Sign from Kumano Jinja

why covet your life,
man of firm futility?
why long to become
what i long to escape from:
a raw heart grated
by ugliness close to home;
the temple bells' sound;
that tense, imperfect balance
as the conscience pulls
the soul in two directions;
and to die at last,
after too long an effort,
in acknowledgment
of one's inability
to reconcile them?

could it be the same feeling
as catching a glimpse
of plum blossoms in the snow?
of a young woman
who will come home an old one?
of a thin-spun song,
perched on a simple, strummed chord,
of severed togetherness?

anyone would

Why must I send forth
great, wailing sobs of anguish
for people to know
that I'm a bit unhappy?
Seeing a sad thing --
anyone would be sad, right?
If I say to you,
"I'm angry with you right now,"
why not believe me?
Don't make me terrify you
to prove that I feel.
The corner of my mouth lifts;
my nose flares slightly;
my eyes stay too wide too long --
with these already,
with the tension in my hands,
I've said everything.
Am I invisible? Or
am I unbelievable?

Utsarpiṇī

Last night, in my dream
I saw faces I never
touched, never took, and
now I have awoken; I
have still not seen them
since the life before I died

I know what they were—
the bone-deep tolling
of the Gion Shōja bells:
the cold, beaded dew
on the morning glory bud

Now, for the first time,
as has so often happened,
the morning has come at last

Enough

I can't believe, but
I want to believe; I want
to, I want to, I
want to, I want so much and
so, so many and
always, and that there is how
I know there is good,
because I want good; I want
to be good, I want
so much and always, and that
is exactly good enough.

Late

In spring, the orchid
spreads out its skirts in defiance
of the seeing sun.
So, too, the lotus turns its face
in summer to God
from the muddy waters.
The chrysanthemum
conquers the eyes in autumn,
bold, indelicate,
settling into its due:
adult confidence.
But I reserve my judgment;
I watch with small hope
to see if in late winter,
at last, the plum tree will bloom.

already

I do it again
and again and again and
again and this time
like I always have
and like at no other time
I want and don't want to stop
She knows what to do
because somehow she figures
she knows right from wrong
It's really not that simple
It's complicated.
Of course, she doesn't think so--
and fuck, I like that.
Already I choose my words
slowly, already
her firm-formed disapproval
guides my decisions
already her pity calls
for me to serve her
and shames me for serving her
and makes me delight in shame

Entering the City

The sun is muted,
smudged over by the gray clouds;
houses huddle close:
piece of dreams of success.
All of these people
have their own destinations;
I do not know them
and am free of their knowing.
This is the city
I have taken to be mine.
Everything in it
is beautiful and unknown
and breathable through each eye.

Morning

My eyes hang heavy.
I think once of Mishima,
and I press my tongue
against the roof of my mouth.
I can't stop yawning,
but the world I have to live in
is a morning world,
running away from the night,
dragging me to wakefulness.

And then everybody would be safe.

When in the evenings
I dream of my happiness,
I dream about you.
I dream about you dying,
bleeding in a ditch,
a cold, slow death all alone.
And nobody cares,
and nobody looks for you;
it's terrifying,
and it's humiliating--
just ugly enough.
But that's pretty terrible,
wishing for that stuff,
and if I had that power,
I wouldn't cause that.
I'd choose something so much worse:
I'd choose to be free.
I'd wish you were never born,
that you never lived,
that you never existed,
that you changed nothing at all.

Снегурочка

I remember once--
I was about nine years old--
when it was snowing,
and beneath the snow lay ice,
permeating Earth.
Already I knew
the names of many demons,
but I did not know
what it meant to be frozen:
I'd never melted;
there was no comparison.
I had learned to breathe
beneath mountains of oceans,
learned to push through them--
they were so heavy on me.
And the snow fell down,
lighter, softer than water.
I took off my shoes,
left my coat on the hanger,
bared my arms and head,
walked out of my father's house.
I tested the snow,
felt with the palms of my feet.
I was astonished
because it felt like nothing:
the snow and my feet
were consubstantial, like God.
That's when I lay down
and let the snow wrap me up,
swallow my body
like a god or a mother
or a cannibal,
and I felt for the first time
what it is to be
inside another person,
consumed by something,
what it feels like to belong,
what it is to share.
The snow accepted it all,
leeched it out of me,
took my life and gave me peace,
and it didn't hurt.
I thought about my own death,
and I decided
that this is how it should be:
dignified, restful,
unified oblivion.
There began to be
prickling pain through the numbness;
I wanted to feel,
so I lay and felt it grow.
And after a while,
I felt empty, felt better.
I got to my feet.
I went back inside the house
with my books and paints,
pleased, for the cold still lingered
in my frozen hands,
made clumsy by lack of blood.
Neither my mother
nor father knew I returned
or left or was gone.
But I should not have felt these
true things, old things, and
I ask the consubstantial:

Where was my mother
while the blood left my body?
Where was my father
when my death brought me comfort?
Why did they not fight
the force that made me brittle
and hardened me against touch?

Chōka

Last night, suddenly,
unexpectedly, we spoke.
We were both civil,
and I didn't start to cry
or to get angry--
I was just a little sad
when I discovered
that you are still so scornful,
full of bitterness
because the world is the world.
You hate childishly
without understanding why
or what you despise.
Look at you, listen to you;
you steam up the air,
stewing in your bitterness,
a poisonous brew.
Can you really be so young?
I forget sometimes.
And I don't know anymore
to which standard to hold you.

Chōka

I didn't expect
for you ever to love me.
I only wanted
your attention and your praise,
your condescension,
for you to think first of me
when you need something,
and for you to be worthy
of all I gave you.
But it was too much to ask:
you don't want to be perfect.

Chōka

When will the day end?
All my work brings no profit;
pleasure is pointless,
and every moment of rest
fortifies the soul
for more profitless labor.
No one gains a thing
except for a lucky few.
We don't get to choose
whether we're lucky or not.
But I want to live
day after day in this world,
my heart full of its beauty.

Chōka

Last year at this time
the trees were full with green leaves,
rain poured to the earth,
and each day I spoke with you.
That is when you said
the words that earned you my heart
for eternity.
And though I never asked you
for even a kiss,
before the leaves had turned red,
you had betrayed me,
used what you knew of my heart
to pierce and bleed me,
to suck me dry and leave me,
with no word of thanks.
Red blood blossomed in the snow,
turning all my world
angry at the thought of you
when pain stripped away
affection that blinded me.
I saw what you are:
just a mannequin of ice,
empty and thoughtless
and greedy for compliments.
Even so, my queen,
I can never stay away.
With each new green shoot
that pierces the crust of Earth,
my heart is so pierced
by the knowledge that I fail--
I fail to forget;
I want to think well of you,
and I search for ways
to purify your motives.
This summer is cold,
cold enough to see my breath,
and although I know
you have no wish to hear me,
that you would mock me
or belittle my feelings
if you heard these words,
I want to make you listen,
make you understand
if you can understand them
through the icy shield
that hardens around your heart
and poisons even summer.

Chōka

A content spirit
results from a focused mind--
so wisdom tells us.
She who experiences
only what is there
during the exact moment
of her consciousness
will conquer unhappiness.
But I do not know
how to rein in my own mind.
Shame from long ago
hovering over my head,
very visible,
like Damocles's weapon,
I dangle above
the dark, bottomless future.
Without a firm stance,
I rush ahead to the goal
until it is reached,
and then I scramble to find
a new direction.
Could I only float instead,
I might learn to breathe again.

Train from Chicago to St. Louis

Barren browns and grays
focus and blur and focus,
smeared on my window,
lifting the yellow grasses.
The sky is heavy
with pregnant bottoms of clouds;
the lingering snow's
ragged edges become mud.
I can never see--
I can never see it all--
there is far too much,
even in just one still shot,
and the world changes.
Still, I look out, panicking,
desperate to see,
hungry to take it all in
before it passes--
so I am suddenly stricken,
my face cut open,
overwhelmed by piercing joy,
when I realize
that it will all continue
every day that I have life.

Flute

Imprints of the holes
dug deep in my fingertips--
my hands shake too much
to write even my own name--
my mouth still open,
tongue ready to catch a taste
of that which lingered
a second too long aloft
and gave its secret away.

Focus

I lock onto you,
and you become the Only.
All your words are heard.
I condense on you;
you condense into yourself,
a pulsing light-sphere.
I am everywhere to you,
above and below
and around you on all sides.
How could I decide
to tear my eyes from your face,
to turn my focus
to the next point in the line?
Because I know you,
know the pleasure it gives you
to feel that you are adored.

Anteros

Now I know your name,
and I will call upon it;
I will whisper it
and look for your golden face,
for your red, full mouth,
for your iridescent wings.
Come and comfort me,
come to me, come and be filled;
let me pour on you
everything that is in me.
Love as I have loved;
balance with your heart the scales
that Venus holds in her hand.

Chōka

You smile and you smile,
you laugh and speak cheerfully,
but my eyes can see,
my ears can hear, my heart feels:
I know you have cooled;
I no longer bring you joy.
I want to ask why,
but you are smiling, smiling;
you laugh and speak cheerfully.