This autumn-why am I growing old?bird disappearing among clouds.
Summer grasses,All that remainsOf soldiers’ dreams
Dead my old fine hopesAnd dry my dreaming but still…Iris, blue each spring
Winter solitude-in a world of one colourthe sound of the wind.
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
When composing a verse let there not be a hair’s breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.
Describe plum-blossoms?Better than my verses…whiteWordless Butterflies
Not knowing the name of the tree,I stood in the floodof its sweet scent.
It is only a barbarous mind that sees other than the flower, merely an animal mind that dreams of other than the moon.
On this roadwhere nobody else travelsautumn nightfall.
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
Had I crossed the passSupported by a stick,I would have spared myselfThe fall from the horse.
Twilight whippoorwill…Whistle on, sweet deepenerOf dark loneliness
Why so scrawny, cat?Starving for fat fish or mice…Or backyard love?
Awakened at midnightby the sound of the water jarcracking from the ice
Here is a greedy man who keeps to himselfThe beautiful pears ripe in his garden.
At one time I was weary of verse writing, and wanted to give it up. At another time I was determined to be a poet until I could establish a proud name over others. The alternatives battled in my mind and made my life restless.
Many solemn nights Blond moon, we stand and marvel…Sleeping our noons away
If I had the knackI’d sing likeCherry flakes falling