost
for saving my governor’s
territory?
My soul?
My whole being?
And perhaps my life?
“Ahhhh – uh!”
It is over for him.
My patience,
my honor for him,
for all of the audience,
is wearing thin.
And, so,
my beautiful sword
cleaves his tender body
in two.
The audience,
many from the provinces
near and far
are shocked at my callous
disregard for protocol,
for honor,
for compassion –
only
for that do I feel guilty.
Yet none comes forward
to criticize me.
None challenges
the outcome
of this match.
They know
I have the right,
the honored
and ancient right
to take the life
of one who comes
to me with his sword.
Do you understand
how much blood it takes
to saturate the sands
beneath our dojo floors?
It takes the bodies
of many courageous warriors
to fill these sands
my friends!
And yet,
today,
the sands have been filled.
Their blood now flows
past the walls to the sea.
Its color so red,
so crimson,
bled from the lives
of my comrades’ bodies.
For we are Samurai!
One and all,
whether we fight
together
or fall
upon our brother’s
floors.
The contest’s the same,
a life is a life
whether it dies
on the paddies
or on our dojo floor.
#5
Is alive but only
his mind is aquiver.
I saw him earlier leave
to exit in time to relieve
his bladder
then,
rather than
now.
Yes, surely he is quick,
his training complete
with years in the field,
a warrior tried
and true.
But yet,
as we dance
on this floor
I notice
that he is not one
with his sword.
Am I angry,
am I tired,
am I fully disenchanted
with my sword?
No, oh, surely NO, there
will never be
a day when I tire
of this sword.
So we dance
and twirl,
singing the song
of the sword,
but in the end
it twirls through his neck,
and I am so sad,
so tired and unfulfilled,
but defiant,
brave,
and alone.
“aaaaaaaaaaaAAAAHHH!”
comes a united,
anguished cry
from the dojo audience
that day.
Witnesses
stand upon
the wooden benches
‘round the center
mat, tears
streaming down
their cheeks crying,
“aaaaAAH! No more!”
#6 and #7
Fall upon their knees,
clasped hands before
their heads,
bowed upon the
blood stained floor
giving thanks --
spared
from my arm,
and my sword.
I am asked to leave
their territories,
and given
a territory of my own –
to become an exile,
an exile from my own land --
a rogue too fierce,
a spirit so powerful
that must be kept abroad,
alone.
So what is respect?
Of what value is admiration,
even courage,
when
I have no place
to call home?
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