It was a funeral
and I felt that the dead man
was reading my thoughts
better than I could.
The organ was silent, the birds sang.
The grave out in the sunshine.
My friend’s voice belonged
on the far side of the minutes.
I drove home seen-through
by the glitter of the summer day
by rain and quietness
seen-through by the moon.
translated by Robin Fulton
Once there was a shock
which left behind a long pale glimmering comet’s tail.
It contains us. It makes TV pictures blurred.
It deposits itself as cold drops on the aerials.
You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun
among groves where last year’s leaves still hang.
They are like pages torn from old telephone directories–
the subscribers’ names are eaten up by the cold.
It is still beautiful to feel your heart throbbing.
But often the shadow feels more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armour of black dragon scales.
translated by Robin Fulton
Love me
but do not come too near
leave room for love
to laugh at its happiness
always let some of my blond hair
be free
translated by Nadia Christensen
The riddle silently sees its image. It spins evening
among the motionless reeds.
There is a frailty no one notices
there, in the web of grass.
Silent cattle stare with green eyes.
They mosey in evening calm down to the water.
And the lake holds its immense spoon
up to all the mouths.
translated by Robert Bly
Winterspring, nightfall, thawing.
Boys have lit a candle in a snowball house.
For the man in the evening train that rattles past,
it is a red memory surrounded by gray time,
calling, calling, out of stark woods just waking up.
And the man who is traveling never got home,
his life stayed behind, held by that lantern and that hour.
translated by Robert Bly
We met on the stone bridge,
the birches stood watch for us,
the river gleaming like an eel wound toward the sea.
We twisted together in order to create God,
there was a rustling in the grain,
and a wave shot out of the rye.
translated by Robert Bly
Love me
but do not come too near
leave room for love
to laugh at its happiness
always let some of my blond hair
be free
translated by Nadia Christensen
I feel your steps in the hall
I feel in every nerve your hurried steps
that go unnoticed otherwise.
A wind of fire sweeps around me.
I feel your steps, your beloved steps,
and my heart aches.
Though you pace far down the hall
the air surges with your steps
and sings like the sea.
I listen, prisoned in gnawing restraint.
My hungry pulse beats to the rhythm of your rhythm,
to the tempo of your gait.
translated by Nadia Christensen
A freshness lives deep in me
which no one can take from me
not even I myself–
translated by Robert Bly
The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
“I am not empty, I am open.”
translated by Robert Bly
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 