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Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
HAIKU
Lacquer Prints (1913-1919)
Circumstance
Upon the maple leaves
The dew shines red,
But on the lotus blossom
It has the pale transparence of tears.
VicariousWhen I stand under the willow-tree
Above the river,
In my straw-coloured silken garment
Embroidered with purple chrysanthemums,
It is not at the bright water
That I am gazing,
But at your portrait,
Which I have caused to be painted
On my fan.
Near KiotoAs I crossed over the bridge of Ariwarano Narikira,
I saw that the waters were purple
With the floating leaves of maple.
Yoshiwara LamentGolden peacocks
Under blossoming cherry-trees,
But on all the wide sea
There is no boat.
A Year PassesBeyond the porcelain fence of the pleasure garden,
I hear the frogs in the blue-green rice-fields;
But the sword-shaped moon
Has cut my heart in two.
AutumnAll day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall,
But each leaf is fringed with silver.
The Emperors GardenOnce, in the sultry heats of Midsummer,
An Emperor caused the miniature mountains in his garden
To be covered with white silk,
That so crowned
They might cool his eyes
With the sparkle of snow.
One of the Hundred Views of Fuji by HokusaiBeing thirsty,
I filled a cup with water,
And, behold! Fuji-yama lay upon the water
like a dropped leaf!
NuanceEven the iris bends
When a butterfly lights upon it.
Nuit BlancheThe chirping of crickets in the night
Is intermittent,
Like the twinkling of stars.
Spring DawnHe wore a coat
With gold and red maple leaves,
He was girt with the two swords,
He carried a peony lantern.
When I awoke,
There was only the blue shadow of the plum-tree
Upon the shôji.
Again the New Year FestivalI have drunk your health
In the red-lacquer wine cups,
But the wind-bells on the bronze lanterns
In my garden
Are corroded and fallen.
The Kagoes of a Returning TravellerDiagonally between the cryptomerias,
What I took for the flapping of wings
Was the beating feet of your runners,
O my Lord!
Outside a GateOn the floor of the empty palanquin
The plum petals constantly increase.
Road to the YoshiwaraComing to you along the Nihon Embankment
Suddenly the road was darkened
By a flock of wild geese
Crossing the moon.
A Daimyos OiranWhen I hear your runners shouting:
Get down! Get down!
Then I dress my hair
With the little chrysanthemums.
ConstancyAlthough so many years,
Still the vows we made each other
Remain tied to the great trunk
Of the seven separate trees
In the courtyard of the Crimson Temple
At Nara.
Autumn HazeIs it a dragon fly or maple leaf
That settles softly down upon the water?
Lowells
Lacquer Prints began appearing in journals as early as 1912, and appeared
together, in increasingly larger numbers, in the March 1917 Poetry, Some
Imagist Poets, Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1917, and Pictures of the Floating
World, New York: Macmillan, 1919. Reprint, Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1927.
http://themargins.net/anth/1910-1919/lowelllacquer.html
Twenty-Four
Hokku on a Modern Theme
I
Again the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.
II
Have I hurt you?
You look at me with pale eyes,
But these are
my tears.
III
Morning and evening
Yet for us once long ago
Was no division.
IV
I hear many words.
Set an hour when I may come
Or remain silent.
V
In the ghostly
dawn
I write new words for your ears
Even now you sleep.
VI
This then is morning.
Have you no comfort for me
Cold-coloured
flowers?
VII
My eyes are weary
Following you everywhere.
Short, oh short, the
days!
VIII
When the flower falls
The leaf is no more cherished.
Every day
I fear.
IX
Even when you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.
X
Laugh it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch
with grieved eyes.
XI
Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers
are safe.
XII
As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.
XIII
Watching
the iris,
The faint and fragile petals
How am I worthy?
XIV
Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you so brave?
XV
Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I
alone.
XVI
Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue
jays.
XVII
Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its coloured leaves
But before
they turn?
XVIII
Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this
not enough?
XIX
Love is a game yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows
and stars.
XX
When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!
XXI
Turning
from the page,
Blind with a night of labour,
I hear morning crows.
XXII
A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see
clearly?
XXIII
Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait,
perhaps?
XXIV
Staying in my room,
I thought of the new Spring leaves.
That
day was happy.
Twenty-Four
Hokku on a Modern Theme appeared first in Poetry 18 (June 1921):
124-27., and was reprinted in the posthumous Whats Oclock,
Edited by Ada Dwyer Russell. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1925.
This book was awarded the Pulitzer Price in 1926, a year after her death.
The Anniversary
Ten
years is nothing,
Yet I do not remember
What happened before.
Morning
flings shadows,
But midday is shadowless.
So I have found it.
I
have no flowers,
Yet I give you these roses.
Humor my pretence.
Have
I satisfied?
Who can be sure of himself.
Touch me with your love.
Knowing
my weakness,
Spread your hands above my head.
See only your hands.
Watching
you daily,
I dare not think what I see.
It is better so.
Since
I am only
What you may consider me,
Have merciful thoughts.
Shield
me from myself.
At times I have wounded you.
I do not forget.
Take
what I give you.
Foolishness is in my words,
But not in my heart.
Cease
urging your ears,
My speach has little for them.
Hearken otherwise.
You
wrong me, saying:
One death will not kill us both.
Your veins hold my
sap.
Keep
in remembrance:
Peonies do not blossom
Till Spring is over.
You prefer Spring? Why?
A season's length of hours
Incalculable.
Days
and days what then?
Is not recurrence a smile
On the face of age?
Now,
in the pale dawn,
How strange to consider time.
What is it to us?
Grains
of rice counted
Can any one so spend life?
Be spacious and wise.
The
bowl is still full.
We will not be niggardly.
Plunge in both your hands.
I
have known terror.
I swear to know it no more,
Each day a new dawn.
Youth
is incautious.
Wisdom learns to tread softly,
Valuing moments.
Cherish
what is,
The wise man sees it depart
Without emotion.
Time
is rhetoric.
A mad logician's plaything.
O pitiful world!
Listen
to the wind;
Man has not learnt to measure
The wind of his thoughts.
Blowing
assunder,
Yet we shall be as the air
Still undivided.
Sleep
until day-spring.
With morning we start again,
Another ten years.
Amy Lowell. Whats Oclock, Edited by Ada Dwyer Russell. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1925.
Proportion
In
the sky there is a moon and stars,
And
in my garden there are yellow moths
Fluttering
about a white azalea bush
Amy Lowell. A Book of Women Poets from Antiquity to Now. Edited by Aliki Barnstone & Willis Barnstone. New York, New York: Schocken Books, 1980.
Carrefour
O
you,
Who
came upon me once
Stretched
under apple-trees just after bathing
Why
did you not strangle me before speaking
Rather
than fill me with the wil white honey of your words
And
then leave me to the mercy
Of
the forest bees?
Amy Lowell. A Book of Women Poets from Antiquity to Now. Edited by Aliki Barnstone & Willis Barnstone. New York, New York: Schocken Books, 1980.
Wind and Silver
Greatly
shining,
The
Autumn moon floats in the thin sky;
And
the fish-ponds shake their backs and flash their dragon scales
As
she passes over them.
Amy Lowell. A Book of Women Poets from Antiquity to Now. Edited by Aliki Barnstone & Willis Barnstone. New York, New York: Schocken Books, 1980.
The Fisherman's Wife
When
I am alone,
The
wind in the pine-trees
Is
like the shuffling of waves
Upon
the wooden sides of a boat.
Amy Lowell. A Book of Women Poets from Antiquity to Now. Edited by Aliki Barnstone & Willis Barnstone. New York, New York: Schocken Books, 1980.
Prime
Your
voice is like bells over roofs at dawn
When a bird flies
And the sky changes
to a fresher colour.
Speak,
speak, Beloved.
Say little things
For my ears to catch
And run with
them to my heart.
Vespers
Last
night, at sunset,
The foxgloves were like tall altar candles.
Could I
have lifted you to the roof of the greenhouse,
my Dear,
I should have
understood their burning.
Middle Age
Like
black ice
Scrolled over with unintelligible patterns
by an ignorant skater
Is
the dulled surface of my heart.