In the middle of the Pacific
On Sunday 27th March, 2011, I am going to be reading at a fundraising event for Japan at the Millar near London Bridge. There will be both a comedy stage and live music stage and 100% proceeds are going to the British Red Cross.
My friend Helen is organizing this. It’s especially close to her heart as her sister was working in Japan when this tragedy struck and is still there.
Hopefully you can come. I’ll post more details on times, etc, when I have them but do keep that day free. In the meantime, if you want to give to the Red Cross, there are more details here: www.redcross.org.uk
As for me, I find it almost impossible to explain how I feel. I’m half way around the world. The images seem more like disaster movie than real life. And how can my worries compare to those of the people of Japan right now. I’m sure countless people feel the same.
So I wrote this…
I heard your house
was in the middle of the Pacific,
so I took a week off work to visit.
I thumbed a ride from an Apache
and parachuted to the water
James Bond Navy Seals style.
I don’t think they saw me wave goodbye.
You pull me in,
dripping wet.
You told me not to come
That it could only fit one
Two was too heavy
But I knew you wouldn’t mind
You have robes. And a hand towel.
You always were the perfect host.
I tell you I like what you’ve
done with the place even though it’s empty.
You had to lighten it, you said.
It needed to float.
You left your furniture in the hills.
Fuel for the forgotten, to warm hands
and brew tea.
To the man sat in the rubble of his house,
no windows or doors to seal,
you gave him your umbrella
to protect him from invisible rays,
and glowing rain.
Your pots went to a drummer.
There will be songs.
You gave your breath to the wind
to blow the fires out,
but it took too much (like always)
and your smile went too.
The water is tickling our feet. I didn’t expect it
to be so cold out of my wetsuit.
You’ve taken the windows out
and put them in the floor.
Your own glass bottom house.
The fish don’t entertain me.
We drink the last of your tea
brewed in yesterday’s sun.
I show you my new phone but not
how it works. I expect the ocean
doesn’t have a good data plan.
I brought you cans and food stamps.
But you broke your can opener
when you freed your neighbour
from their car and they’ve
shut off your gas and electric
since you’ve come out to sea.
And the stores are all closed.
But I see you’re not alone.
No one told me. It wasn’t in the photos.
You say it took days
to find the right conditions.
But over the crest of a wave,
a duplex surfed to join you.
Since then, there’ve been
sheds and plastic wheelbarrows.
Treehouses and trailers.
There’s been rumours
of a tower block
and a parking garage.
The water is to our waists.
It’s too uncomfortable to sit.
We stand to watch old Japan,
a three mile glow,
burning like paper lanterns to heaven
The water is at our necks.
I tell you I must be going
and thank you for the hospitality.
We wait in silence for the helicopter whirls
but they never return.
Stalk me online