Paperback
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
Originally published in 1980.
The Princeton Legacy Library uses the latest print-on-demand technology to again make available previously out-of-print books from the distinguished backlist of Princeton University Press. These editions preserve the original texts of these important books while presenting them in durable paperback and hardcover editions. The goal of the Princeton Legacy Library is to vastly increase access to the rich scholarly heritage found in the thousands of books published by Princeton University Press since its founding in 1905.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780691616339 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Princeton University Press |
| Publication date: | 07/14/2014 |
| Series: | Princeton Legacy Library , #724 |
| Pages: | 196 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.10(h) x 0.50(d) |
Read an Excerpt
The Modern Japanese Prose Poem
An Anthology of Six Poets
By Dennis Keene
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 1980 Princeton University PressAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-691-06418-5
CHAPTER 1
Echo
Evening gathered in; clouds like a blue-grey map of the world hung poised on the horizon.
He stood in the fields where the wind moved only the leaves of grass, and in a high-pitched voice called after his mother.
People in the town would laugh at him, because his face was so like hers. Which way had she gone, back bent like a fishhook, step by step, leaving her footprints behind her? The white road rose up clear in the dusk, and he called after her; sending his high-pitched shout into its distance.
So then what quietly reached his ear, was it the echo of his cry, or that of his mother far off calling after her own?
Evening gathered in; blue-grey clouds hung poised on the horizon.
The Village
They had tied up the deer by the antlers with a straw rope, and put her in the dark barn. Her blue eyes shone where nothing could be seen; and there she sat, neatly, elegantly. One potato tumbled down.
Outside the cherry blossoms fell, and a bicycle came down the hill, laying one long, clear line of them.
You saw the back of a little girl peering among the bushes. She had a black ribbon fixed to the shoulder of her dress.
Spring
Geese : So many of us together that each cries out in order not to mislay himself.
Lizard: No matter what stone I crawl upon, my belly stays cold.
Village
With wide eyes open glittering in fear the deer was already dead. It lay under the eaves of the lumber shed, the face of an awkward quarrelsome boy who refuses to say one word, soaked in an evening drizzle of rain. This one had been killed by dogs. In the bluish-black gloss of its fur the wounds on the thigh were red, more than camellia-red. The legs poked stiffly out like sticks, and the soft vague fur of its hindquarters was sodden with water, shameful.
The scent of onions drifted here from somewhere.
Wild flowers bloomed; the water wheel turning behind the shed made its huge circles.
The Pass
I sat at the high point of the pass.
This small and nameless pass was overgrown with shrub, with trees, lost and hidden in thick reed grass. I smoked a cigarette and then the six or seven miles still to go became finally real to me, as if exposed to view in all that undergrowth.
In the last village I had passed they told me that the people of the fishing village I was on my way to used to climb this pass each morning to sell their fish; but with the coming of diesel-powered boats they had switched their market to across the bay. So far I had not come across one person on my way up here.
The path was now a wilderness, washed away by the rains and seemingly winding between the gorse and the tall pampas grass, and it was easy to lose one's way. In the trees on both sides of the path wood doves were cooing.
The sky was clear. Far off, through a gap in the bushes, you could see a number of grassy hills caught in the full light of the sun, and then, much farther off beyond their smooth and undulating shapes, the mountain, misted in deep indigo, which occupied the sky.
The blankness in my mind, the mild exhaustion sensed on looking at those hills, felt consolation in the autumn sunlight. And then I heard, coming it seemed from somewhere far away among those hills and hollows in some place I could not see, or even perhaps on the slopes there of the mountain, the muffled thud of a ship's engine. It seemed to go on for some moments and, as I could not believe my ears, I strained to hear more clearly; then once more all again was still with nothing to be heard. The wind occasionally stirred the bushes as it passed; or a bee hummed among them and its drone died out, then in curved flight appeared again from somewhere. Above, the soft beat of the white wings of the swallows fluttered down the air.
And then I thought how there were other passes like this one among those hills I could not see; there, perhaps, on the top of that ridge there, and elsewhere, and all like this, exactly like, all small and hidden away. And there also in all of them the wind was blowing, the bees and swallows flew; and there too I was sitting just as here. So as I gazed upon the scattered small white wildflowers at my feet, I felt that I could know them too, those other passes, so many of them covered and hidden away from me.
I carefully stubbed out my cigarette. The afternoon had started to grow late. I thought of this road I must go and where I would meet no one, the unknown downward path deep in thick grass; and of my freedom here, the freedom of a bird far from all men; and this free space of time became a weariness, a blankness for me, and I hastened to be on my way.
How many days had I already spent in travel; for I felt a sorrow in me like a sickness at the thought. Yet I should feel as men of old had done, traveling the roads, entrusting themselves to what they saw about them, singing the endless passing of the seasons. I knew I soon would look upon the sea, and yet what pain can autumn set about the heart.
Ah that village by the shore, hearing the pine trees murmur in the wind; the inn there with its gloomy bathroom, the window which looks out upon the bay. I wanted to lie soaking there before the sun went down beyond its headland.
So I heard the break and flow of waves within me, and went on down the pass.
A Town
In this hollow among the mountains, this cruel waste; on what seems a heap of broken plates a small town offers itself, like one prayer, to the sky. A square held in by walls, breastwork which crumbles silently each night, and falls.
By all four walls are rows of willow trees, thick branched, throwing the shadows of long centuries gone. Even now a rustling storm of wings beat down, and pale white cranes fly over.
At noon out from the gate they burst, honking and squealing, running, tumbling, a line of black emaciated pigs, eagerly racing to the open fields, to disappear amid the shrubs and grasses. And if you hear far-off at times, coming from the shadow of the trees, an odd, melancholy creaking sound, then you will see, dragged by a mountainous red ox, a tiny two-wheeled cart, piled in summer with melons, loaded in autumn with firewood, moving toward the entrance of the town.
The wood of the main gate is blackened and peeled with age, and, in its lattice, shield-shaped cage now open to the sky, the bell hangs small and silent, forgetful that it ever tolled; the dignity of centuries of silence raised high up to the vaulted ceiling.
Magpies gather on the crumbling walls, upon the rubble of them; they gather on the trailing, whitening, uncut willows; flutter there, spreading long white-spotted tails; and screeching all day long in cries that rap against the rocks.
But then beyond all this, when sometimes the waxing moon raises its faint half-circle over the far-scattered fields, over the corn and millet, over the bone-like range of mountains, one far point in the sky at noon; then do they feel the blankness of this land which covers them in waves, desolate knowledge that they have been set apart, knowing no touch of civilized life? In that full moment of awareness do they weep, bewail their solitary, outcast lot? Columns of smoke, at times how many, making the desolation yet more deep, from cooking fires drift up in the sky.
Long ago did their ancestors come one way through the mountains here to build this town? Then, on the very day the work was done, did enemies come down from the opposite direction? These breastworks were the scene for violent war then, the boundary line between them? So history forgot as they forgot, ceasing to care, solely following never-changing custom; eating their yellowish food from the same utensils, scattering the same seed in the plains, wrapping the same clothes about them. The same crown handed down was always set on similarly styled hair.
Perhaps their indolence, too, comes from decree; sleeping at all hours, rising in the intervals of dreams; and swelling their thick chests, gulping down huge quantities of water, because the air which flows through here is parched and dry.
Finally, when night falls, will this town go under, a coral reef under the rising tide, drowning in the pressure of this silence, sinking beneath such heavy darkness? What lights will they raise then and in what vessels? Perhaps they have no need for light? I do not know. I stand now on a road back through past time, looking down on that town, distant, recalled. But all my memories turn from there, ever hurrying back to where the sun is sinking.
The Garden
The sun was still blocked by the dark storehouse, and the frosted garden lay deep in its long, cold, purple shadow. That morning I picked up the corpse of a crow which had frozen to death. The obdurate wings were folded spindle-shape, gray eyelids firmly closed. When I threw it away it fell on the lawn with an empty thud. I looked closer; blood was oozing slowly from it.
Elsewhere in the clear sky I could hear a crow still calling.
Garden
The shadow of the pagoda tree showed me the place, so I swung my pickaxe hard into the turf. Five minutes of leisurely digging and I dug it up; a skull clogged in earth. I took it to the pond and washed it. I should have been more careful and so not scored a hole in its temple as I dug, which I regretted now. I went back to my room and put it under the bed.
That afternoon I went down the valley to shoot pheasants. When I got back I noticed a trail of water around one of the legs of the bed. That weighty toy I'd dug up had been wet, and now the sockets of its eyes and that scarred hole still were. And small red ants went running in and out, in and out of their pale brown, oddly magnificent fortress.
A letter came from mother. I wrote an answer to it.
Noon
Parting feels other than it should; strangely like the first meeting with a girl, hurried and confused with bitter-tasting undertones. A studied cheerfulness, bright courage for the one who leaves; while he who stays behind puffs at his useless cigarette, at sudden moments sensing a slight absurdity in this.
The coach took her, her small wicker trunk and two wrapped bundles, and went straight off into the distance. The sunlight through the trees flickered across its pale-blue curtains, the horse-shoe patterns flashing like trout in water. Suddenly all, horses, coachman, seemed to have been just set loose in the world, birds now with no place to go. Goodbye, goodbye; the light-blue window of her room stays open as it was.
The road follows the river, avenues of trees through fields. The coach has gone behind that curve now, far off in the hills. Soon they will reach the bridge, the white one you can't see from here, cross over as the planks resound and clatter, sounds which will reach to where we are.
Noon now, everything is clear and blue. A column of bantam hens strut by the wall.
To think that time can thus be seen so clearly.
Feeling alone I bought myself a red apple.
Memoire
My sister died in the autumn wind. I tried picking her white bones up out of the ash, but they kept breaking. The oven they burned her in was warm. All round about the autumn wind kept turning. I placed my lips and tongue to the cheek of her child. Then I set out on a journey. Infrequent letters from my love had ceased to come. The sea was clear: the sky was blue. At that time I was reading Aristotle. A battleship was anchored off the coast. You heard the bugle calls at dusk. Then again the lights came on. Some ceremony taking place up on the mountain. I walked a long way between fields of rice. Then a long flight of ancient steps among the trees. You see it was a long way up that mountain. I drank there; I poured wine.
Enfance Finie
Islands far out at sea ... camellia flowers fallen in the rain. Spring visits the bird cage, a bird cage where there is no bird.
It seems that we have reached an end of promises.
Yes, there are clouds over the sea and, yes, the earth reflects within those clouds.
There is a stairway in the sky.
Lower the flag of ceremony then, and say goodbye; flow like the great river. My footprints on this floor; a light dust on my footprints. Grief.
Leave then now, then leave; set out on far journeys.
The Pheasant
On the mountainside magnolia trees stand white. A flock of crows alight in the field of reeds. A crow then looks at me. I look far off to the mountain where a narrowing line of telegraph poles goes over. I hide among the folds in the mountain's side.
The road follows the river; out of the shade and sunlight a wagtail darts and flies, a thin flash of pale yellow.
Grass snakes rustle in the withered leaves, their own carefree form of self protection.
As evening fell I bought a pheasant. At night I closed the window which looks out upon the river. I poured myself a drink. The water's sound grew distant through the window.
On the red lacquer of the dining table, I had let fall one pellet of shot.
Among the Branches
The dead of night, and over the thick dead leaves, a bear swings closer to the gingko tree, with one white candle lighted on its back. Its violent breath fills everywhere, and then is vanished in the forest's silence.
He watches this sleek furred mysterious beast, from way up among the branches. A solitary, Russian-looking man.
"Daddy, mummy's come back. Daddy, mummy's come back."
The voices of dead children are now birds. He hears them in the sky. His dead wife has now changed into a bear, and so she walks the forest.
But that can not be so; no, that's impossible. Thinking like that among the branches.
CHAPTER 2Midwinter Writing
(Mes cahiers)
The evergreens are black; but my hands are always white. No evil sullies me.
The glittering axe.
Firewood chopped and scattered.
Work to be done even in midwinter.
And winter butterflies alight on straw, but you no longer make them out.
Wisteria-like waves soon gone to sleep; the animals we keep escape from winter now.
Only the road lies white before me, perhaps a hand pointing the way to go.
The Garden
Cherries
Cherries had tumbled down the mossed stone steps.
The boy bit on the bitter taste of wisdom.
Souvenir
The spring moon lights a ghostly fan. Above the slippery stone steps. Skin beneath thin skin of ice. Bitter cherries from the tree; as wisdom fallen. The light scent here of moss. And then the splashing sound of the hot water.
Birthday
Under the flowering plum tree let me dream of far-off mornings.
The Mongolian officer I invited slips a doily secretly inside his breast coat pocket.
(Like a river disappearing in the desert.)
Now, Ammanese goldfish of mine,
Please look the other way,
Out of courtesy to our guest.
Birthday Again
I stuck a butterfly to the wall with a pin. It won't move any more. Happiness is like that.
The pet with its black ribbon on the dining table has the form a pet should have.
The water in the bottle is the bottle's shape.
And she in her chemise as her own beauty.
Call
My lacquered shoes are wafted into the sumptuous lobby of the H. Hotel, without once having to touch the ground. From the saloon of The President McKinley, in one swoop.
A deferential child appears, who just restrains himself from carrying me, and leads me to the finest suite.
Then for my sake he hangs up "Don't Disturb"; and then he says:
"A most unfortunate spring shower, sir."
"Ah yes, indeed. The pavements are quite wet."
Sunflowers Are AlreadyBlack Gunpowder
Grass seed floated in this evening's soup. One thousand islands.
The great majority of marksmen, for some unknown reason, have long, unkempt moustaches. On thinking about that it must provide "some form of resistance." (Smiles.)
Try writing "we" a number of times and it looks like children skipping. WeWeWeWeWeWeWe.
She (she being a domestic pet) has gentle creases in the corners of her eyes like Chekhov. Instead of a ribbon I shall give her a bone.
An autumn butterfly has settled on the towel I put inside the glass.
— Sunflowers are already black gunpowder.
Dice
A spring moon lights up the western ocean on my globe. Above the oysters, that most skeptical of trades has grown a scant, blue beard. I am the Reuter special correspondent.
Lisbon my cuffs were soiled.
Monte Carlo crystal dice are smudged with finger prints.
Abruptly Peking.
Tokyo under thin ice the sweet witch is already moving.
Anniversary of the Marne
"Is that man Chinese?"
"Oh, don't be such a fool."
The brother and sister cling in pleasure to each other, and then they leave the room.
A plaintive music box at last begins its song from somewhere.
(Look, children, this is your own grandfather, who died in that terrible battle of the Marne. This is your brave, your marvelous grandfather.)
Estuary
A warped moon falls once more beyond the roofs and roofs.
The young girl was imprisoned there in that dry attic, tied up on the floor with harsh manila rope. Each night a Chinese would come, not even troubling to take off his shoes, and he would take her. While violated thus she dreamed a wide full flowing river there beyond those roofs, black consolation which allowed her fragile breast some small means of endurance.
And truly it flowed there, beyond those roofs and roofs after roofs, that broad full river flooding to the sea.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Modern Japanese Prose Poem by Dennis Keene. Copyright © 1980 Princeton University Press. Excerpted by permission of PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
- FrontMatter, pg. i
- Preface, pg. v
- Contents, pg. vii
- Introduction, pg. 1
- Notes To The Introduction, pg. 55
- Bibliographical Note, pg. 57
- Miyoshi Tatsuji, pg. 59
- Anzai Fuyue, pg. 79
- Tamura Ryijichi, pg. 95
- Yoshioka Minoru, pg. 107
- Tanikawa Shuntaro, pg. 125
- Inoue Yasushi, pg. 141
- Biographies, pg. 167
- Original Titles Of The Translated Poems, pg. 182
- Index, pg. 185