Short Poems

How the owner
must hate it
when the wind blows,
though over here, pure joy
in the fragrance of the plum

Take note:
the plum by my rustic hedge
halted in his tracks
a total stranger
who happened by

Seeping through the haze,
the voice
of the bush warbler —
few people passing,
mountain village in spring

My age: seventy-four,
feelings colder than ashes.
Not ill but growing thin,
I'll make a smaller padded robe.

The azure sky like water, the night is cool.
The moon, through the blind, reaches my cup.
I drink slowly and wait, but no one comes.
A wind stirs and brings the jasmine scent.

Away for long from a tub of sake,
we meet again with frost on our hair.
Everyone's past half a century old,
the season already near Double-Yang.
Brimming cups have fresh dregs;
fully open chrysanthemums spit yellow out.
I've made the rounds of drinking places,
finding each place different from what it was.

A fragrant wind comes through the window gauze;
the ceaseless rains have let up, the evening sun aslant.
The thousand trees cast new shadows, amid which
golden balls strike my eyes: ripe loquats!

Yellow flowers attract yellow butterflies,
yellow butterflies live in yellow flowers.
You can't tell flowers from butterflies.
Across the vegetable garden a spring wind,
but, look, there's a spot they leave untouched:
peonies in an affluent, noble house.

Heaven and earth, life force split, you've gone back to the void;
aggrieved, I'm disturbed and lost, my way ended.
The moon above North Ville shines bright, breathes chill;
a wind soughs through white aspens, pervades the dusk.
In the east you compiled history, a heavyweight brush;
a western guest a thousand li away sent you verse in tubes.
You've passed away but cannot vanish with your form:
for a friend in the dark you have Lord Han underground.

Flat waves over the great expanse, our boat is light;
autumn clear as divined, we set out on this trip.
The servants, still sleepy, are too languid to prepare tea;
the passengers, understanding things, drink sake together.
The willows, sadly ravaged, tell us they've had frost;
the reeds, disturbed, make us suspect the bank is moving.
For ten li , our sail full of wind, without mishap,
before the bay darkens we reach Kuwana Castle.