Bakemono

(Poem May 2021)

Inspiration abounds in the above illustration from Bakemono Zukushi, a painted scroll depicting yokai cryptids of Japanese folklore. Bakemono (or obake) are said to be shapeshifting creatures, of various different origins and natures and generally stalk the half-light of dusk and dawn. They are included in a cultural bank of Asian cautionary tales, or part of moralistic parables – much like La Llorona of Latin American folklore – and are a fascinating sandbox for the creative mind.

This poem takes the idea of old folk and ‘ghost’ stories and seeks to turn that on its head somewhat. It is a tale of interwoven tragedy, loss and a condemnation of how the demands of modern society stifle and destroy creativity and innovation – when they should rather nurture and empower.

(Information taken from ‘The Bakemono Zukushi “Monster” Scroll (18th–19th century)’ The Public Domain Review)

Huddled forms in a mighty place,
Where tales are told of beasts galore,
Two companions for nightmares race,
Forever searching, wanting more.

When bathing in the starry rays,
Warm and solar, redeeming gold,
Piece by piece and phase by cruel phase
Their spirits morph to crystal, cold.

—

They shift midst restless reverie,
Despoiling all that is sacred,
Choking on careless revelry,
Seething with a boundless hatred.

The suehirogari-screams alone,
Are enough to strangle the dead,
Inspiring the path to sins atone,
Spinning the yarns of folklore’s thread.

—

Beautiful, elegant and true,
Ineffable beyond her years,
Warrior stock built through and through,
The finest mind among her peers.

She gazed upon the shadowed form,
Her façade sallow and sickly,
Its billowed coat that’s never warm,
Slowly oozing, bleeding, thickly.

—

Together had they lived as one,
Sheltered in eternal wonder,
Till growth of fouler hearts were done,
Sky-high rent them both asunder.

Pathetic jealous petty greed,
Re-birthed inside the seed of man,
Alas an unpaid mouth to feed,
Was ‘too much’ for his paltry clan.

—

Sharpened, a mithril fire shimmered,
A cursing blow that life defeats,
Woeful final dreams delivered,
As blood spilled out across the sheets,

Guardian, hero, protector,
But helpless to prevent her plight,
Locked away, a banished spectre,
Subsisting in the half-moon light.

—

Exploding forth, a mournful howl,
From deep within the cord of life,
Shapeless, fading, and run afoul,
Of fortune’s fickle blazoned knife.

But neither one did end that day,
Though not for the wont of trying,
In mirthless depths of myth they lay,
Condemned, alone, undying.

—

So listen close to long-lost tales,
Gird against the follies of youth,
Remember well the hollow wails,
Of those beholden without truth.

And if at night your mind does stray,
Upon paths you find untrodden,
Take care, for welcome cannot stay,
Towards those whose cores are rotten.