In the coolness
of the empty sixth-month sky...
the cuckoo's cry.
the tree cut,
dawn breaks early
at my little window
scatter layer
by layer, eight-layered
cherry blossoms!
at the full moon's
rising, the silver-plumed
reeds tremble
entangled with
the scattering cherry blossoms—
the wings of birds!
wheat sowing—
the mulberry trees
lift bunched branches
pine and cypress:
in a withered field,
a shrine to Fudō
in the coolness
gods and Buddhas
dwell as neighbors
I turn my back
on Buddha and face
the cool moon
looking down I see,
cool in the moonlight,
4000 houses
the moon is cool—
frogs' croaking
wells up
coolness—
a mountain stream splashes out
between houses
fanning out its tail
in the spring breeze,
see—a peacock!
I bite into a persimmon
and a bell resounds—
Hōryūji
rice flowers—
fair weather on
Dōkanyama
rice reaping—
no smoke rising from
the cremation ground today
old garden—she empties
a hot-water bottle
under the moon
"Before the Garden"
cockscombs...
must be 14,
or 15
again and again
I ask how high
the snow is
snow's falling!
I see it through a hole
in the shutter...
all I can think of
is being sick in bed
and snowbound...
open the shutter!
I'll just have a look
at Ueno's snow!
spring rain:
browsing under an umbrella
at the picture-book store
the nettle nuts are falling...
the little girls next door
don't visit me these days
it's drizzling...
devil's tongue, cold on
my belly button
getting a shave!
on a day when Ueno's bell
is blurred by haze...
"Sick in Bed Ten Years"
lifting my head,
I look now and then—
the garden clover
how much longer
is my life?
a brief night...
I tried to speak your poems
but I could not!
The weeping of the gods
fell upon my ears.
curtains drawn,
the emperor's love
still lies abed—
on crimson peonies,
the morning sun shines
the peony seems
to think itself Yōkihi
as she awakes
the plaintain at the veranda's edge
unfolds its coiled leaves,
its jewels,
and veils the water basin
in five feet of green
"Invalid Facing Mirror"
The man
I used to meet in the mirror
is no more.
Now I see a wasted face.
It dribbles tears.
"In China with the Army"
In the spring chill,
as I slept with sword by pillow,
deep at night
my little sister came to me
in dreams from home.
saw the country
and returned—now deep at night
I lie in bed and
fields of mustard flowers
bloom before my eyes
happily
I climbed Mt. Fuji and
as my legs trembled
on its peak
awoke
wakened by pain
from a dream of pain
I wipe the sweat
and rose petals
scatter
the bucket's water
poured out and gone,
drop by drop
dew drips like pearls
from the autumn flowers
far away
under the skies of America
they began
baseball—ah,
I could watch it forever!
as evening comes across
Ueno Hill
the woods grow dark and
wild beasts howl in
the wild beast garden
on the pine needles,
each of the slender needles,
a dewdrop rests—
a thousand pearls lie
quivering, yet never fall
the tips of the pine
needles, so thin...
no sooner
does the dew collect
than white pearls scatter
to every needle
of the needled pine it clings—
the pearl white dew,
forming but to scatter,
scattering but to form
huddled up for winter
upon a bed of pain
I wipe the window
clear of frost and see
tabi, hung out for drying
"May 7 (temperature 38.5°)"
how like a lovely
young girl it is,
this peony of scarlet red
whose shadow shades
my fitful dreaming
wisteria plumes
sweep the earth, and soon
the rains will fall
purple unto
blackness:
grapes!
two feet tall,
the crimson-budded roses,
their young thorns
tender in
the soft spring rain
to where I lie,
sick upon my bed,
they brought for me
these potted peonies...
their petals' trembling never ends
I thought I felt
a dewdrop on me
as I lay in bed
as if to cheer me
on my bed of pain,
the peony spreads
its petals wide and
seeing this I grieve
when to my pillow
no friend comes
I lie alone,
turned to face
the potted plum
crimson plum blossoms
scattered over the loneliness
of the bed...
fallen petals of
the crimson plum I pluck
from the tatami
wisteria
in the vase
so short
it doesn't touch
the floor
ah, sad to part
from Lady Sao...
in the spring to come
it will not be me
who meets her again
the wall iris
opens its buds:
before my eyes
the last spring
begins to fade
I dream of making
a trellis for moonflowers
to climb,
but oh my life, that will not
bear the wait till autumn!
the gourd flowers bloom,
but look—here lies
a phlegm-stuffed Buddha!
a quart of phlegm—
even gourd water
couldn't mop it up
they didn't gather
gourd water
day before yesterday either
a jumble of
flowers planted—
see, the little garden!
wisteria
in the vase—
one plume hangs down,
brushing
a pile of books
I see the wisteria
that moves like waves
and longings rise
for Nara and Kyoto,
the ancient courtly days
I see the wisteria
that moves like waves
and think to take up
the purple paint
and sketch its likeness
the purple of the wisteria
that moves like waves,
if made into a painting,
would have to be
a deep, deep purple
wisteria
in the vase
trails its plumes—
at my sickbed, spring is
drawing to its close
last spring
I saw wisteria
at Kamedo—seeing
the wisteria now
brings it to mind
showing the way
to the crimson peonies,
the purple of
the wisteria
has come into bloom
these wisteria
have bloomed early...
the blossoming of
those at Kameido will be
more than ten days later
if soaked in
Yashiōri wine,
withered
wisteria flowers
will revive and bloom again
hey!—even snake gourds
become Buddhas—
don't get caught behind!
Buddha-death:
the moonflower's face,
the snake gourd's fart
the wallet
by the bed is my
autumn brocade
chestnut rice—
though a sick man,
still a glutton
I sink my teeth
into a ripe persimmon—
it dribbles down my beard
surprise!
a moonflower fell—
midnight sound
thinking how soon
all in this world passes
I loved
the yellow roses
that now have scattered
in memory of
the spring now passing
I drew
the long clusters of wisteria
that move like waves
the crimson roses
have come into bud—
omen of the time
when my illness
will grow worse
I remember plucking
buds of bush clover
long ago with
Satsuma geta on my feet and
a walking stick in my hand
the green of the young
pine seedlings...
as the long day
succumbs to night
my fever rises
I do not know the day
my pain will end yet
in the little garden
I had them plant
seeds of autumn flowers
eating rice cakes everyday
while sick in bed—
that's my Higan!
