Bashō I

Old man in the middle of reeds suspicion of the poet.

He goes his way to the North he composes a book with his eyes.

He writes himself on the water he has lost his master.

Love only in the things cut out of clouds and winds.

This is his calling to visit friends as a farewell.

To gather skulls and lips under swaying skies.

Always the eye’s kiss translated into the fit of words.

Seventeen the holy number in which the apparition is sealed.

Time consumed by a butterfly frozen in stone,

In a tide of marble the sheen of cut fossils.

Here the poet passed on his way to the North.

Here the poet passes forever once.

– Cees Nooteboom

The Captain of the Butterflies

Sun & Moon Press, 1997

Advertisements
  1. No trackbacks yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: