Short Poems

reading a play
dishes left in the sink
this winter night

in a moonflower bud
just beginning to open

wild azaleas
on Mount Aso
learning how to blaze

some blossoms there are
that nobody sees—
an oak deep in the woods

some for admiring blossoms in
others for being admired—
the ladies' hats

a bamboo bud
breaking out of its layered sheath—
a warrior in arms!

Leaving my old mother in the seaside town,
Alas! I am going alone up to Seoul.
As I turn, once in a while, to look homeward on my way,
White clouds rush down the darkening blue mountains.

Now shine, now rain, and rain becomes shine:
That is the sky's way as well as men's.
My glory may well lead to my ruin;
Your escape from fame will bring you a name.
Flowers may open or fall, but spring doesn't care;
Clouds will come and go, but mountains do not argue.
I tell you, men of the world, you must remember
Nowhere will you find happiness all your life.

Bamboo stick, the sight of you
fills me with trust and delight.
Ah, boyhood days when you were my horse!
Stand there now
behind the window, and when we go out,
let me stand behind you.

I will break the back
of this long, midwinter night,
folding it double,
cold beneath my spring quilt,
that I may draw out
the night, should my love return.