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My Sovereignty

自由的精神就是对自己是否正确不是很有把握的精神。——哈耶克

 
 
 

日志

 
 

Kobayashi Issa(1763-1827)  

2013-05-05 10:51:57|  分类: 默认分类 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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His death poem:

 

A bath when you're born,

a bath when you die,

how stupid.

 

In this world

we walk on the roof of hell,

gazing at flowers.

 

 

With my father

I would watch dawn

over green fields.

 

 

That pretty girl--

munching and rustling

the wrapped-up rice cake.

 

 

Pissing in the snow

outside my door--

it makes a very straight hole.

 

 

Even on the smallest islands,

they are tilling the fields,

skylarks singing.

 

 

Don't worry, spiders,

I keep house

casually.

 

 

I'm going out by Kobayashi Issa

I'm going out,

flies, so relax,

make love.

 

 

Summer night--

even the stars

are whispering to each other.

 

 

In spring rain

a pretty girl

yawning.

 

 

Writing shit about new snow

for the rich

is not art.

 

 

A huge frog and I,

staring at each other,

neither of us moves.

 

 

Last time, I think,

I'll brush the flies

from my father's face.

 

 

Don't know about the people,

but all the scarecrows

are crooked.

 

 

Blossoms at night,

and the faces of people

moved by music.

 

 

How much

are you enjying yourself,

tiger moth?

 

 

Seen

through a telescope:

ten cents worth of fog.

 

 

A cuckoo sings

to me, to the mountain,

to me, to the mountain.

 

 

Ducks bobbing on the water--

are they also, tonight,

hoping to get lucky?

 

 

It once happened

that a child was spared punishment

through earnest solicitation.

 

 

All the time I pray to Buddha

I keep on

killing mosquitoes.

 

 

The crow

walks along there

as if it were tilling the field.

 

 

Windy fall by Kobayashi Issa

At my daughter's grave, thirty days

after her death:

 

 

Windy fall--

these are the scarlet flowers

she liked to pick.

 

 

New Year's morning:

the ducks on the pond

quack and quack.

 

New Year's Day--

everything is in blossom!

I feel about average.

 

 

The moon tonight--

I even miss

her grumbling.

 

 

Asked how old he was,

the boy in the new kimono

stretched out all five fingers.

 

 

The man pulling radishes

pointed my way

with a radish.

 

 

The snow is melting

and the village is flooded

with children.

 

 

Having slept, the cat gets up,

yawns, goes out

to make love.

 

 

Face of the spring moon--

about twelve years old,

I'd say.

 

 

Hey, sparrow!

out of the way,

Horse is coming.

 

 

What a strange thing!

to be alive

beneath cherry blossoms.

 

 

These sea slugs,

they just don't seem

Japanese.

 

 

Not knowing

it's a tub they're in

the fish cooling at the gate.

 

 

Napping at midday

I hear the song of rice planters

and feel ashamed of myself.

 

 

Even with insects--

some can sing,

some can't.

 

 

No doubt about it,

the mountain cuckoo

is a crybaby.

 

Children imitating cormorants

are even more wonderful

than cormorants.

 

 

This moth saw brightness

in a woman's chamber--

burnt to a crisp.

 

 

Under the image of Buddha

all these spring flowers

seem a little tiresome.

 

 

In these latter-day,

Degenerate times,

Cherry-blossoms everywhere!

 

 

Under my house

an inchworm

measuring the joists.

 

 

Visiting the graves,

the old dog

leads the way.

 

 

Not very anxious

to bloom,

my plum tree.

 

Napped half the day;

no one

punished me!

 

 

The pheasant cries

as if it just noticed

the mountain.

 

 

The toad! It looks like

it could belch

a cloud.

 

 

In the thicket's shade

a woman by herself

singing the rice-planting song.

 

 

That wren--

looking here, looking there.

You lose something? 

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