All right,
at the risk of sounding
like a bleeding-heart liberal
slave to political correctness
circa 1990,
I feel the need to
preface this poem with
a little disclaimer.

I like Japan, and the Japanese people.
I’m fascinated by Japanese history.
But I’m feeling a little embittered
toward a certain class of people
who used Japanese folk religion
to rally support for the state and its
nationalist and imperialist ambitions,
and this is my way of venting
after writing a term paper
on the subject.

Emphasis on
“these” Japanese,
as opposed to
“the” Japanese.

In a similar vein,
I’m sure we can all think of
a certain kind of German
whom we all love to hate.
Nonetheless I’d like to stress,
at the risk of sounding cliché,
that love is the answer,
love is the final solution.

Anyway, on with the bloody poem.

- - -

The Gods, they say, were those who made Japan
The most Beautiful, and of the highest Grade.
It’s easy to believe, in this Blessèd Land,
The Gods, they say, were those who made Japan.
But of these Japanese, I’m not a fan—
Who cast them, in whose image were they made?
The Gods, they say. Were those who made Japan
The Most beautiful, and of the Highest grade?

* * *

Written 2004.