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.
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?
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
Before I got my eye put out --
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes --
And know no other way --
But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me --
The Meadows -- mine --
The Mountains -- mine --
All Forests -- Stintless stars --
As much of noon, as I could take --
Between my finite eyes --
The Motions of the Dipping Birds --
The Morning's Amber Road --
For mine -- to look at when I liked,
The news would strike me dead --
So safer -- guess -- with just my soul
Opon the window pane
Where other creatures put their eyes --
Incautious -- of the Sun --
Yes, I have a thousand tongues,
And nine and ninety-nine lie.
Though I strive to use the one,
It will make no melody at my will,
But is dead in my mouth.
Under the trees, among the rocks, a thatched hut:
verses and sacred commentaries live there together.
I'll burn the books I carry in my bag,
but how can I forget the verses written in my gut?
Translation by Kazuaki Tanahashi and David Schneider in Essential Zen (1994) HarperSanFrancisco.
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not
fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be
stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and
sights, --
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and
gleaming lights, --
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering
from the heights.
I borrowed these one month ago, yesterday.
I'm returning them today.
I borrowed five and return four --
Repaid, but for Original Emptiness.
NOTE: This is one of three Death Poems attributed to Ikkyū, supposedly the middle one.
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