All Saints Cathedral

Who says colonial history
Doesn’t speak to us anymore.
Just look at the gothic spires,
The ballflower ornament,
Of the cream and red sandstones
Of the All Saints Cathedral and
You will see the darkening moss
Spreading like a sermon,
Telling a story of mango-dappled afternoons,
Guava scented mornings,
Where Christ became global
In form and content.

The cloisters are still
Dark and cold in summers,
The stained glass baptistery
Silently biblical and apocalyptic,
The reredo behind the marble alter still redolent
Of a belief in miracles,
The nave with dark teak pews
Echo with the voices of childhood.
If you strain your ears you can still hear
The dull soft choir of yesteryears
Now mixed with the cooing of roosting doves
And the decrepit stain of impermanence.

First written in December 1992, Allahabad and subsequently published in Bestpoem: A Literary Journal, January 7, 2008

Takiyama Kaido

The rain shimmers, slants, swirls
In the brightly-lit Takiyama kaido while
Cars speed past in rain-smoking wheels
Towards many a wonderful pastime.

In the semi-darkness of the sidewalks,
Made darker by sakura tree branches,
Young girls in umbrellas speed-past on bicycles
Laughing and chatting loudly.

The michi-no-eki frogs
Carousing in paddy fields
Sing unequivocally in a chorus
Of the rural past of Hachioji.

As you walk past shuttered windows
You realize the two worlds fighting for survival:
The one fast asleep by late evening,
The other reluctant to go home early.

June 2007, Hachioji

Takiyama Kaido

The rain shimmers, slants, swirls
In the brightly-lit Takiyama kaido while
Cars speed past in rain-smoking wheels
Towards many a wonderful pastime. .

In the semi-darkness of the sidewalks,
Made darker by sakura tree branches,
Young girls in umbrellas speed-past on bicycles
Laughing and chatting loudly..

The michi-no-eki frogs
Carousing in paddy fields
Sing unequivocally in a chorus
Of the rural past of Hachioji.

As you walk past shuttered windows
You realize the two worlds fighting for survival:
The one fast asleep by late evening,
The other reluctant to go home early.

June 2007, Hachioji

The Nakasendo Highway

It climbs up into the sky
Curving at the point
Of the distant horizon
Where ideas meet emotion
Then vanishes like a wild animal
Between wooden houses in the
Overnight heavy snow.
In the morning it can only be
Recognized by occasional pugmarks
Of a pack of raccoon dogs,
Small clog footprints or
A lonely raven’s
Caw caw for food.

When the cedar forests
Are swollen with snow,
And their swooning pollen
Is caught
In the tight grip of winter,
When the buds of the
Peach, plum and cherry
Hide in their protective barks,
A dwarfish figure approaches
The barn, somewhat bent,
To clear the snow
Over the ishidatami
For no particular reason.

The snow
On the Hime No Kaido,
Remembers,
Apart from other
Nubile girls,
The princess Kazunomiya
Who also took this road
On her way to Edo
To marry a shogun,
Even while engaged
To another man,
Just to give more power
To the empire.

As her large retinue
Wound its way slowly
Through small towns
Making friends with people,
And rested on the shores
Of the vast blue Biwa Lake,
The princess looked back
Towards the wooden Kyoto
With wistful regret,
And had an inkling
Of things to come;
A married woman
Becoming a nun.

Hirosige’s floating world
Of 69 stations have
Now given way
To modernized expressways,
Streaking shinkansens,
And the distractions
Of the civilized world;
The beautiful post towns,
The secluded sukego villages,
The houses along the highway,
The old world of Nihonbashi,
The bookshops of Kanda,
Lie in ruin, or are nearly gone.

But the seasons remain and
The mountains of Sekigahara,
The Ise shrine of Amaterasu,
The snow of the Japanese Alps,
Come to life again in seasons
Of falling snow,
Of floating cherry blossoms,
Of cicadas chirping from trees.
And if your strain your ears
You can still hear the princess,
The daimyo and his horses,
The common people, breathing
As they negotiate the Nakasendo.

(Tokyo, 2006)

Black Grapes

In a canopy of tangled vines
They hang bunch after bunch,
Ripening in the August sun.

Thick, warm and succulent
They reveal the limitless sky,
In a Keatsian sensuousness.

Twinkling, innocent, inebriated
Enter the celestial paradise,
Smear your lips with their taste.

August 2007, Takiyama

Stone Steps

When you make a staircase,
Sketch its geography, and
Then embed it in nature,
It can last for centuries.

It needs no care,
It needs no cleaning,
It needs no repair and
It needs no adornment.

The wind cleans its surface,
The brook slakes its thirst,
The silver grass adorns it,
The cedar protects it.

Sit under the shadow of the tree,
Stretch your vision in a yearning
Beyond the cavernous hollow
And collapse within yourself.

Let your eyes brush past
The shadow under each step,
And watch the grasses sway
And the water glimmer.

Soon you can apprehend
The symbolic significance
Of a journey and the need
To hide in the universe.

August 10, Takao

Moving Spaces, Changing Places

As the train rushes
Towards its destination
You begin to realize that
Nothing belongs to you forever;
Even the coziest place that
You’ve managed to create
By gently shifting your body
And arranging your bags
Exists in a temporary liaison.

Even if you make friends with strangers,
Exchange information about
Weather, music and people
They soon depart with a goodbye
Leaving an aching hollow behind;
You cannot ask for their names,
Or promise to contact them later,
They vanish drop by drop,
Step by step from your consciousness.

You reflect upon the protean condition
And soon realize that movement
Pushes desire into ever-changing shapes,
It leaves incomplete sentences,
Half-formed fantasies in its path.
Desire drips unceasingly
With its own evanescent sadness,
Its own inner cosmic spaces,
Its dissatisfying denouements.

August 2007, Tokyo



Get your own copy of my latest book: Moving Spaces, Changing Places

A Door

A dark Burma teak door opens
Silently on its brass hinges,
Leaving its archway brooding
With many thoughts intruding.

It reveals an empty space
Of shadowed light traceries,
Where time’s phantoms find
Ancient knowledge confined.

The door, in its quartefoil hides
A tradition rich in grain and thought,
Giving a glimpse of mysteries sublime
Opening silently the door of the mind.

April 1984, Delhi

Japanese Hedge Bindweed

Just for a brief moment
You can imagine
The delicate innocence
Of primordial creation.

Just for a brief moment
You stand witness to
The past emerging
In the present.

Just for a brief moment
You see enigmatic creation
Emerging as eternity
In innocent transience.


July 2007, Tokyo

Reality’s Barometer

Sit in a barge
Sailing on a moonlit night
On the shimmer of the river,
Then wakeup
With a stiff shoulder and
A recriminating hangover.

Watch at night how fireflies streak
Through the dark foliage
Like magical beings,
During the day you soon realize
They’re just a bunch of
Crawling insects.

Takiyama Kaido

The rain shimmers, slants, swirls,
In the brightly-lit Takiyama kaido, while
Cars speed past in rain-smoking wheels
Towards some planned sojourn.

In the semi-darkness of the sidewalks,
Made darker by sakura tree branches,
Young girls in umbrellas speed-past on bicycles
Laughing and chatting loudly.

The michi-no-eki frogs,
Carousing in paddy fields,
Sing unequivocally in a chorus
Of the rural past of Hachioji.

As you walk past shuttered windows
You see two different worlds:
The one fast asleep by late evening,
The other reluctant to go home early.

June 2007, Hachioji

The Vanishing Ganga

Before this century is gone
The Ganga would have returned
To the heavens from whence it came,
So say the environmentalists.

The Gomukh glacier is receding
Faster than we had anticipated,
The greenhouse effect is now
Taking a toll of the devabhumi.

Look, religious tourism is on the rise!
Everyone is out to get a piece
Of the sacred ice before it is gone;
We all want moksha before it is too late.

You think this is reason enough to worry,
But wait a minute:
Global warming and human greed
Only fulfill a prophesy in the sastras.

We knew all along that in kalyug
The Ganga would return to the heavens
From whence it came, and watch benignly
From above, the goings on of mankind.

Once that happens you will see her
Only in the rainy season
Whistling through the dry ravines
As another mountain stream.

We, with the tonsured head, can tell you
There’s nothing to worry at all.
Once the Ganga vanishes, we will
Still worship her like Saraswati.

We will still seek moksha,
We will still take a dip at Prayag sangam,
We will still do the kriya at Haridwar,
We will still do all the rituals as of yore.

June 2007, Tokyo

Tokyo Central

In the midst of Edo and Dutch
Red bricks and black granite architectonics,
Tourists, homeless, old, and drunk,
Sit here and there on grass patches,
Impassively munching snacks for dinner.

Two male cobblers
Are vigorously polishing boots
In the company of drunks
Their hands matching the
Speed of the motley traffic.

People are rushing to and fro
Going in different directions,
Some waiting at traffic lights,
Others engrossed, looking inward,
Matching speed with speed.

There a tourist sits with a homeless,
Here an old man with a drunk and,
Perhaps they wonder at the heart’s squalor,
The mean hurry of daily life,
The real value of diligence and enterprise.

June 2007, Tokyo

Quiet Contemplation

As you drink steaming hot coffee
In a proper white china mug, you can
Relax within a perfumed ambience
Of quiet contemplation.

If you grab a silly plastic coffee bottle
From a convenience store
You’ll miss the subtle aroma,
The quiet contemplation.

March 2006, Tokyo

Excerpt from Chuo Line and Other Poems by Mukesh Williams

Disappointed

In an ostentatious display
Of joie de vivre
She was observing
The delicate shape of her hand,
How her thick round fingers
Tapered into long slender nails.

Then she checked
If anyone was watching her,
Disappointed,
She went off to sleep.

Excerpt from Chuo Line and Other Poems by Mukesh Williams

Triveni Sangam

If you are frightened of
The turbid waters of the triveni sangam,
Extortions by boatmen, pandas, diya boys,
The crocodiles, and the dead bodies,

Then you will miss
Brahma’s most relaxing presence,
The mesmeric collapsing of time,
The play with the cycle of birth and death,

A discourse on the Bhagvad Gita,
The once-in-a-lifetime darshan of a guru,
The chant ‘Ganga maiya ki jai’
At Bharatvarsha’s only teerath sthan.

The Vedas, Ramayana, Mahabharata,
The Puranas all see it as a part
Of a greater cosmology—the samudra manthan—
Where devas and asuras fought

To posses the amrit in the pot,
And during this fight
A tiny drop fell at Prayag,
Giving it a super sanctity.

It is here Harshavardan gave away
All his earthly possessions,
It is here the Siddhartha meditated
On the Middle Path,

It is here that itinerant
Chinese, Greek and Indian scholars—
Megasthenes, Huien Tsang and Shankaracharya—
Came to experience the efficacy of Ganga water.

It is here, close to the confluence,
By the banks of the Yamuna,
Akbar built the Allahabad fort
That includes Mogul and Hindu icons—

The Saraswati well, the Patalpuri Temple, and
The immortal Akshaya vat,
Or the banyan tree
And the Ashoka pillar from Kausambi

Now as evening expands from the
Remote horizon to the shore,
And spreads upon the waters
Against the backdrop of the cable bridge,

A few men in white dhoti and kurta
Are busy carrying pots of Ganga water
Back to their village that
They will place on their family alter.

Whatever you might say in the West,
Whatever the Far East might do
To purify the Ganga water
With modern technology

Here is the source
Of immortality,
A function of the higher consciousness,
Purity has nothing to do with hygiene.

Here in midstream,
Where triveni sangam happens
You can stand in waist-deep water
And see the spin

Of muddy yellow Ganga
Against a turquoise blue Yamuna
And imagine a subterranean Saraswati
Rising from deep below the kund.

You are now surrounded by pandas
Who stand with their holy threads,
And tilak on their foreheads
On small wooden platforms

In the middle of the rivers
Reciting Sanskrit slokas,
Helping pilgrims
With ablutions for a fee.

In the evening oil-wick diyas
Go at great speed over the water
What a splendid way to say goodbye
To all your negative karma

If you are brave enough
You can meet your childhood in youth
And see your old age
In a splash of water;

You can understand
Your entire future
In the intricate play
Of light and shade.

They are all here for something big:
A belief, a quest, a realization,
Or a divine intervention.

On a few Kumbh days once in 12 years—
On Makar Sankranti, Basant Panchmi or Maha Shivratri—
You could see all kinds of folks,
Sadhus, ordinary people, and tourists.

You could see Naga babas
Moving around naked
With ash smeared bodies
In a defiant swagger.

You could hear the Parivajakas
Who have owed not to speak
As they make a way through a crowd
By ringing small bells.

You could see the Kalpvasis
Bathing in the Ganga thrice
Drinking its water,
And protesting at the rising water pollution.

You could see the Shirshasins
Who stand on their heads to
Meditate, rest, sleep and
See the world upside down;

Or the Urdhwavahurs who,
In doing severe austerity,
Find solace and peace
In mid and body.

They are here
Waiting at triveni sangam
When Jupiter enters Aquarius
And sun enters Aires.

They are waiting for
The water of the Ganga
To turn to amrit
And then to taste one drop;

To realize this phenomenon
Called moksha.
Some feel it’s a foregone conclusion.
Some feel there’s no harm trying.

Here is civilization at its best
That can take you
Not only into a remembered past
But beyond into an unmediated time,

To the roots of your origin
This is what an old civilization
Like ours
Can do.

There has to be something in it
When so many people
Have thought about it
For so long.

August 2005, Allahabad

Shifting Shadows

(A reflection on the Latin,
pulvis et umbra or
of our dusty shadowy existence)

The shadow sticks to you
When you depart from it,
Indicating something
In its faint outline.

In its pastel contours
It reveals, for a moment,
An imperfect representation
Of a shadowy existence.

Somber in the pale shadows
Of its adumbration
The penumbra hides the
Bright light of the universe.

June 2007, Hachioji

Himeji Castle

It glides like a white bird
On a mountaintop,
Gently swaying in the wind,
Touching the clouds,
Immaculate,
Waiting to be invincible,
Watching secretly
The comings and goings
Not only of the enemy but
Of powerful clans and,
Loving families.

Beating its
White flawless wings
In the stillness of the sky
It climbs higher
On the bamboo-scented breeze
Remembering the sliding shoji,
The delicate hand of princess Sen,
The box tree comb,
The whizzing of arrows,
The closing of huge doors,
Moving, yet not moving.

June 2006, Tokyo

Summer Crickets

There are so many kinds of crickets that you will be astonished to know their names. There are field crickets, ground crick, tree crickets, ant crickets, Mormon crickets, cave crickets, mole crickets, Weta crickets, Jerusalem crickets, sand crickets and so on. These are shy, nocturnal creatures and in many cultures, like the Brazilian, their chirping brings money or rain. However to most of us, the chirping of crickets can be most relaxing and can put us to sleep. Here is a poem about crickets in Hachioji, a semi-rural suburb of Tokyo:

Silence,
Silence at last,
In the dark,
Soft bed;
Becoming one
With the chirping
of crickets.

Night descends
Every moment,
Slowly and quietly,
Lulling the senses;
The wind sleeps
In the chirping
Of a dream.

May 2007, Hachioji

Hachioji Matsuri

In Japan, the oppressive heat of the summer makes day-to-day existence unbearable. The Japanese have found an excellent method to alleviate the misery of hot and muggy afternoons by relaxing with chilled beer, wearing comfortable cotton dresses, dancing to the beat of heavy drums, eating at outdoor stalls, and mingling with friends and strangers alike. Hachioji, a semi-rural, sleepy suburb of Tokyo, springs to life on such a summer Matsuri. Here is a poem that captures the atmosphere and the spirit of a Hachioji Matsuri.

In the middle of the summer heat
Thousands of yukata-clad women
Dance to the slow beat of Hachioji song
Along the koshu kaido,
While children eat
Steamed potato with butter,
Finding the new-found freedom
All too exciting.

August 2006, Hachioji

The Haiku in Japanese and English

By Mukesh Williams

The haiku is perhaps the most important literary genre that has become popular since the late nineteenth century not only in Asia but throughout the western world. In the process of globalizing the haiku form has jumped the linguistic barrier and is now being written in English, Spanish, French, Bengali and other languages as well. It, however, continues to conform to the images of the four seasons and the three-line structure of 5-7-5 syllables. In Japanese the haiku dexterously combines three distinct phrases and introduces a clear grammatical break called the kireji or cutting letters, either after the first five or twelve syllables. At times a haiku can also use kake kotoba or hanging words. A kake kotoba can also function as multiple puns. Writing in Japanese, Takahama Kyoshi (1874-1959) used standard kireji in the following haiku:

higashiyama
shizukani hane no
ochini keri

a feather shuttlecock
gently falling—
higashiyama hill

In English the kireji is often replaced by punctuation marks such as a comma, semi-colon or an ellipsis. Since a Japanese haiku has three clear phrases and a kireji it is written in a single line, while the English haiku is separated into three lines to mark the difference. Therefore many Japanese literary critics feel that forcing a fixed form of kireji and kigo on other languages makes little sense. Others are of the opinion that literary forms are forever crossing borders and getting transformed in the process, enriching both language and experience.

Every haiku must express a single emotion arising from observing common, day-to-day occurrences, but in a unique way. Most traditional haiku writers in Japan build their haiku vis-à-vis, the natural world and use images related to the four seasons or kigo. It is possible to find images of cherry blossoms, emerging crocus, flitting fireflies, leaves falling, frogs croaking, snow falling or moon rising in the works of many haiku masters. It is important to remember that in a successful haiku the image is not just a means to an end but the end itself; that is, the image is the poem.

A haiku falls under the category of a short poem, but it has a long history. In Japan short poems written by Shinto priests to mark a ceremony or a ritual can be found as early as 759 A.D. These poems were called Manyoshu or Collection of Myriad Leaves anthology and expressed a sense of inherent sadness in ordinary things of the world called mono no aware in Japanese. The poems in the Myriad Leaves anthology are in the form of prayers, songs or lyrics composed to appease gods, eulogize emperors, and represent agricultural rituals or marriage rites. In the beginning of the fifteenth century emerging middle class began to assert itself in Japanese society and threw sake-drinking parties where they made merry by composing erotic, slapstick verses called haikai no renge or comic linked verses. The four writers who are considered as the chief exponents of the haikai forms were Yamazaki Sokan (1465-1553), Arakida Moritake (1473-1549), Matsunaga Teitoku (1571-1635) and Nishiyama Soin (1605-1682). Of these four haikai writers Teitoku founded the Teimon School which emphasized colloquialism and word play, while Soin established the Danrin School which playfully wrote about day-to-day events and at times turned frivolous.

Teitoku had a deeper influence on the subsequent history and development of the haiku form. He cleaned the form of its vulgar elements and taught it to his student Matsuo Basho (1644-1649) whom we all know as the foremost haiku writer of Japan. Basho popularized the haiku form through his large acolyte following and travels throughout Japan. Remember that Basho made a living writing and teaching poetry. It is believed that when Basho died he had over two thousand students studying under him. Other haiku poets such as Yosa Buson (1716-1783), Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827), Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902), Kawahigashi Hekigoto (1873-1937), Taneda Santoka (1882-1940) and Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983) made it a truly popular genre.

The history of haiku poetry has always been dominated by male writers but there were many women writers as well who wrote excellent haiku such as Den Sutejo (1633-1698), Kawai Chigetsu (1634?–1718), Shiba Sonome (1664–1726), Chiyojo (1703–1775), Enomoto Seifu (1732–1815), Tagami Kikusha (1753–1826), Takeshita Shizunojo (1887–1951), Sugita Hisajo (1890–1946), Hashimoto Takako (1899–1963), Mitsuhashi Takajo (1899–1972), Ishibashi Hideno (1909–1947), Katsura Nobuko (b. 1914), Yoshino Yoshiko (b. 1915), Tsuda Kiyoko (b. 1920), Inahata Teiko (b. 1931), Uda Kiyoko (b. 1935), Kuroda Momoko (b. 1938), Tsuji Momoko (b. 1945), Katayama Yumiko (b. 1952), Mayuzumi Madoka (b. 1965). Their works were published in an anthology by Makoto Ueda called Far Beyond the Field: Haiku by Japanese Women, (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003).They wrote some excellent haiku, not just “women haiku” and made significant contributions in the development of the haiky form. Take for example the following haiku by Enomoto Seifu:

like a fish
in the sea, this body of mine
cool in the moonlight


The haiku form became popular in the United States, Europe, Latin America, and South Asia in the twentieth century through the efforts of Japanese American, Afro-American, Jewish American, WASP and vernacular writers. In fact an entirely new haiku called the Jewish haiku developed which combined the Japanese literary tradition with Jewish humor. American writers also popularized the form in America providing a unique fusion of Japanese and American sensibilities and eastern and western aesthetics. They were able to retain the simplicity, seasonal relevance and surprise of Japanese haiku and combine it with typically American themes. Latin American and vernacular Indian writers introduced their own variation and flavor to a distinctly Japanese literary form. We can find writers such as W.H. Auden, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac to Amiri Baraka, Jorge Luis Borges Octavio O Paz writing excellent haiku. Here is a haiku by Jack Kerouac written in 1959:

Early morning yellow flowers,
thinking about
the drunkards of Mexico.

The haiku has the season but the context is strikingly American.

The haiku form has also affected poets in the Indian vernaculars such as Hindi, Bengali, Gujarati, Marathi and Urdu. In the 1950s Hindi poets like Srikant Varma, Sarveshwardayal Saxena, Ashok Vajpayee and others developed a minimalist style comparable to the haiku form. Shrikant Varma for example wrote the following verse in Hindi:

The first shower of rain
The sky has thrown
Its roots on earth.

All these writers understood the brevity and element of surprise hidden in the haiku form and harnessed it to their own literary ends.

The modern haiku in English has evolved in strange ways, some inspiring while others quite frustrating. The following haiku by Ezra Pound in Ts’ai Chi’h perhaps brings us close to the Japanese masters:

The petals fall in the fountain,
The orange-colored rose leaves,
Their ochre clings to the stone.

This brief explanation can help you not only to read other haiku, but also to compose your own in the near future.


Four Haiku by Mukesh Williams


1.
The white summer rose
Tells you nothing of
Your conceit.

2.
Every blossom
Of the persimmon cannot
Become a fruit.

3.
The summer moth
Merges with the brick wall:
Teaches subterfuge.

4.
A duck waddles
From one pond to another:
A soul in transit.

Huntington Road, Cambridge

Sometimes,
In the intimidating proximity of shadows
You want to retreat
Into the very sensations of the body
From where you wish to escape,

But the vanishing road escarpment,
The artifice of colonial history,
Leaves you somewhat disembodied
And agitated
By the spirit of things to come.

August 1997, Cambridge

The Chuo Line

This is the morning rush hour
On the Chuo rapid to Tokyo,
Men are holding their jackets or
Have folded them over their satchels
In their lap and gone to sleep;
Women are not far behind.

As the hot air from the radiator
Warm their thighs and bottoms
Some women lose their modesty and
Go to sleep with bedroom abandon;
Men reading folded newspapers
Take an occasional peep.

Squat houses whiz by outside,
Bicycle stands appear and disappear;
An entire metropolitan geography opens
In the somewhat muggy morning
Made muggier by packed commuters
And sudden lurches and jerks.

High school girls in sailor uniforms
In triple folded skirts at the waist
Show their pudgy cream thighs
As they stand eating breakfast,
While boys push down their trousers
Holding them by their buttocks.

There is pin drop silence except
For the periodic cackle of the PA system,
Or the hydraulic hiss of
Opening and closing doors.
Stations arrive and go by
As if in a fantasy or a dream.

The train whistles by with
So much of self involvement,
An occasional foreigner like me
Tries to behave as any other local
But what a waste of effort:
They eye me furtively when I doze.

February 2006, Hachioji

Alone

The Gangotri glacier throbs beneath,
My feet, deep and voluminous,
Twisting old mysteries into life.

Huge chunks of ice growl
From below its huge caverns
Feeding a wish-fulfilling Gomukh.

A throbbing silence penetrates
Time without beginning and
Echoes incomprehensible eternity.

Reflected in Tapovan’s emerald blue waters
The caves of Indian hermits are now quiet
As thoughts of some rarified beings

The terra firma, more like a lunar world,
Shapes strange images of the unfamiliar,
Overwhelming the senses.

Crowned with sharp white snow
Shivling’s bewitching divinity lingers
In a translucent darkness

If you were to wait here any longer
You might lose the desire
For human company altogether.

Takiyama Mountains

The night breathes quietly
The Takiyama Mountains
Elbow a hush
Into the valley below
Crickets chirp
A rising colonnade of history
The impenetrable castle
A powerful daimyo
Pushing for control
The Honmaru embankment
Still holding together

Thoughts get startled
By the zoom of a scooter,
The thud of an object,
In the apartment building
Across the road
The thump of a door,
Somewhere
In the neighborhood,
An accelerating car
Jumping a traffic light
Near the Hiyodoriama Tunnel

The Orion constellation
Light up the sumi-colored night
And there is a distinct
Smell of perfume that
I can recognize
As the door of a car closes
With a thump and then the
Cloperty clop clop
Cloperty clop clop
Of a woman in high heels
Put me to sleep

A Coffee Shop

An old style French coffee shop
Wafting warm coffee smell
In a light drizzle,
A soft piano music
Quiet between an occasional
Clutter of cups,
Chopping of salad,
A brief conversation
A pretty waitress
In white and crimson dress
A drizzle of piano music
And nothing else to do,
No hurry,
Just a quiet reflection
Unwinding itself

Fog

Stray dogs yelp
In the growing fog
At night.

Perhaps
They got
Frightened

In the garbage dump
By some foraging pig
Doing a midnight jig.

Kalkaji

Early morning fog
Of January
Turning into
Large droplets
Against
The windowpanes.

The fog swirls
Around trees,
On the roads,
Across the bridge,
Hazing headlights,
Slowing traffic

The sound of
The brass bell
Of the
Prachin Bhairon Mandir
Rides
The fog

The washed
And sanctified
Stone parikrama
Is cold against
The naked feet of
Men and women

Homeless men
Huddled against
The huge stonewall
Of the temple
Breathing slowly
In their dirty blankets

Here
They wait
For the
Early morning
Devotes who will
Offer them some food.

The Nakasendo Highway

It climbs up into the sky
Curving at the point
Of the distant horizon
Where ideas meet emotion
Then vanishes like a wild animal
Between wooden houses in the
Overnight heavy snow
In the morning it can only be
Recognized by occasional pugmarks
Of a pack of raccoon dogs,
Small clog footprints or
A lonely raven’s
Caw caw for food.

When the cedar forests
Are swollen with snow
And their swooning pollen
Is caught
In the tight grip of winter,
When the buds of the
Peach, plum and cherry
Hide in their protective barks
A dwarfish figure approaches
The barn, somewhat bent,
To clear the snow
Over the ishidatami (*1)
For no particular reason

The snow
On the hime no kaido (*2),
Remembers
Apart from other
Nubile girls
Princess Kazunomiya
Who also took this road
On her way to Edo
To marry a shogun,
Even when engaged
To another man,
Just to give more power
To the empire.

As her large retinue
Wound slowly
Through small towns
Making friends with people
And rested
At Lake Biwa,
She looked back
Towards Kyoto
With wistful regret
And had an inkling
Of things to come;
A married woman
Becoming a nun.

Hirosuge’s floating world
Of 69 stations have
Now given way
To modernized expressways,
Streaking shinkansens,
And the distractions
Of the civilized world;
The beautiful post towns,
The secluded sukego villages,
Houses along the highway,
The old world of Nihonbashi ,
The bookshops of Kanda,
Lie in ruin or are nearly gone.

But the seasons remain and
The mountains of Sekigahara,
The Ise shrine of Amaterasu,
The snow of the Japanese Alps,
Come to life again in seasons
Of falling snow,
Of floating cherry blossoms,
Of cicadas chirping from trees,
And if your strain your ears
You can still hear the princess,
Daimyo and his horses,
The entire nation breathing
As it traverses the Nakasendo

(*1) Stone tatami
(*2) The road of the princesses