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160 pages, Paperback
First published March 18, 1997
While mother begins
chanting a deathbed sutra,
beside her, the
tiny feet of her infant,
oh so beautiful to see.
From her shoulder,
falling over the sutra,
a strand of unruly hair.
A lovely girl and a monk.
The burden of early spring.
Hair in morning tangles,
perhaps I should comb it out
with spring rainwater
as it drips from the ink-black
feathers of swallows' wings.
I say his poem,
propped against this frozen wall,
in the late evening,
as bitter autumn rain
continues to fall.
Spring quickly passes.
All the things of this world are
temporal! I cried! -
And lifted his hand to touch
my trembling, waiting breast.
So all aloneThe translators, Hamill and Matsui Gibson, took on a more difficult task to render her poems in English in the tanka (5-7-5-7-7) form, faithfully to the original, and impressively succeeded. I compared theirs to a couple of alternative translations, including the literal prose rendering, on a sample of three poems and they are the only ones to use tanka in English while not altering the substantive content of the original text. Quite a feat! However, except for a short introduction, there are no notes on the poems, their sources are not mentioned nor are they accompanied by the transliterated text as is standard. It seems as if Shambhala envisioned it as a smaller coffee table book which would be very much wrong because there is a treasure of poetry here by one of the greatest Japanese poets.
beside the temple bell:
I stole away
to secretly meet you here.
But now the fog has cleared.
*
Sutras grow bitter
on this long spring evening.
Deep within the shrine,
O twenty-five bodhisattvas,
please accept my humble song.
*
Where gentle spring winds
scatter pale cherry blossoms
near the pagoda,
on the wings of mourning doves
I shall write my poems.
*
It was only
the thin thread of a cloud,
almost transparent,
leading me along the way
like an ancient sacred song.
*
Feeling you nearby,
how could I not come
to walk beneath
this evening moon rising
over flowering fields.
*
Is it anyone's fault
that I who was once innocent
as the whitest silk
in constellations of stars
would fall into this world?
*
My shiny black hair
fallen into disarray,
a thousand tangles,
like a thousand tangled thoughts
about my love for you.
*
The river of stars
begins to part high
in the Milky Way while
through the curtains of our bed
I lie awake and watch.
*
Ignoring the ways
of right or wrong, eternal
life or lasting fame,
we turn to face each other,
loved and lover, face to face.
Fresh from my hot bath,
I dressed slowly before
the tall mirror,
a smile for my own body.
Innocence so long ago!
You’ve never explored
this tender flesh or known
such stormy blood.
Do you not grow lonely, friend,
forever preaching the Way?
He does not return.
Spring evening slowly descends.
Only this empty heart
and, falling over my koto,
strands of my dishevelled hair.
After twenty years
of living the barren life,
I want to believe
that now all my patient dreams
will at last be realized.
The Only Question
This one thing
I will ask you:
are you with the people
or apart from them?
Depending on your answer,
you and I
will be forever divided
between earth and heaven.
It was only
the thin thread of a cloud,
almost transparent,
leading me along the way
like an ancient sacred song.
*
On her cheek and mine,
although our minds so differ,
like utter strangers,
the pine winds blow equally -
almost as though we were friends.
*
Who might that be,
giving voice to all the
lonely sorrows of
her life where bellflowers bloom
behind the monastery?
I say his poem,
propped against this frozen wall,
in the late evening,
as bitter autumn rain
continues to fall.
Was it a thousand
years ago or only
yesterday we parted?
Even now, on my shoulder,
I feel your friendly hand.
Don’t complain to me,
don’t hesitate, just hurry
to meet those soft hands
that are patiently waiting
to help you out of your clothes.
Lifting your head,
my slender arm beneath
the nape of your neck,
I want, suddenly, to suck
your feverish lips with mine.
Testing, tempting me
forever, those youthful lips
barely touching the
frosty cold drops of dew
on a white lotus blossom.
What can I put in
my burning mouth now the blood
from my lover’s finger—
he asked me to kiss it—
begins to dry on my lips.