Tanka by Hisashi Nakamura

 

 

 

 

The weak winter rays

Embrace the naked branches

Of the silver birch.

Soon the trembling silhouette

Sinks into the silent dusk.

 

 

 

 

The limpid church bells

Melt into the empty sky

Without an echo.

A lone white bird disappears

Against the pale winter clouds.

 

 

 

 

The gleam and whisper

Of windflowers in the shade

Are long gone by now.

The naked woods stand mutely

Against the whirling snow flakes.

 

 

 

 

On the icebound lake

The freezing mist swirls around

Under the starlight.

Who’s playing those frosty notes

Deep in the winter forest?

 

 

 

 

Ravaged by the storm

The snowdrops have not lived long

By the garden hedge,

Vanished like melting snowflakes

On winter’s down drooping nape.

 

 

 

 

Deep in the forest

Who is playing a nocturne

In the winter night?

The plaintive notes fall sadly

From the freezing starry sky.

 

 

 

 

The huge evening sun

Lies low on the horizon

On midwinter day.

Its ominous red presence

Shoots my soul in the back.

 

 

 

 

Deep in the mountain

A snowflake falls from the tip

Of a bamboo leaf,

Touched by a spear of moonlight

In the stillness of midnight.

 

 

 

 

Memories entwined

In the swaying bamboo grove

At a winter inn.

The sake cup moon is blurred

Touched by a melting snowflake.

 

 

 

 

The dewy moonlight

Sinks into the lucid blue

Of the cold snow fields.

The bamboo shadows tremble

As the temple bell lingers.

 

 

 

 

Their life-long struggle,

Their marching and their banners,

Have left no echo,

Like the wind in the bamboos

In a frosty winter dawn.

 

 

 

 

In the piercing wind

An old icicle breaks off.

The still morning brings

Black figures against the snow

Under the blank blue heaven.

 

 

 

 

A calm winter dawn:

As the morning glow flames up

Against silky clouds

My soul is put on the cross

Of an oak tree silhouette.

 

 

 

 

Through the silent mist

The pale winter moon appears

Over the stone sill.

As the candlelight flares, look!

The faintly flushed cyclamen.

 

 

 

 

Bright sparks on the leaves

Of dead winter beech hedges

In the melting frost:

Solemn sunrays hold back time

Lost in a sea of amber.

 

 

 

 

As the fresh needles

Of the northern larch forest

Sift the cold moonlight,

A shadowy harp is touched

In the gently rising mist.

 

 

 

 

The dry sand falls through

My mutely listless fingers,

Gone without a trace.

My shadow escapes from me,

Lost under the scorching sun.

 

 

 

 

Choked by waves of heat

The dunes writhe in agony

Under the blank sky.

The scorching white sun stands still

Gazing at me in silence.

 

 

 

 

Below the rock face

Under the midsummer sun

A black shadow lies.

As the silence sinks in

Sorrow oozes from the rock.

 

 

 

 

Hanging from the bows

Of an old rusty vessel

Tied to the pier

The black shadow of a cross

Falls on the neon red sea.

 

 

 

 

Stifled by the air

Laden with the rusty dust

Of the passing years

The dead cranes in the shipyard

Idly dangle their cables.

 

 

 

 

Left on a pontoon

Without a destination

The cargo remains.

Seagulls circle insanely

Screaming in the lurid dusk.

 

 

 

 

They say no, no, no,

Trembling in the piercing breeze

Under wintry light.

In the shadows of gravestones

Snowdrops come year after year.

 

 

 

Floating in the warmth

Of the autumn afternoon

Red dragonflies drift

Through a sea of tender light

And on into the shadows.

 

 

 

 

A breathing faint light

In the innocent palms

Of a little girl;

In the surrounding darkness

She holds a captured firefly.

 

 

 

 

The silent forest

Is whitened in the spring dusk

By the passing rain.

Sifted through the fresh needles

Breezes pass through the larch trees.

 

 

 

 

In the warm stillness

Of an early autumn day

Apples turn to gold

As the gentle breeze brings home

The russet end of summer.