Post by Zack on May 12, 2005 0:00:39 GMT -6
So. I've got a poem for ya'.
I'm a student of Japanese, and have fallen in love with what little of the language I know; this poem was partially inspired by it, although it's more an amalgamation of many plentiful personal pleasures than any one thing in particular.
Enjoy!
Wanderlust and the Monsoon Season
Japanese is like jazz. Carefully choreographed and completely complex,
but with room to improvise.
Its black, flowing calligraphical strokes reek of rain, so that the dark ink of reason
smells like liquid thunderhead-shadow sweeping across fields of rice paper.
And for every Tanaka in Tokyo, every Miko in Machida,
there is a carefully planned-out procedure for putting brilliant black to surface lines,
in order to symbolize them.
A sentimental part of my brush screams,
“Give me one of those names!”<br>But society would crumble if I had one.
For each Japanese name is a block in an elaborate, sturdy pyramid,
as listless to fall as a Jenga tower,
and if an outsider were to gain one of those monikers by his own brush,
each house in Hokkaido, every shop in Shikoku,
would instantly separate, fall, and crumple, leaving only piles of debris.
But Japan and its language are no less enticing,
and the joy brought on by the sight and smell of a dark Japanese winter
is something I yearn to experience.
So, someday, I’ll step outside, on a thick, windy evening
and take to the skies with my desires!
I’ll soar across the Pacific, with my wings of heady notions,
and land, feeling the rich concrete beneath me in Kyoto,
smelling an air touched simultaneously by industry and ancientness,
hearing the hustle and bustle of a different sort of city,
catching sight of a new experience, and—<br>if I’m lucky—tasting an oncoming rainstorm.
“I feel at home there,” some say,
but it is precisely this sensation I am trying to avoid.
In my limitless excitement, I feel no homesickness when in new surroundings;
my restless itchy feet take its place.
I feel I must keep walking ‘till I reach the top and the bottom.
A street glistens, reflecting plummeting, coagulating droplets of water,
and the sharp rattle of rainfall can be heard down to my soul, beckoning.
After all, tonari no shibafu wa aoi—<br>the grass is always greener on the other side.
Monsoons only make it longer.
I'm a student of Japanese, and have fallen in love with what little of the language I know; this poem was partially inspired by it, although it's more an amalgamation of many plentiful personal pleasures than any one thing in particular.
Enjoy!
Wanderlust and the Monsoon Season
Japanese is like jazz. Carefully choreographed and completely complex,
but with room to improvise.
Its black, flowing calligraphical strokes reek of rain, so that the dark ink of reason
smells like liquid thunderhead-shadow sweeping across fields of rice paper.
And for every Tanaka in Tokyo, every Miko in Machida,
there is a carefully planned-out procedure for putting brilliant black to surface lines,
in order to symbolize them.
A sentimental part of my brush screams,
“Give me one of those names!”<br>But society would crumble if I had one.
For each Japanese name is a block in an elaborate, sturdy pyramid,
as listless to fall as a Jenga tower,
and if an outsider were to gain one of those monikers by his own brush,
each house in Hokkaido, every shop in Shikoku,
would instantly separate, fall, and crumple, leaving only piles of debris.
But Japan and its language are no less enticing,
and the joy brought on by the sight and smell of a dark Japanese winter
is something I yearn to experience.
So, someday, I’ll step outside, on a thick, windy evening
and take to the skies with my desires!
I’ll soar across the Pacific, with my wings of heady notions,
and land, feeling the rich concrete beneath me in Kyoto,
smelling an air touched simultaneously by industry and ancientness,
hearing the hustle and bustle of a different sort of city,
catching sight of a new experience, and—<br>if I’m lucky—tasting an oncoming rainstorm.
“I feel at home there,” some say,
but it is precisely this sensation I am trying to avoid.
In my limitless excitement, I feel no homesickness when in new surroundings;
my restless itchy feet take its place.
I feel I must keep walking ‘till I reach the top and the bottom.
A street glistens, reflecting plummeting, coagulating droplets of water,
and the sharp rattle of rainfall can be heard down to my soul, beckoning.
After all, tonari no shibafu wa aoi—<br>the grass is always greener on the other side.
Monsoons only make it longer.
Great job.
