Zhong Kui, the Demon Queller
Hokusai
Banner, color with ink on cotton
That’s my next tattoo hanging on the wall—
little red-ink man striding towards his next battle,
steps firm in the boots of a warrior,
wind pushing him forward,
his eyes wide open to evil
under his straw pilgrim’s hat,
his sword gripped fiercely,
no scabbard visible,
this common unkempt man,
this ghost.
I wasn’t gonna let nobody poke me with needles
for some little sprinkle on stars on my shoulder.
Give me a portrait of an outsider, bedroll on his back.
Who else would you want at your side in this city?
I write because the creative state of mind is a separate level of consciousness. Time passing means little there. The world’s expectations count for nothing. Weather outside the window is beside the point. The artist dwells in a primordial soup from which a poem, a dance, a weaving, a sculpture. . . will emerge. Generally while writing, I am not aware of my emotional state. On rare occasions I have discovered I felt joy while working, and the results continue to carry the aura of joy for me.
I cannot look at this banner of Zhong Kui without grinning. Doesn’t everyone need a cocky demon queller who isn’t afraid to turn his back on the watcher and walk away? Defiantly red, decidedly unkempt, he makes me happy. Good solid shoes and a hat that would hold a desert sun or deluge at bay, I can get behind that. Yes, I see the sorrow in eyes which have seen too many evils. And no one beats the earth beneath their feet with every step without being angry. Yet he’s a bit absurd.
Each year the Oregon Poetry Association https://oregonpoets.org/ holds a poetry contest with a number of categories. Each year I enter as many categories as I qualify for. Each year I make sure at least one poem is newly written for the contest, usually for the traditional form or the theme category. Forget Self Defense was my response to the theme of ekphrasis.
In looking for a subject, I pulled the art book with the most colorful cover off my shelf: Hokusai. I grew up with two of his images on my parents’ walls, probably purchased while we were stationed in Okinawa. His demons spilled out of a Barnes and Nobles bargain bin in a book of ghost stories as told by Lafcadio Hearn. I have a long poem based on his prints of waterfalls. Having spotted this book with the phoenix on the cover in the Chicago Art Institute gift shop, I tried but could not leave without it. The book falls open to the image of Zhong Kui. In this troubling contemporary world, here was the answer to the question, What art has meaning for you now?
Zhong Kui, known in Japan as Shōki, was denied a place in Chinese government early in the seventh-century, despite his high exam scores, because of his physical appearance. His plight reflects the situation of many people who cannot find their place in the urban hierarchy. He committed suicide. In the afterlife he met the king of the underworld who made him the king of ghosts. It became his job to defeat evil spirits. His reputation spread with the Dao. In Japan, He is also seen as a guardian of health. Auspicious images of Shōki were displayed for Boys’ Day, a spring festival celebrating children’s health.
That’s my next tattoo hanging on the wall. . . . Okay so there’s a nod to Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess” in my first line. That was fun and introduced this as a persona piece. (Surely you don’t think I’m crazy enough about needles to sit still for an image of this complexity.) I hoped to capture a note of the dread I felt when I first read the duke’s threats. Otherwise, I wanted to keep it short, colloquial, and end with a question capable of holding both humor and the complexities of city life.
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