My Pilgrimage
Ban’ya
Natsuishi
English translations by Ban’ya Natsuishi & James
Shea
Your breath
still like mother’s milk—
Indian rose
A song sprung out
from the lotus pond
and followed me
This fruit
is a reptile—
wind from Java
For the Balinese
who don’t know the constellations—
the stars multiply
An
infant’s
tomb
in Carthage—
rain on the sea
Here vanishes
the river—
a song of cow and cock
Father and son
riding a donkey—
cliff of red soil
Extra-thick clouds
in the sky over the Yangtze—
I’m a workaholic
In
Istanbul’s
Little New York—
a Japanese
In the archaeological zone:
dandelions-moss-rumors
Into the Colosseum
escapes a man
with a secret in his right hand
In Indian Summer
on a large rock—
rest woods and a church
From the reed marsh
New York appears
like an old UFO
Still-life is
food for our life—
rain in Paris
Staying in Paris:
my birthday commemorated by
a falling light bulb
Toward the vague
Mediterranean Sea—
flames of the mimosa
Fog settles
on every mountain ridge
in Corsica
A rosy cloud
shaped like a stick—
a child in Calais
Stars
swaying—
within the house of a fountain
a Celtic lyre
On the cliff
a spring dried up—
covered with heath
Blackberries—
a man remains
and a man returns home
For ten-thousand years,
white bones dreaming
inside a cave
A broad blaze of sunlight
takes the ocean liner
and leaves suddenly
A single steppingstone
for the spirit—
the sound of waves |