Jun Takami
(1907 –1965)
(From the “School of Trees”)
EACH STEM HAS A FLOWER
I napped
And dreamed a merry dream:
Wherever you looked,
Every tree had a blooming flower
As if each one of us
Had his own joy.
FRESH GREEN
Once,
Having looked out of the window
Into the garden,
I unexpectedly touched
The life of living things.
RUSTLE OF LEAVES
Only there,
At the top,
Leaves keep on rustling.
This rustle does not resemble wind, though.
Maybe a bird flew into the dark of foliage?
This rustle of delicate leaves without reason,
This rustle signifying absolutely nothing,
Is so appealing to my soul.
MUSHROOMS
In the rainy season,
After it had cleared up a bit,
I was visited by a poet’s wife.
She brought me “shiitake” mushrooms,
Wrapped in paper.
A poet’s wife resembled Helene Fourment –
Rubens’ wife from his canvases –
While mushrooms were just mushrooms,
They did not resemble anything.
STILL TREE
Through the gaps of fleeting time
You see eternity.
Through the gaps in clouds –
The blue sky.
Clouds are moving,
Whereas the sky is at standstill.
So you, the tree,
Is standing firm and still.
PERFECTION
To-day,
A tree meets the scorching sun
In grandeur.
Not ever bowing its head,
Not ever losing its spirit,
It is perfect!
VEINS ON LEAVES
I was making sketches of leaves
And was struck by the beauty of their veins.
I wished I could draw their beauty accurately,
And was lost in work for many hours.
Yet the veins of leaves,
Copied so meticulously,
Looked ugly.
I was ten then, and seems, it was so long ago…
Over thirty years have passed since that day.
Now I am struck once again by the beauty
Of leaves ,
Struck by the swiftness and brevity
of thirty years or more of my living.
In wonder, I examine the veins on the leaves,
And involuntarily recall all the ugliness of
thirty years or more of my living,
So closely resembling that childish ugly sketch.
PATIENCE
Take my patience for yourself,
A tree on a cliff!
Give me, instead, your patience,
Which is not aware of itself.
TREES AT NIGHT
Late at night,
The trees are getting prepared to leave.
In secret conspiracy,
Very slowly, they are getting prepared to leave.
Nearly every day, they are getting prepared to leave,
While their roots are protruding further into the soil.
Where do they go?
They don’t know, they don’t care to know.
To leave – their lifelong desire.
That is why, tonight, the trees are getting prepared to leave,
Secretly, with trembling hands,
They are getting prepared to leave.
THE PENCIL
The pencil is sad…
He never parted me,
A pencil that wrote all of my poems,
Has been totally erased.
O pencil,
You have erased your body for me!
You haven’t even heard the words of gratitude
Before death.
O my wholehearted pencil!
How I wish I could be like you!
A PLUM TREE
In the garden, where
Snow has not melted yet,
On a half-dried plum tree,
The buds have swollen.
O this intensive work
Of an old body,
ONCE IT IS ALIVE!
This persevering plum tree
Now, despite winter,
Is striving to show the beauty that
Has been silently accumulated in this
Stern and frozen world.
DURER AND TREES
I.
The accuracy of Durer’s sketches
Is very similar to the accuracy of trees.
II.
The tree, just like Durer, with habitual accuracy,
Draws a line across the sky.
Bravely, severely, flawlessly,
It exerts the right amount of effort
To create a beauty without deceit.
III.
At twilight, the tree silhouette is perfect;
Like nature itself;
And like a Durer’s sketch,
It is full of real life.
THE TREE
I.
Withering, -
It lives.
Living, -
It withers.
Courageous life
For the sake of rich withering.
II.
Leaves – soft.
Branches – hard.
On hard branches,
Soft leaves are being born.
III.
Each year, they lose their creations,
And again, each year compels them
To furious growth.
IV
Leaves and branches – open to view,
Whereas roots - crucial for living –
hidden in the ground.
LIGHT
I.
Quiet, soft midday.
Light forgives everything and every one.
II.
My eyes are now blank. -
They do not see anything.
But light penetrates even blankness.
III.
How beautiful, in spring twilight, the asphalt road,
Washed by rain !
This steady, modest, friendly light,
This beautiful light on the road,
This trustworthy light,
Without a shadow of a brag!
Happiness – is just when you walk down the road
With your squeaking boots!
IV.
Beautiful is the daylight,
Beautiful is the power of trees,
The joy is becoming ever perfect,
In the course of life.
Only now, you became aware of it all,
You seem to be born anew.
VI.
And today, again, I feel hatred toward people.
In the bright summer day,
I see my hatred so distinctly.
Does life mean hatred?
In the dazzling light,
My hatred grieves me.
VII.
My heart is burnt by sadness.
It has become frightful of joy.
I will leave my home,
Go to a field,
And in a fragrant thick grass,
In the grass, that cannot be smeared
No matter how long you trample on it,
In a gay field, where no one hinders your running,
Where grass generously gives you fresh air,
I will bathe in the sun rays,
I will shout with all my might,
I will run alone like a madman,
And, in obsession, do physical exercises.
VIII.
In the Totsuka tunnel,
Tokyo electric train, coming from Yokosuka,
Switches on a flash light.
Me, too,
Leaving on an autumn day
For the dark deceitful city,
Must switch on a flash light,
In my own heart.
IX.
Look!
The tunnel is dark!
Dark.
But, if you manage to break through the dark,
There’s a light ahead.
X.
Light is voiceless,
Light does not call people by voice,
Light does call people by light.
I AM WEAK
I’m weak,
I cannot fight,
I cannot trap the others
In order to survive.
I’m weak,
But I’m ashamed of cutting others to survive.
I’m weak,
But I’m ashamed of claiming others’ words as mine.
I’m weak,
And I will keep my weakness to myself.
SUCH A SMILE CONFUSES ME PROFOUNDLY
Such a smile confuses me profoundly.
In a crowded electric train, from behind an unknown woman’s back,
A baby has smiled on me.
I ‘m smiling back,
But in fact, I’m ready to cry.
In this world, there are very few such smiles,
Too rarely, I am bestowed with such smiles.
Such a smile puzzles me,
Such a smile – angel’s smile,
Such a smile is too joyous,
Such a smile is hurting me.
I wish I could cry without constraint,
But I shouldn’t – the child would cry after me!
And because I’m forbidden to cry,
I am smiling and I am suffering.
Such a smile confuses me profoundly.
VOICE OF HEAVEN
Passing over my head,
A bird had said something
In a low voice.
“I understand you” -
was my reply.
Indeed, I’ve been absent-minded so far,
Always missing the voices of heaven.
WINTER
Winter cold
Either chills fingers,
Or feet.
Sadness,
Always comes straight into the heart.
CREATIVITY
What pushes and moves the clouds?
Surely, the wind.
Well, what pushes the wind, then?
Surely, something.
What makes tree give fruits?
What makes me write poems?
These gentle “somethings” do the job.
But do they differ?
This pushing something,
This gentle something,
I feel now rising
in the depth of my soul.
___________
1999, Translated by Victor Postnikov
Illustration: Van Gogh - Blossoming Almond Tree