In their haiku the Oriental masters of the form frequently used dew as a metaphor for the transience of life. Some of these poets have used dew metaphorically in a jisei (a type of death poem sometimes called a “zen death poem”) … but then I discovered to my surprise that I had used dew in similar ways quite frequently in my own poetry …
This world?
Moonlit dew
flicked from a crane’s bill.
— Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dewdrops suspended on blades of grass
have so little time to shine before dawn;
let the autumn wind not rush too quickly through the field!
— Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This world of dew
is a dew-drop world indeed;
and yet, and yet ...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Both victor and vanquished are
dewdrops, flashes of lightning
briefly illuminating the void.
—Ôuchi Yoshitaka (1507-1551), loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a lotus leaf’s evaporating dew,
I too ...
vanish.
—Senryu (-1827), loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
Let us arise and go,
following the path of the clear dew.
—Fojo (-1764), loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
Farewell! I pass
away as all things do:
dew drying on grass.
—Banzan (-1730), loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
Seventy-one?
How long
can a dewdrop last?
—Kigen (-1736), loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
My life appeared like dew
and disappears like dew.
All Naniwa was a series of dreams.
—Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536-1598), loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
Let this body
be dew
in a field of wildflowers.
—Tembo (1740-1823), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like dew glistening
on a lotus leaf,
so too I soon must vanish.
—Shinsui (1720-1769), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dew-damp grass:
the setting sun’s tears
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dew-damp grass
weeps silently
in the setting sun
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
But sometimes, like a non-Freudian cigar, dew is just dew …
Dabbed with morning dew
and splashed with mud,
the melon looks wonderfully cool.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I thought I felt a dewdrop
plop
on my head
as I lay in bed!
―Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Honeysuckle
blesses my knuckle
with affectionate dew
― Michael R. Burch
The Oldest Haiku - Haiku Timeline - History and Chronology of Haiku
These are my translations of some of the oldest Japanese waka, which evolved into poetic forms such as tanka, renga and haiku over time. My translations begin with excerpts from the Kojiki or 'Record of Ancient Matters' composed around 711 A.D. by the historian and poet Ō no Yasumaro. These are lines from one of the oldest Japanese poems, found in the oldest Japanese book...
Today, catching sight of the mallards
crying over Lake Iware:
Must I too vanish into the clouds?
—Prince Otsu, who wrote circa 663-686, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
―Ō no Yasumaro, who wrote circa 711, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Here's an excerpt with a humorous twist from the Kojiki:
Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you remind me of wordsmiths!
―Ō no Yasumaro loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Here's another, this one a poem of love and longing:
Onyx, this gem-black night.
Downcast, I await your return
like the rising sun, unrivaled in splendor.
―Ō no Yasumaro loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Ono no Komachi, circa 825-900, wrote waka, the most traditional form of Japanese lyric poetry, and the forerunner of haiku. She is one of the best-known poets of the Kokinshu, the first in a series of anthologies of Japanese poetry compiled by imperial order beginning circa 905. She is also one of the Rokkasen — the six best waka poets of the early Heian period, during which poetry was considered the highest art. Renowned for her unusual beauty, Komachi has become a synonym for feminine beauty in Japan. She is is best known today for her pensive, melancholic and erotic poems.
If fields of autumn flowers
can shed their blossoms, shameless,
why can't I also frolic here —
as fearless, wild and blameless?
—Ono no Komachi, circa 825, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Watching wan moonlight
illuminate tree limbs,
my heart also brims,
overflowing with autumn.
—Ono no Komachi loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Sad,
the end that awaits me —
to think that before autumn yields
I'll be a pale mist
shrouding these rice fields.
—Ono no Komachi loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I had thought to pluck
the flower of forgetfulness
only to find it
already blossoming in his heart.
—Ono no Komachi loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Am I to spend the night alone
atop this summit,
cold and lost?
Won't you at least lend me
your robes of moss?
—Ono no Komachi loose translation by Michael R. Burch
So cruelly severed,
a root-cut reed...
if the river offered,
why not be freed?
—Ono no Komachi loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This world—
to what may we compare it?
To autumn fields
lying darkening at dusk
illuminated by lightning flashes.
—Minamoto no Shitago, 911-983, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This world—to what may we liken it?
To autumn fields lit dimly at dusk,
illuminated by lightning flashes.
—Minamoto no Shitago loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Like a half-exposed rotten log
my life, which never flowered,
ends barren.
—Minamoto Yorimasa,1104-1180, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Overtaken by darkness,
I will lodge under a tree's branches;
cherry blossoms will cushion me tonight.
—Taira no Tadanori, 1144-1184, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Overtaken by darkness,
I will lodge under a cherry tree's branches;
flowers alone will bower me tonight.
—Taira no Tadanori loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Let me die in spring
beneath the cherry blossoms
while the moon is full.
—Saigyo, 1118-1190, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This world?
Moonlit dew
flicked from a crane's bill.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, 1200-1253, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Seventy-one?
How long
can a dewdrop last?
—Eihei Dogen Kigen loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dewdrops beading grass-blades
die before dawn;
may an untimely wind not hasten their departure!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dewdrops beading blades of grass
have so little time to shine before dawn;
let the autumn wind not rush too quickly through the field!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Outside my window the plums, blossoming,
within their curled buds, contain the spring;
the moon is reflected in the cup-like whorls
of the lovely flowers I gather and twirl.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is no death, as there is no life.
Are not the skies cloudless
And the rivers clear?
—Taiheiki Toshimoto loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This world of dew
is a dew-drop world indeed;
and yet, and yet...
—Kobayashi Issa loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All five aspects of my fleeting human form
And the four elements of existence add up to nothing:
I bare my neck to the unsheathed sword
And its blow is but a breath of wind...
—Suketomo loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Snow-obscured heights,
mist-shrouded slopes:
this spring evening.
―Ilio Sōgi loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Had I not known
I was already dead
I might have mourned
my own passing.
—Ota Dokan loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Soundlessly they go,
the herons passing by:
arrows of snow
filling the sky.
―Yamazaki Sōkan loose translation by Michael R. Burch
O, fluttering moon, if only we
could hang a handle on you,
what a fan you would be!
―Yamazaki Sōkan loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Has an orphaned blossom
somehow returned to its bough?
No, a solitary butterfly!
―Arakida Moritake loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Both victor and vanquished
are but dewdrops,
as lightning bolts
illuminate the void.
—Ôuchi Yoshitaka loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Even a life of long prosperity is like a single cup of sake;
my life of forty-nine years flashed by like a dream.
Nor do I know what life is, nor death.
All the years combined were but a fleeting dream.
Now I step beyond both Heaven and Hell
To stand alone in the moonlit dawn,
Free from the mists of attachment.
—Uesugi Kenshin loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My life appeared like dew
and disappears like dew.
All Naniwa was a series of dreams.
—Toyotomi Hideyoshi loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Life: a solitary butterfly
swaying unsteadily on a slender grass-stalk,
nothing more. But ah! so exquisite!
―Nishiyama Soin loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The hushed sound
of the scarecrow falling
gently to the ground!
―Nozawa Bonchō loose translation by Michael R. Burch
When no wind at all
ruffles the Kiri tree
leaves fall of their own will.
―Nozawa Bonchō loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Sunlight slants
through a red pine grove:
the shrike's shriek.
―Nozawa Bonchō loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Winter in the air,
my neighbor,
how does he fare?
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A solitary crow
clings to a leafless branch:
nightfall
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Come, investigate loneliness:
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The first chill rain: so raw!
Poor monkey, you could use
a cape of woven straw!
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Like a heavy fragrance
snowflakes settle:
lilies on rocks
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The cheerful-chirping cricket
contends gray autumn's gay,
contemptuous of frost
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Will we remain parted forever?
Here at your grave:
two flowerlike butterflies!
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Air ballet:
twin butterflies, twice white,
meet, match & mate.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Ballet in the air! ―
two butterflies, twice white,
meet, mate, unite.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come, butterfly,
it's late
and we've a long way to go!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A spring wind
stirs willow leaves
as a butterfly hovers unsteadily.
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the blossoms
bloomed,
I understood the Way.
―Kyorai Mukai loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While nobody's watching
the pepper pods redden.
―Kyorai Mukai loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Motionless spring mist:
mid-afternoon lethargy.
―Kyorai Mukai loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My eyes,
having observed all sums,
returned to the white chrysanthemums.
―Kosugi Isshō loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Felt deeply in my heart:
How beautiful the snow,
Clouds gathering in the west.
—Issho, loose translation of his jisei/death poem by Michael R. Burch
Brittle cicada shell,
little did I know
that you were my life!
—Shoshun loose translation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
A white swan
parts the cherry-petalled pond
with her motionless breast.
Roka loose translation by Michael R. Burch
NOTE: Roka became a pupil of Basho and studied haiku with him in 1694; that would have been in the last year of Basho's life.
These useless dreams, alas!
Over fields of desiccate grass
winds whisper as they pass.
―Uejima Onitsura loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Observe:
see how the wild violets bloom
within the forbidden fences!
―Shida Yaba loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Inhale, exhale.
Forward, reverse.
Live, die.
Let arrows fly, meet midway and sever the void in aimless flight:
Thus I return to the Source.
—Gesshu Soko loose translation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Since I was born,
I must die,
and so …
—Kisei loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
―Fukuda Chiyo-ni loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Because morning glories
hold my well-bucket hostage
I go begging for water
―Fukuda Chiyo-ni loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Leaves,
like the shadows of crows
cast by a lonely moon.
―Fukuda Chiyo-ni loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My body?
Pointless
as the tree's last persimmon.
—Seisa loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Farewell! I pass
away as all things do:
dew drying on grass.
—Banzan loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
A tempestuous sea...
Flung from the deck —
this block of ice.
—Choha, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Empty cicada shell:
we return as we came,
naked.
—Fukaku, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Let us arise and go,
following the path of the clear dew.
—Fojo, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
Depths of the cold,
unfathomable ocean's roar.
—Kasenjo, loose translation/interpretation of her jisei by Michael R. Burch
Things never stand still,
not even for a second:
consider the trees' colors.
—Seiju, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Yosa Buson haiku translations
On the temple's great bronze gong
a butterfly
snoozes.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hard to describe:
this light sensation of being pinched
by a butterfly!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Not to worry spiders,
I clean house... sparingly.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Among the fallen leaves,
an elderly frog.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In an ancient well
fish leap for mosquitoes,
a dark sound.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Flowers with thorns
remind me of my hometown...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Reaching the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Picking autumn plums
my wrinkled hands
once again grow fragrant
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A silk robe, casually discarded,
exudes fragrance
into the darkening evening
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Whose delicate clothes
still decorate the clothesline?
Late autumn wind.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is an example of a translation in which I interpreted the poem before translating it. In the original poem the clothes were thin (suggesting suggestive garments) . In Japanese poetry an autumn wind can represent loneliness. So I interpreted the poem to be about an aging woman who still wears enticing clothes but is increasingly lonely. Since in the West we don't normally drape clothes on screens, I moved the clothes to a clothesline, which works well with the wind. For me it's a sad poem about something that happens all too often to people as they age.
An evening breeze:
water lapping the heron's legs.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
gills puffing,
a hooked fish:
the patient
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The stirred morning air
ruffles the hair
of a caterpillar.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Intruder!
This white plum tree
was once outside our fence!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tender grass
forgetful of its roots
the willow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I believe the poem above can be taken as commentary on ungrateful children. It reminds me of Robert Hayden's 'Those Winter Sundays.'―MRB
Since I'm left here alone,
I'll make friends with the moon.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The hood-wearer
in his self-created darkness
misses the harvest moon
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
White blossoms of the pear tree―
a young woman reading his moonlit letter
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The pear tree flowers whitely:
a young woman reading his letter
by moonlight
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On adjacent branches
the plum tree blossoms
bloom petal by petal―love!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A misty spring moon...
I entice a woman
to pay it our respects
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Courtesans
purchasing kimonos:
plum trees blossoming
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The spring sea
rocks all day long:
rising and falling, ebbing and flowing...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As the whale
dives
its tail gets taller!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
While tilling the field
the motionless cloud
vanished.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Even lonelier than last year:
this autumn evening.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My thoughts return to my Mother and Father:
late autumn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Late autumn:
my thoughts return to my Mother and Father
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This roaring winter wind:
the cataract grates on its rocks.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
While snow lingers
in creases and recesses:
flowers of the plum
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Plowing,
not a single bird sings
in the mountain's shadow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In the lingering heat
of an abandoned cowbarn
only the sound of the mosquitoes is dark.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The red plum's fallen petals
seem to ignite horse shit.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dawn!
The brilliant sun illuminates
sardine heads.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The abandoned willow shines
between bright rains
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Dew-damp grass:
the setting sun's tears
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dew-damp grass
weeps silently
in the setting sun
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
White plum blossoms―
though the hour grows late,
a glimpse of dawn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The poem above is believed to be Buson's jisei (death poem) and he is said to have died before dawn.
Lately the nights
dawn
plum-blossom white.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is a second interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem) .
In the deepening night
I saw by the light
of the white plum blossoms
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is a third interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem) .
Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
Perhaps to a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
—Takaha Shugyo or Yosa Buson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
But later, river willow,
reopen your buds...
—Senryu, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Who cares
where aimless clouds are drifting?
—Bufu, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Like a lotus leaf's evaporating dew,
I vanish.
—Senryu (-1827) , loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch
Standing beneath cherry blossoms
who can be strangers?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
An enormous frog!
We stare at each other,
both petrified.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Skinny frog,
hang on...
Issa to the rescue!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I toss in my sleep,
so watch out,
cricket!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
In a better world
I'd leave you my rice bowl,
little fly!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Cries of the wild geese—
spreading rumors about me?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While a cicada
sings softly
a single leaf falls...
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Wake up, old tomcat,
then with elaborate yawns and stretchings
prepare to pursue love
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Petals I amass
with such tenderness
prick me to the quick.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This world of dew
is a world of dew indeed;
and yet...
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This windy nest?
Open your hungry mouth in vain,
Issa, orphaned sparrow!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The ghostly cow comes
mooing mooing mooing
out of the morning mist
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The snow melts
and the village is flooded with children!
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Full moon—
my ramshackle hut
is an open book.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Oh, brilliant moon
can it be true
that even you
must rush off, late
for some date?
What does it matter how long I live,
when a tortoise lives many times as long?
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation of his jisei by Michael R. Burch
Don't weep, we are all insects!
Lovers, even the stars themselves,
must eventually part.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
In our world
we walk suspended over hell
admiring flowers.
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The rutting cat
has grown so scrawny
he’s nothing but eyes.
—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Clinging to each other
beneath an umbrella:
spring rain.
—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Twos become one:
butterflies.
—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
No rain
and yet the flowers glisten?
Dew.
—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Buzzings encircle
a meditating monk:
mosquitoes.
—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He’s lost so much weight
in the summer heat
even the mosquitoes won’t bite.
—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Autumn’s here, crickets,
whether you chirp
or not.
—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A windy temple:
coins clatter
in the collection box.
—Shuson Kato, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
After death
six feet under the frost
will be sufficient cover.
—Shuson Kato, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Midwinter thunder
rattles the windowpanes.
—Shuson Kato, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
Do you see the clouds embracing the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds embracing the sky?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
I Know The Truth
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I know the truth—abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes—generals, poets, lovers?
The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll sleep together, under the earth,
we who never gave each other a moment's rest above it.
I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending)
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I know the truth—abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes—generals, poets, lovers?
The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll lie together under the earth,
we who were never united above it.
The Song of Amergin I
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am the sea breeze
I am the ocean wave
I am the surf's thunder
I am the stag of the seven tines
I am the cliff hawk
I am the sunlit dew drop
I am the fairest flower
I am the rampaging boar
I am the swift-swimming salmon
I am the placid lake
I am the excellence of art
I am the vale echoing voices
I am the battle-hardened spearhead
I am the God who gave you fire
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen
Who understands the cycles of the moon
Who knows where the sunset settles ...
To a Daughter More Precious than Gems
by Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume (c. 700-750), an ancient Japanese poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Heaven's cold dew has fallen
and thus another season arrives.
Oh, my child living so far away,
do you pine for me as I do for you?
I have trusted my jewel to the gem-guard;
now there's nothing to do, my pillow,
but for the two of us to sleep together!
I cherished you, my darling,
as the Sea God guards his treasury's pearls.
But you are pledged to your husband
(such is the way of the world)
and torn from me like a blossom.
I left you for faraway Koshi;
since then your lovely eyebrows
curving like distant waves
ever linger in my eyes.
My heart is as unsteady as a rocking boat;
besieged by such longing I weaken with age
and come close to breaking.
If I could have prophesied such longing,
I would have stayed with you,
gazing on you constantly
as into a shining mirror.
I gaze out over the fields of Tadaka
seeing the cranes that cry there incessantly:
such is my longing for you.
Oh my child,
who loved me so helplessly
like bird hovering over shallow river rapids!
Dear child, my daughter, who stood
sadly pensive by the gate,
even though I was leaving for a friendly estate,
I think of you day and night
and my body has become thin,
my sleeves tear-stained with weeping.
If I must long for you so wretchedly,
how can I remain these many months
here at this dismal old farm?
Because you ache for me so intently,
your sad thoughts all confused
like the disheveled tangles of your morning hair,
I see you, dear child, in my dreams.
Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume (c. 700-750) was an important ancient Japanese poet. She had 79 poems in *Manyoshu* ("Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves"), the first major anthology of classical Japanese poetry, mostly waka. The compiler of the anthology was Otomo no Yakamochi (c. 718-785). Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume was his aunt, tutor and poetic mentor. In the first stanza, Lady Otomo has left her children in Nara, possibly to visit her brother. In the second stanza, it is believed that the jewel is Lady Otomo's daughter and that she has been trusted to the care of her husband. As for the closing stanza, according to the notes of the *Manyoshu*, it was popularly believed that a person would appear in the dreams of the one for whom he/she yearned.
These are original poems of mine that involve dew …
Marsh Song
by Michael R. Burch
Here there is only the great sad song of the reeds
and the silent herons, wraithlike in the mist,
and a few drab sunken stones, unblessed
by the sunlight these late sixteen thousand years,
and the beaded dews that drench strange ferns, like tears
collected against an overwhelming sadness.
Here the marsh exposes its dejectedness,
its gutted rotting belly, and its roots
rise out of the earth’s distended heaviness,
to claw hard at existence, till the scars
remind us that we all have wounds, and I
have learned again that living is despair
as the herons cleave the placid, dreamless air.
Insurrection
by Michael R. Burch
She has become as the night—listening
for rumors of dawn—while the dew, glistening,
reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling,
lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening.
She has become as the lights—flickering
in the distance—till memories old and troubling
rise up again and demand remembering ...
like peasants rebelling against a mad king.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch
She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane;
she nestled my head to her breast
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs,
the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . .
Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . .
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . .
She anointed my lips with soft dews from her decadent lips;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night.
The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
Oasis
by Michael R. Burch
I want tears to form again
in the shriveled glands of these eyes
dried all these long years
by too much heated knowing.
I want tears to course down
these parched cheeks,
to star these cracked lips
like an improbable dew
in the heart of a desert.
I want words to burble up
like happiness, like the thought of love,
like the overwhelming, shimmering thought of you
to a nomad who
has only known drought.
Sappho’s Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
while the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening...
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone...
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I'm alone...
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Escape!!
by Michael R. Burch
You are too beautiful,
too innocent,
too inherently lovely
to merely reflect the sun’s splendor ...
too full of irresistible candor
to remain silent,
too delicately fawnlike
for a world so violent ...
Come, my beautiful Bambi
and I will protect you ...
but of course you have already been lured away
by the dew-laden roses ...
Ivy
by Michael R. Burch
Ivy winds around these sagging structures
from the flagstones
to the eave heights,
and, clinging, holds intact
what cannot be saved of their loose entrails.
Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation,
cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers,
waxy, unguent,
palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs,
pausing at last to see
the alien sparkle of dew
beading delicate sparrowgrass.
Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse
grow all around, and here remorse, things past,
watch ivy climb and bend,
and, in the end, we ask
if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend.
Children
by Michael R. Burch
There was a moment
suspended in time like a swelling drop of dew about to fall,
impendent, pregnant with possibility ...
when we might have made ...
anything,
anything we dreamed,
almost anything at all,
coalescing dreams into reality.
Oh, the love we might have fashioned
out of a fine mist and the nightly sparkle of the cosmos
and the rhythms of evening!
But we were young,
and what might have been is now a dark abyss of loss
and what is left is not worth saving.
But, oh, you were lovely,
child of the wild moonlight, attendant tides and doting stars,
and for a day,
what little we partook
of all that lay before us seemed so much,
and passion but a force
with which to play.
Twice
by Michael R. Burch
Now twice she has left me
and twice I have listened
and taken her back, remembering days
when love lay upon us
and sparkled and glistened
with the brightness of dew through a gathering haze.
But twice she has left me
to start my life over,
and twice I have gathered up embers, to learn:
rekindle a fire
from ash, soot and cinder
and softly it sputters, refusing to burn.
Geode
by Michael R. Burch
Love—less than eternal, not quite true—
is still the best emotion man can muster.
Through folds of peeling rind—rough, scarred, crude-skinned—
she shines, all limpid brightness, coolly pale.
Crude-skinned though she may seem, still, brilliant-hearted,
in her uneven fissures, glistening, glows
that pale rose: like a flame, yet strangely brittle;
dew-lustrous pearl streaks gaping mossback shell.
And yet, despite the raggedness of her luster,
as she hints and shimmers, touching those who see,
she is not without her uses or her meanings;
in all her avid gleamings, Love bestows
the rare spark of her beauty to her bearer,
till nothing flung to earth seems half so fair.
Salat Days
by Michael R. Burch
Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.
I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...
though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,
dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,
talking about poke salat—
how easy it was to find if you knew where to seek it...
standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,
straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,
crowding out the less-hardy nettles.
"Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat
with some bacon drippin's or lard."
"Don't eat the berries. You see—the berry's no good.
And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time."
"I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.
Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst."
He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...
silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,
stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.
Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,
trampling his beans,
dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.
He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.
Years later I found the proper name—"pokeweed"—while perusing a dictionary.
Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a weed.
I still can hear his laconic reply...
"Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard."
Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch
When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall―yours made me bleed?
When winter makes me think of you,
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forgot,
will I recall your words―barbed, cruel?
Hearthside
by Michael R. Burch
“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” — W. B. Yeats
For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars—the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.
The Peripheries of Love
by Michael R. Burch
Through waning afternoons we glide
the watery peripheries of love.
A silence, a quietude falls.
Above us—the sagging pavilions of clouds.
Below us—rough pebbles slowly worn smooth
grate in the gentle turbulence
of yesterday’s forgotten rains.
Later, the moon like a virgin
lifts her stricken white face
and the waters rise
toward some unfathomable shore.
We sway gently in the wake
of what stirs beneath us,
yet leaves us unmoved ...
curiously motionless,
as though twilight might blur
the effects of proximity and distance,
as though love might be near—
as near
as a single cupped tear of resilient dew
or a long-awaited face.
Describing You
by Michael R. Burch
How can I describe you?
The fragrance of morning rain
mingled with dew
reminds me of you;
the warmth of sunlight
stealing through a windowpane
brings you back to me again.
This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager.
My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch
My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September:
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.
My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall:
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere, ...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.
My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn:
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth ... on and on.
Numbered
by Michael R. Burch
He desired an object to crave;
she came, and she altared his affection.
He asked her for something to save:
a memento for his collection.
But all that she had was her need;
what she needed, he knew not to give.
They compromised on a thing gone to seed
to complete the half lives they would live.
One in two, they were less than complete.
Two plus one, in their huge fractious home
left them two, the new one in the street,
and then he, by himself, one, alone.
He awoke past his prime to new dawn
with superfluous dew all around,
in ten thousands bright beads on his lawn,
and he knew that, at last, he had found
a number of things he had missed:
things shining and bright, unencumbered
by their price, or their place on a list.
Then with joy and despair he remembered
and longed for the lips he had kissed
when his days were still evenly numbered.
Photographs
by Michael R. Burch
Here are the effects of a life
and they might tell us a tale
(if only we had time to listen)
of how each imperiled tear would glisten,
remembered as brightness in her eyes,
and how each dawn’s dramatic skies
could never match such pale azure.
Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure
and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . .
till a line appears—a trace of worry?—
or the wayward track of a wandering smile
which even now can charm, beguile?
We might find good cause to wonder
as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?):
what vexed her in her loveliness . . .
what weight, what crushing heaviness
turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray,
and stole her youth before her day?
We might ask ourselves: did Time devour
the passion with the ravaged flower?
But here and there a smile will bloom
to light the leaden, shadowed gloom
that always seems to linger near . . .
And here we find a single tear:
it shimmers like translucent dew
and tells us Anguish touched her too,
and did not spare her for her hair's
burnt copper, or her eyes' soft hue.
Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue)
He Lived: Excerpts from “The Epic of Gilgamesh”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
He who visited hell, his country’s foundation,
Was well-versed in mysteries’ unseemly dark places.
He deeply explored many underworld realms
Where he learned of the Deluge and why Death erases.
II.
He built the great ramparts of Uruk-the-Sheepfold
And of holy Eanna. Then weary, alone,
He recorded his thoughts in frail scratchings called “words”:
Frail words made immortal, once chiseled in stone.
III.
These walls he erected are ever-enduring:
Vast walls where the widows of dead warriors weep.
Stand by them. O, feel their immovable presence!
For no other walls are as strong as this keep’s.
IV.
Come, climb Uruk’s tower on a starless night—
Ascend its steep stairway to escape modern error.
Cross its ancient threshold. You are close to Ishtar,
the Goddess of Ecstasy and of Terror!
V.
Find the cedar box with its hinges of bronze;
Lift the lid of its secrets; remove its dark slate;
Read of the travails of our friend Gilgamesh—
Of his descent into hell and man’s terrible fate!
VI.
Surpassing all kings, heroic in stature,
Wild Bull of the mountains, the Goddess his Dam
—Bedding no other man; he was her sole rapture—
Who else can claim fame, as he thundered, “I AM!”
Enkidu Enters the House of Dust
by Michael R. Burch
I entered the house of dust and grief.
Where the pale dead weep there is no relief,
for there night descends like a final leaf
to shiver forever, unstirred.
There is no hope left when the tree’s stripped bare,
for the leaf lies forever dormant there
and each man cloaks himself in strange darkness, where
all company’s unheard.
No light’s ever pierced that oppressive night
so men close their eyes on their neighbors’ plight
or stare into darkness, lacking sight ...
each a crippled, blind bat-bird.
Were these not eagles, once, gallant men?
Who sits here—pale, wretched and cowering—then?
O, surely they shall, they must rise again,
gaining new wings? “Absurd!
For this is the house of Dust and Grief
where men made of clay, eat clay. Relief
to them’s to become a mere windless leaf,
lying forever unstirred.”
“Anu and Enlil, hear my plea!
Ereshkigal, they all must go free!
Beletseri, dread scribe of this Hell, hear me!”
But all my shrill cries, obscured
by vast eons of dust, at last fell mute
as I took my place in the ash and soot.
Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch
I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.
Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.
In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.
Keywords/Tags: dew, dewdrop, haiku, jisei, zen, time, transience, mortality, impermanence, death, life
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