Showing posts with label Japanese Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Japanese Poetry. Show all posts

Monday, January 5, 2026

FIVE POEMS OF YAKAMOCHI~

 




Though it is destined

to come but to this,

my wife and I trusted in life

as if it would last

                a thousand years.  





My wife departed from our home.

I could not hold her back

so I have hidden her

        in the mountain,

and my heart has lost its bearing.






Though my mind knows

that life never comes

                but to this,

how I cannot bear

these painful feelings!






Each time I see the mist

trailing on Saho Mountain,

I remember my wife —

            there is no day

when I do not weep.






In the past

I glanced at it casually,

but now that I realize

my wife's grave is there,

how beloved is Saho Mountain.



_______________________

from The Ten Thousand Leaves

Poems from the Man'yoshu

translated by Ian Hideo Levy

NYRB, 2025



            

Wednesday, December 24, 2025

KOBAYASHI ISSA ~





Under cherry trees

there are

no strangers





    Mother I never knew,

every time I see the ocean,

    every time —





    Full moon;

my ramshackle hut

    is what it is.


                    ____________________________________________________   

translated from the Japanese by Robert Hass

K O B A Y A S H I   I S S A




Monday, April 28, 2025

SHIKI: THE GLASS CLOUDING ~

 



Glass Window Tanka



sickroom
the glass door
I peer through —
can see sparrows
flying to the little pine


shut in the sickroom
the glass window
winter sun shining in —
lucky buttercup
blooming


morning and night
ueno woods lie across
the glass window —
I'll never be
tired of seeing


shut in for winter —
clouds cleared
in the glass door,
and I can see
tabi socks drying


crystal, glass door
I look through —
the house across, the roof
I can see
shepherd's purse blooming


thought I'd see
snow — the glass
in the glass window
clouded, I did not
see snow


out the window
I can see
even insects —
panes of crystal glass
are miracles


shut in the sickroom
out the window
the glass window
on the clothesline
I can see a crow cawing


crow perched
on the line —
does it look through
the glass door,
see me writing and caw


always lying
down — O, blessings
to you who put in
glass for me,
crippled here


crystal carriage
in the piling
snow —
I don't think I'll go
to the silver fields


glass put in,
waiting for snow —
tomorrow I'll see
snow piled
on the trees


dawn, outside
I see the snow —
someone
wiped dew
from the glass







Ugly Duckling Presse
            2024


Thursday, April 24, 2025

Tuesday, January 5, 2021

KUSANO SHIMPEI ~

 






a while



gee. like trachoma.

what a lovely moon.


somewhere hereabouts fox is munching something eh.

zebra grass grows wild there. Qayloqay was little he got lost there you know.

no. whatever happened.

somehow he's still alive.

but.

but? every day at the brink alive somehow. nothing serious..

my but what a lovely moon huh.

oh.

that mountain what's behind it.

marshes mountains and ricefields. all the same.

beyond them?

more ricefields. fields. pear fields.

and beyond them?

way way beyond?

yes that's what i mean.

there's the sea. who was it. yuh. Qanimm.

they were boasting. the sea's a sky turned into a river.

then it must be also somehow blue huh.

even by day they say it's black. big & black alive.

good heavens!

the sand looks dazzling.





______________________________


frogs &.

others.

poems by Kusano Shimpei

translated from the Japanese by Cid Coman

& Kamaike Susumu

(Mushinsha / Grossman, 1969



When I was young, if I came upon a book published by

Mushinsha / Grossman – I had to own it. I bought each and

every one. That's how I came to read Frank Samperi, Cid Corman,

Will Petersen, Kusano Shimpei, Rene Char, Eric Sackheim et al.,

what could go wrong? Nothing did. The books were exquisite, an

extra minute or so was taken to enhance the design of the books, 

the feel of the books, the looks of the books, and the quality overall was

life changing. You know the little girl you once saw walking on a cloud

in the park with a book under her arm — a Mushinsha book, that was me. 

In 1969 when the Shimpei book was published, issued in a hefty 

stapled together slipcase, poet and translator Cid Corman performed 

a masterstroke, and was at the  height of his best years when he wasn’t peering 

around for fame and notoriety but sharpening his skills as a poet and a mover. 

His introductory prose here and translating prowess reads sword sharp. 


[ BA ]




Sunday, November 8, 2020

RE-READING ISSA ~





The Spring of My Life



Once snows have melted,

the village soon overflows

with friendly children





A gust of spring wind —

unhappily — lifts the skirts

of the roof thatcher







The turnip farmer

with a turnip points the way

back to the road







Calm, indifferent

as if nothing's transpired —

the goose, the willow







Give me a homeland,

and a passionate woman,

and winter alone







With my folding fan

I measured the peony —

as it demanded







In early spring rain

the ducks that were not eaten

are quacking happily







A child has drawn

a river from snowmelt lakes

leading to my gate







As old age arrives,

considering just the day's length

can move one to tears







All alone at home,

my wife, like me, is watching

this full moon rise





________________________

Kobatashi Issa (1763-1827)

from The Spring of My Life

and Selected Haiku

translated by Sam Hamill

Shambhala



___________________________________

Nothing can go wrong with Issa, nothing.

First of all, even a bad translator can't quite knock

the Issa touch and wisdom off the tracks — somewhere

in that tangle of Japanese to American there is a light.

And no matter how miserable your life may be, or

is going to be, Issa is ready for you — more than likely

his life has been more miserable, and still he counsels

with the grasshopper, the stars, the breezes, the tears.

He's your guy. Maybe more than anyone away

from your home. Take him along. Most of his

books are lightweight, thin, pocketful, treasures.

For a translator here, we've got a good one in

Sam Hamill — poet, translator, essayist, printer,

publisher, jack of all poetry trades, and like

Issa he's dead, and also like Issa, not dead.

Hello, Sam.


[ BA ]







Wednesday, June 5, 2019

RENGETSU (Otagaki Nobu, 1791-1875) ~

    




 from Lotus Moon





Blackened Thing


Another year passes:

On my kitchen shelf

Something blackened

With soot —

A little Buddha image.






Seeing Young Nuns On
Their Begging Rounds


First steps on the

Long path to Truth:

Please do not dream

Your lives away,

Walk on to the end.






When People Tease Me About My
Constant Change Of Residence



A floating cloud,

Drifting about

Playfully

Here and there

Not wanting to fade away.







The Oni



Do not resist, (Mr. Onu):

Open the lotus inside

And overturn

All those demons

In your heart!






Heart




Coming and going,

Without beginning or end,

Like ever changing

White clouds:

The heart of things.






The Pleasures of Calligraphy



Taking up the brush

Just for the joy of it,

Writing on and on,

Leaving behind

Long lines of dancing letters.







Incense Burner



A single line of

Fragant smoke

From the incense stick

Trails off without a trace:

One's heart, as well?







A Life of Retirement



Reside in a living landscape

And it becomes yours:

Daikon dry along the fence,

Trees full of chestnuts

Brush against the eaves.






Thoughts While Making
A Flower Pot



Dew and butterflies are

Attracted to flowers of

Certain scent and color:

Do they have

Favorites too?







Digging Clay And Making A Vase



Taking the fragile

Little handmade

Things to sell —

How lonely it looks

In the market place!




_________________

Lotus Moon
Rengetsu
translated by John Stevens
White Pine Press
2005















Tuesday, February 19, 2019

KAZUKO SHIRAISHI ~







Summer Time — The Full Moon 
Four Days After July 27th



my mother silently went to heaven       four days ago

and tonight       is the full moon

my mother quietly completed her work

                         the last penance called living

when she breathed in and exhaled       as though reaching

as far back as to the Inca Empire

                                          the thin river of her life

                                                          trembled like a thread



snow     everything is fine

she is     happier than the moon      she does not have to wander about

                                      among the dark clouds



she does not have to       shine serenely

                                   and slowly leave

she has obtained       the permanence

of her existence by not existing       ah

I forgot to say, thank you       because your leaving

this world was      too soon      and too quiet a sigh



what is called permanence is       transient

because it only exists inside me

in this finite inside

infinity       that is a permanence is       now

                                                                     floating

ah       full moon

                      please shine

on my beloved       my mother

                    please flutter

                like a spring breeze

            quietly over the repose of her soul

                       like

                               drops of light




——————————


Kazuko Shiraishi
MY FLOATING MOTHER, CITY
New Directions 2009
translated from the Japanese by
Yumiko Isumura & Samuel Grolmes













Saturday, February 16, 2019

RYOKAN ~







Written In My Hermitage
On A Snowy Evening



For more than seventy years, I have been making

Myself dizzy observing men.

I have abandoned trying to penetrate men's good and bad actions.

Coming and going is a sign of weakness.

Heavy snow in the dead of night —

Under the weather-beaten window, once incense stick.



Light rain — the mountain forest is wrapped in mist.

Slowly the fog changes to clouds and haze.

Along the boundless river bank, many crows.

I walk to a hill overlooking the valley to sit in zazen.



After spending the day begging in town,

I now sit peacefully under a cliff in the evening cool.

Alone, with one robe and one bowl —

The life of a Zen monk is truly the best!



_____________________

Ryokan
One Robe, One Bowl
translated by John Stevens