We present this work in honor of the Japanese holiday, Autumnal Equinox Day.
If you give me ten cups of King of Kings to drink
I shall throw you a kiss
ah, what a pitiful waitress I am.
Outside the blue window, rain falls like drops of cut glass
under the light of the lantern
all has turned to wine.
Is Revolution the wind blowing north…?
I’ve spilled the wine
opening my red mouth over the spill on the table
I belch fire.
Shall I dance in my blue apron?
“Golden Wedding,” or “Caravan”
tonight’s dance music….
Still three more cups to go
How’m I doing? you ask
I’m just fine
although I’m a nice girl
a really nice girl
I scatter my feelings
generously like cut flowers
among petty pigs of men.
Ah, is Revolution the wind blowing north…”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 65th birthday.
I make shiratama
And take them to my man
I heat the sugar and form syrup
Put in the boiled dumplings
And cool them
I seal them tight
And take them
All the shiratama stick to the bottom
The surfaces of the shiratama are torn
Shapes are distorted
I scoop them up with a spoon
Scoop them out
So they don’t get distorted
I love shiratama best of all
Says my man, carrying the shiratama to his mouth
He closes his eyes and shows me how good they are
I love them more than you
I watch my man
Swallowing the shiratama
And lapping up the lukewarm syrup
I shake the sealed container and wrap it in cloth
Then the two of us
Bring together our syrupy mouths
Slide the palms of our hands
Moving them in the shape of love
I don’t want to distort
I don’t want to be left distorted
This is what I think, oh man, my man
I roll them up
Boil the shiratama, heat the syrup, then cool them
I roll into them
My man swallows them down
Thick like saliva
Smooth like buttocks
How do they taste?
I don’t want to distort you
He also thought in his heartrending way
I have reached him
The food I secrete
Secreted deep, deep
Into the man I love
We present this work in honor of the Japanese holiday, Mountain Day.
The world before my eyes is wan and wasted just like me.
The earth is decrepit, the sky stormy, all the grass withered.
No spring breeze even at this late date,
Just winter clouds swallowing up my tiny reed hut.
Crazy Cloud is a demon in Daito’s line
But he hates the hellish bickering.
What good are old koans and faded traditions?
No use complaining any more, I’ll just rely on my inner treasures.
My real dwelling
Has no pillars
And no roof either
So rain cannot soak it
And wind cannot blow it down
Every day priests minutely examine the Dharma
And endlessly chant complicated sutras.
Before doing that, though, they should learn
How to read the love letters sent by the wind and rain, the snow and moon.
I do not like praises and honours
Nor did I fear disdain
I just stayed away.
My mind, clear water,
My body bound and tied
For three years in Chang’an.
I sing what I feel in songs
In straight words, undecorated.