Short Poems

I was certain that lute and calligraphy would help my studies,
idle seasons beside the window, seven stretched strings—
but no concentration of mind brings improvement—I squint in vain at the score,
fingering so confused I keep having to ask the teacher.
My choppy “Rapids” never has an autumn river sound,
my frigid “Raven” no sadness of a nighttime cry.
Music experts all inform me I'm merely wasting time—
better stick to the family tradition, writing poems!

I've gone to him
by dream paths,
my feet never resting—
but it can never match
one glimpse of him in real life

Quiet poling, and the day breaks over the clear river;
out of the thatched window I look, and it's already fall.
Mino mountains, lined up, form a row;
Shinano waters, broken up into flows, merge here.
Willow leaves, frosted, fly about the coast;
reed flowers, like snow, fill the sandy bar.
I prick up my ear and see the accent has changed;
our boat has entered Owari Province.

Clear and warm, the east wind on the path;
a humble bridge, then houses beyond the bank.
Last plum blossoms fall, one light petal after another;
among young herbs delicate flowers are found.
Several gulls, afloat, dot the water;
footprints on the sand suggest geese were there.
Just when I think of resting in a village coming up,
I see a banner for sake flap invitingly.

Ignoring the clear sky, clouds long weigh their plans.
A fragrance drapes a crab apple luxuriously.
A butterfly on a flower, its wings weighed down,
flaps up high but again can't go beyond the fence.

Plantain leaves spread out and fill my window with green
and make a quick report at evening when rain passes.
Nights are short and now I fall into deep sleep,
leaving the plant contending with the drops from the eaves.

When with hot palms, unable to fall asleep,
people got to sleep, from long ago,
gripping a crumpled towel,
or holding a black clay-slate stone.

When Old Folks they wuz young like us
An' little as you an' me,—
Them wuz the best times ever wuz
Er ever goin' ter be!

Long life's a lovely thing to know,
With lovely health and wealth, forsooth,
And lovely name and fame—But O
The loveliness of Youth!

A FELLOW says: “I own no school or college;
No master lives whom I acknowledge;
And pray don't entertain the thought
That from the dead I e'er learnt aught.”
This, if I rightly understand,
Means: “I'm a blockhead at first hand.”