Short Poems

On a hook he hangs —
the wild boar, much as he lived,
with his dirty tusks.

The sun is rising mistily,
The valley fills with gold.
I lie and wonder sleepily
How many suns of old
Arose and filled the valleys
And lit each tree from tree
Along the forest alleys
And not a soul to see!

A summer mist
Enveloping those dark leaves
Perfumes the air
In my youth I saw
And did not see.

Along a luminous riverbank
where flowers of Daphne blossom,
a blond boy runs
passing by an angel who holds an apple and a saber
His fingers firmly grasping
a fish named red-belly
just above its eyes of milky light —
a golden dream curves.

July, when white waves pounce upon our heads,
We pass through a lovely town in the south
A quiet garden lies asleep for travelers
Roses, sand, and water
Heart misted by the roses
Hair engraved in stone
Sound engraved in stone
The eye engraved in stone opens to eternity.

Wrote GREAT
in the sand
a hundred times
forgot about dying
and went on home.

The shamisen is hateful,
The snakeskin glowing blue, sweetly,
It is so sad I am silent,
I am a sleeping emerald
Faintly, faintly the ring round the moon
Opens within my heart
Plucking the beautiful strings, Death, the white of my hand,
Silently, night deepens.

If all the Earthe were paper white
and all the sea were incke
Twere not inough for me to write
as my poore hart do th thinke.

Councell w ch afterward is soughte
is like vntimely showres
Distillinge from the duskie cloudes
when heate hath parcht the flowres.

When I wash the soles of my feet
They become white.