October Poem

Crisis is my nature              
There is a fierce hurricane of feelings              
under my smooth skin       There is              
a fresh corpse thrown up              
on the desolate shore of October              
              
      October is my Empire              
      My delicate hands control things to be lost              
      My small eyes watch things that are to disappear              
      My soft ears listen to the silence of people who are to die               
              
Fear is my nature              
The Time that murders everything              
flows in my rich blood       There is              
a new hunger trembling              
in the cold sky of October              
              
      October is my Empire              
      My dead armies occupy all cities where rain falls              
      My dead patrol planes circle in the sky above the lost souls              
      My dead mobs sign their names for the people who are going to die              
              

The Way Home

I shouldn't have learned a language              
A world without words              
How good it would be              
If I lived in a world where meaning does not become meaning              
              
Even if you are revenged by beautiful words              
It       has nothing to do with me              
And even though you shed blood for some quiet meaning              
It has nothing to do with me either              
              
The tears that are in your tender eyes              
The pain that is falling from the tongue of your silence              
If there were no words in our world              
I would merely stare at it and leave              
              
Is there as much meaning       in your tears              
as there is in the core of a piece of fruit              
Is there an echo of the sunset       in one drop of your blood              
which makes you tremble in the twilight of this world              
              
I shouldn't have learned a language              
Simply because I learned Japanese and bits of foreign languages              
I stand still inside your tears              
I return absolutely alone into your blood              
              

Withered Leaves

and              
they died       without even shedding green              
blood              
              
before they return to the soil              
they change to the color of soil              
the color of              
the silence that has died one death              
              
why does everything              
seem transparent       even though we walked endlessly              
through the border       of day and night              
through the withered leaves              
              
a man              
whose star is fixed              
does not turn back              

Fly

What kind of dream do you have              
when you wake up              
Are you being chased              
to the end of the earth by a blue lion?              
or do you drift while you drink golden whiskey              
in the arms of a dead man?              
              
Morning       the bell of a hung over telephone rings              
You stretch out your leaden arms              
Oh       I wasn't having such bad dreams              
the blue lion and              
the golden whiskey              
              
At the moment you wake up              
things that go to sleep for the first time inside you              
you see only in dreams              
I cannot say it well but              
at a certain moment in a man's life              
there is even a dream              
where you cannot see the horizon on land or sea              

The Light at Thirteen Second Intervals

I don't like new houses              
It may be because I was born and raised in an old house              
There is neither a dinner table to share with the dead              
nor space for a sentient being to grow              
It was maybe twenty years ago that              
I wrote in a poem              
"a pear tree split"              
I planted a pear tree again              
on the small lot of this new house              
Morning       Watering it is my job              
I want to grow death              
at least inside of the pear tree              
At night I read Victorian pornography              
My only illusion is              
"I have no illusions about the future"              
Yet, at that moment there is a light              
on the horizon forty kilometers outside my window              
A light from the lighthouse at Oshima Island              
at thirteen second intervals

1999

I heard talk about ants somewhere              
I firmly believed that the ant is a symbol of industriousness              
That is completely wrong              
for example              
out of ten              
only one is diligently carrying food              
the other nine just wander around back and forth and left and right              
I hear              
pretending to be very busy              
full of vitality              
and being lazy              
              
I want to become an ant, too              
joining the group of nine              
Sometimes              
I should make an ideological scream              
              
And              
what is more surprising              
is the ant's sleeping habits              
              
They are awake only two hours              
and spend a good twenty two hours asleep              
1999              
              
I want to publish a book of poems by that name              
if I can survive that long              
it will be a full eighteen years       I              
              
will remain asleep like the ants              
I want to write a diagnosis of the mental abnormality              
of the one that silently continues carrying the food              
              
Today's work is over              
so              
good night

While I Can Still See

The light of stars              
The flowers in the fields              
The horizon at sea rolled back              
The horizon on land upside down              
There is a face under the hat              
if I open a door someone is there              
a bird's feather              
a small animal's footprints              
carved in snow              
the rapid descent of the evening sun in autumn              
the hazy moon in spring              
              
I once wrote              
"Time does not expire              
People expire"              
              
I've seen any number of people expire              
and I              
will expire in the end              
              
I can see              
but what in the world did my eyes see              
              
Only time              

The Cherry

A mountain cherry tree        in the forest covered with dark and light young leaves              
after looking at the petals I go out to town              
The cherry trees in town              
have been created by human hands from natural cherry trees              
In the small garden at my house              
a Yoshino cherry stands quite stately              
At its roots wild birds and cats       that lived eighteen years              
are buried              
and in those cherry blossoms              
the light of death and the sadness of life dwell              

Bird Language

I don't think              
anybody has seen my footprints              
no matter what sand beach washed by waves              
no matter what desert assaulted by sand storms              
no one can understand the meaning              
even if they hear the words              
so the words are              
nothing but bird language              
Small birds come up to me, but              
eagles and hawks just watch cautiously              
with their sharp eyes from high up in the sky              
Even though my Japanese language is clear              
no one responds       A few did              
but they're all dead              
              
My meals are simple              
If there is a little cheese and red wine, that will be enough              
People say nicotine prevents senility              
so less than ten light cigarettes              
              
As for reading       lying down on a wooden bed              
I read the world's miserable stories and histories              
and as I read I fall asleep              
When I open my eyes it's a refreshing morning              
I put in my clean false teeth              
and open the morning paper              
It doesn't matter to me              
whether the dollar goes down or the yen goes up              
It's nice if there is a report of an interesting murder               
              
There is even a smell of religion              
in the human behavior called murder              
There is no chance of a drama exactly like sex being born in the Holocaust              
of one human being poisoning other human beings or shooting them              
and asserting an alibi       Speaking of which I remember a foreign movie called              
"Murder Without Passion"              
My epitaph is decided              
carved on the stone in the forest in bird language              
"My life was beautiful"