Metaphor arises when fields collide.
One point pings in several planes at
A dust mite from one angle, from another, life.
These paintings sit where the Buddhist
Crosses the floating world, this beautiful illusion.
Uki is floating, yo's the world, and this print, e,
One of the first consumer graphics, paid for
By merchants rising, daimyo's switching
From castle to inn or factory, and rich peasants.
In Hokusai, Chinese mists blot out
Landscapes so detailed and almost real
That tourists have looked for the spots he sat,
Just to compare the picture to the present.
Loyal and proud, he painted the national icon
In perspective borrowed from the Dutch. Trade
Opened his eyes, and earned his rice. Popular,
he fitted humans into a large, wet land--
Dots in the distance, each
Flat, but deep, his art quotes
Other art, but looks convincingly strange,
Like a photograph: then, as we examine
A tower, or tree, we see the real dissolve.
The print's an almost mechanical device
Switching us from one plane to another so fast
We become, stroboscopically, aware
Of all and everything, vibrating,
And we hear his voice, laughing like an angel,
Waking us from the nightmare of nationality and tribe--
Sheer soul sound, despite the Edo accent.
-- Jonathan Price