Writers Poets of Japan

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Koichi Yakushigawa

 

 

That Man

 

Is a great sweater

Usually he is rubbing his forehead,

in due course

His forehead is shining black red

like grazed or tanned.

Dark brown canvas bag

is suspended slantways

from his right shoulder,

That man is walking away

with his eyes fixed at the setting sun.

His step is light.

The step of coming home

is not always the same.

Heavy step or light step

reflects his life of the day.

That man walking into the setting sun

with a light step

as if it is his usual step.

Is the setting sun his home?

Does his life of the day end thus?

Does that man thus

ends his life of the day?

 

 

 

 

 

 

あの人は

 

汗かきだから

いつものように

ハンカチで額を擦りながら

歩いている

擦りすぎたのと

日焼けとで

あの人の額は

赤黒く焼けたようだ

右肩から斜めに

布製のバッグを懸けて

あの人が歩いてゆく

夕日に向かって

まるで夕日の中に

すっと入ってゆくように

それは自分の部屋に帰るときと

全く同じように自然な歩みだ

家に帰る足取りは

誰も同じとは限らない

重い足取りもあれば

軽い足取りもある

足取りには

その人の人生が映っている

あの人は軽々と

夕日の中に入ってゆく

ごく当たり前のように

こうして

あの人の一日が終るのか

 

Koichiís original poem in Japanese

 

 

Takashi Arima

 

Tea Room

in the Yabuuchi Familyís House

 

I go through the blackened gate of an old house

lowering my square shoulders a little.

The roar of cars and hum of people die away

I glimpse an age-old hermitage garden.

 

I sit for a while in an Oribe-style tea room.

Suddenly I hear rainwater running down the gutter

the natural sound of koto

from near the stone washbassin.

The water closet, its floor is covered with sand,

bamboos tied with hemp-palm ropes.

Rain drops from he thicket beat shaky reddish walls.

 

The street, sandwiched by two large temples,

is lined with plain Japanese-style houses.

After the rain, I see sunlight trickle through clouds

while stepping on wet stones with my geta clogs.

 

 

 

Teahouse in Nanging

 

 

 

 

 

This is the same poem of Takashi Arima

in its original form : Japanese

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kiyoko Ogawa

 

Farewell to Graves

 

After passing away, Iím not entering a grave.

My maiden family grave is too crowded,

my marital one too unfriendly.

 

After passing away, Iím not entering a grave.

Not as bones.

Not to be placed in an urn.

 

After passing away, Iím not entering a grave.

That the bones randomly chosen and picked up

are entombed, doesnít please me.

 

After passing away, Iím not entering a grave.

There many in the battlefield

who never returned, even as a tiny bone fragment.

 

After passing away, Iím not entering a grave.

Isnít it a luxury then to be cremated decently

and scattered somewhere on a common grassy ground?

 

After passing away, Iím not entering a grave.

I donít have the least intention

of becoming thousand winds.

Wouldnít it be a nuisance if I continued to fly around noisily?

 

After passing away, Iím not entering a grave.

I used to visit countless graves in the world

where I never sensed the existence of the dead.

 

 

From POETRY NIPPON Ė October 2010

 

 

 

Short Poems

 

 

(For my former classmate who perished at 56)

Does death mean

a deleted margin

or reverberation

without refrain?

 

 

(At Mizu-no-mori, Kusatsu)

Eternity was seated

on a wooden bench

under the arch

of yellow roses

without thorns.

 

 

Photo found in the freeencyclopaedia WIKIPEDIA

 

 

 

 

 

In front of Ryukoku University Ė Omiya Campus Ė Kyoto

Photo taken by Mariette on the last day of August, 2002

 

In white pants : Setsuko Ė In violet skirt : Miharu

Nice memory of two dear Japanese friends of mine

from whom I would like so much to publish some poems

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering the XI CIELE-ICWEL (2009)

International Convention of Writers in European Languages