When an author composes too short a poem,
it trails off with a lonely feeling
like looking down at solitude with no friends
or peering into the vast sky, disconnected.
One string on a harp is crisp and sweet
but sings without resonance and harmony.
Translation by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping in: The Art of Writing (1996) Boston: Shambhala Publications.
My spirit is too weak -- mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old time--with a billowy main --
A sun--a shadow of a magnitude.
To fight aloud, is very brave --
But gallanter, I know
Who charge within the bosom
The Calvary of Wo --
Who win, and nations do not see --
Who fall -- and none observe --
Whose dying eyes, no Country
Regards with patriot love --
We trust, in plumed procession
For such, the Angels go --
Rank after Rank, with even feet --
And Uniforms of snow.
"Time to put off the world and go somewhere
And find my health again in the sea air,"
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And make my soul before my pate is bare;
"And get a comfortable wife and house
To rid me of the devil in my shoes,"
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And the worse devil that is between my thighs.
"And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely -- let it pass,"
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"But there's a devil in a looking glass.
"Nor should she be too rich, because the rich
Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,"
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And cannot have a humorous happy speech.
"And there I'll grow respected at my ease,
And hear amid the garden's nightly peace,"
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"The wind-blown clamor of the barnacle-geese."
Kokoro by Natsume Sōseki
Gold-brown upon the sated flood
The rock-vine clusters lift and sway:
Vast wings above the lambent waters
brood
Of sullen day.
A waste of waters ruthlessly
Sways and uplifts its weedy mane,
Where brooding day stares down
upon the sea
In dull disdain.
Uplift and sway, O golden vine,
Thy clustered fruits to love's full
flood,
Lambent and vast and ruthless as is
thine
Incertitude.
The crescent moon hangs on a barren tree.
The water clock has stopped and all is still.
Who sees the sad man pace the shore alone?
His shadow slants and curls into a swan.
The startled man stiffens and turns to look;
His grief remains unseen by anyone.
He passes on a seat of fallen log,
And plops down on the wet and cold sandbank.
NOTE: The original title is: 卜算子.
The Book of Five Rings: A Classic Text on the Japanese Way of the Sword by Miyamoto Musashi
You better not fool with a Bumblebee!--
Ef you don't think they can sting -- you'll see!
They're lazy to look at, an' kind o' go
Buzzin' an' bummin' aroun' so slow,
An' ac' so slouchy an' all fagged out,
Danglin' their legs as they drone about
The hollyhawks 'at they can't climb in
'Ithout ist a-tumble-un out ag'in!
Wunst I watched one climb clean 'way
In a jimson-blossom, I did, one day,--
An' I ist grabbed it -- an' nen let go--
An' "Ooh-ooh! Honey! I told ye so!"
Says The Raggedy Man; an' he ist run
An' pullt out the stinger, an' don't laugh none,
An' says: "They has be'n folks, I guess,
'At thought I wuz prejudust, more or less, --
Yit I still muntain 'at a Bumblebee
Wears out his welcome too quick fer me!"
Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning, I am surely far
different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your
ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become
your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would
be unalloy'd satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade,
this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real
ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that is
may be all maya, illusion?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 