Roshi poured me a glass of Courvoisier. We were in the cabin on Mt. Baldy, summer of 1977. We were listening to the crickets.
—Kone, Roshi said, you should write cricket poem.
—I’ve already written a cricket poem. It was in this cabin two years ago.
—Oh.
Roshi fried some sliced pork in sunflower oil and boiled a three minute noodle soup. We finished one bottle of Courvoisier and opened another.
—Yah, Kone, you should write cricket poem.
—That is a very Japanese idea, Roshi.
—So.
We listened to the crickets a while longer. Then we closed the light so we could open the door and get the breeze without the flies coming in.
—Yah. Cricket.
—Roshi, give me your idea of a cricket poem.
—Ha ha. Okay:
— dark night (said Roshi)
cricket sound break out cricket
girl friend listening
—That’s pretty good, Roshi.
— dark night (Roshi began again)
walking on the path
suddenly break out cricket sound
where is my lover?
—I don’t like that one.
— cricket! cricket! (Roshi cried)
you are my lover
now I am walking path by alone
but I am not lonely with you
—I’m afraid not, Roshi. The first one was good.
Then the crickets stopped for a while and Roshi poured the Courvoisier into our glasses. It was a peaceful night.
—Yah, Kone, said Roshi very softly. You should write more sad.