Autumn deepens —
The man next door, what
Does he do for a living?

Matsuo Bashō


black swans

As I lie at rest on a patch of clover
In the western park when the day is done,
I watch as the wild black swans fly over
With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun;
And I hear the clang of their leader crying
To a lagging mate in the rearward flying,
And they fade away in the darkness dying,
Where the stars are mustering one by one.

Oh! ye wild black swans, ’twere a world of wonder
For a while to join in your westward flight,
With the stars above and the dim earth under,
Through the cooling air of the glorious night.
As we swept along on our pinions winging,
We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing,
Or the distant note of a torrent singing,
Or the far-off flash of a station light.

From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes,
Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze,
Where the bellbirds chime and the songs of thrushes
Make music sweet in the jungle maze,
They will hold their course to the westward ever,
Till they reach the banks of the old grey river,
Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver
In the burning heat of the summer days.

Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting
To the folk that live in that western land?
Then for every sweep of your pinions beating
Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band,
To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting
With the heat and drought and the dust storm smiting,
Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting,
When once to the work they have put their hand.

I would fain go back to the old grey river,
To the old bush days when our hearts were light;
But, alas! those days they have fled for ever,
They are like the swans that have swept from sight.
And I know full well that the strangers’ faces
Would meet us now in our dearest places;
For our day is dead and has left no traces
But the thoughts that live in my mind tonight.

There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken —
We would grieve for them with a bitter pain,
If the past could live and the dead could quicken,
We then might turn to that life again.
But on lonely nights we would hear them calling,
We should hear their steps on the pathways falling,
We should loathe the life with a hate appalling
In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.

In the silent park is a scent of clover,
And the distant roar of the town is dead,
And I hear once more as the swans fly over
Their far-off clamour from overhead.
They are flying west by their instinct guided,
And for man likewise is his fate decided,
And griefs apportioned and joys divided
By a mighty power with a purpose dread.

Banjo Peterson

road to the capital

Traveling far, I cross mountains and rivers;
the mountains and rivers are long and are broad.
Waving my whip, I climb gentle slopes;
relaxing the reins, I follow level grasslands.
At evening I rest, and sleep holding my shadow;
at morning I move on, and go bearing my thoughts.
Stopping the reins, I lean on soaring crags;
listening hard, I hear the sad wind’s echoes.
White light falls onto the clear dew;
how bright the full moon shines!
Slapping my pillow, I cannot sleep;
arranging my clothes, alone in lengthy longings…

Kakinomoto Hitomaro

the well-tempered symposium

Now the floor is swept clean, and the hands of all who are present
are washed, and the cups are clean. One puts the garlands on,
another passes the fragrant myrrh on a dish. The mixing
bowl is set up and stands by, full of the spirit of cheer,
and more wine still stands ready and promises no disappointment;
sweet wine, in earthen jars, preserving its own bouquet.
In the middle of all, frankincense gives out its holy fragrance,
and we have water there too, cold and crystal and sweet.
Golden-brown loaves are set nearby, and the lordly table
is weighted down underneath its load of honey and cheese.
The altar, in the center, is completely hidden in flowers.
Merriment and singing fill all the corners of the house.
First of all, enlightened men should hymn the God, using
words of propriety, and stories that have no fault.
Then, when they have made libation and prayed to be able
to conduct themselves like gentlemen as occasion demands,
it will not be drunk-and-disorderly to drink as much as one can
and still get home without help—except for a very old man.
Best approve that man who in drinking discloses notable
ideas, as they come to his mind and his good disposition directs.
It’s no use to tell the tale of the battles of Titans and Giants,
or Centaurs either, those fictions of our fathers’ imaginations,
nor wars of the Gods; there’s no good to be got from such subjects.
One should be thoughtful always and right-minded toward the Gods.



… Sappho declaring:
I do not know what I am to do;
I am in two minds.


about thoughts

Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts,
which arise without his power to suppress.

Oliver Goldsmith