If I stand
alone in the snow
it is clear
that I am a clock

how else would eternity
find its way around

When History turns soldiers into battles, you turn them into grass.
Basho, Sweet, is it honorable? But for these men who died with grunts
and clangs in their ears, for their horses with snapped legs, I haven"t got
the art to make them into anything. I fold the grass in the shape
of a man, very literal, very primitive and leave it on
the field and say, " Forgive me valorous men for my ineptitude. "
Just then, the little man falls down in the wind and — huh! — there is art.

The one sincere
crocodile has
gone dry eyed
for years. Why
bother crying
crocodile tears.

If like your kinswoman of old,
If like that star of maidens, Pocahontas,
You found me, O my beloved, near to death,
Found me with my head laid on the stones, and the brute war-clubs raised above me,
Then, Golden Bird, I know that, never faltering, never trembling
You, too, O Star of Maidens,
Would take my head into your arms and lay your lovely head on mine,
And save me from great death in the dark moment.

My beloved is the prow of my spirit plunging through the billowing blue of the morning,
There is a sea-song in our on-going, and a wind-song in our sails:
Our sails are glittering wings, our ship is a bird rising from the running seas,
We have a sky, we have a sky for soaring and singing,
Earth sparkles beneath us in September glory,
And near the sun we pour our golden love-song upon the planet . .

Fling your lasso of light curling about our heads,
Morning-fire,
Smite with your spears of gold the pulse of our hearts,
Strike sun-up song from our souls, that arising with kisses
We become the crown of life,
A young garland of the Earth.

Come, let us take our breakfast in the city where the people dwell in darkness,
Let the brook-babble of a continuous musical laughter be soft between us,
Let us veil our eyes from each other and guard our lips,
Let us seem sane and practical in the wild morning-weather,
Let not the heaven of glory within us be manifest before the people,
Let them not see the sky where we soar together ...
Lest we be taken, lest we be confined, lest we be put away,
Lest we be arrested for lunacy ...

Day's coming up now, joy's returned,
Sorrow's dark cloud-castles captured and burned;
Over the mountain-tops glowing
Light-king his armies is throwing.
" Up now, up now! " calls the bird,
" Up now, up now! " child-voice heard,
Up now my hope in sunshine.

The first fond meeting holy
Is like the woodbirds' trilling,
Is like a sea-song thrilling,
When red the sun sinks slowly, —
Is like a horn on mountain,
That wakes time's sleep thereunder
And summons to life's fountain
To meet in nature's wonder.

There are three words, synonymous and clear,
That picture lovers everywhere revere:
The classic, the impressionist, and real —
Three words of simple force the masters feel.
The first Impressionists of classic aim
The Land of Cherry Blossoms gave to fame;
And they 're the Chiefs of realism too —
The Classic Realists of impressions true.