All Poems
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Ploughing the land--
not even a bird singing
in the mountain's shadow.
The behavior of the pigeon
is beyond reproach,
but the mountain cuckoo?
Buying leeks
and walking home
under the bare trees.
His Holiness the Abbot
is shitting
in the withered fields.
Washing the hoe--
ripples on the water;
far off, wild ducks.
They end their flight
one by one---
crows at dusk.
Sparrow singing--
its tiny mouth
open.
Blown from the west,
fallen leaves gather
in the east.
The willow leaves fallen,
the spring gone dry,
rocks here and there.
Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
the moon seals it.
Old well,
a fish leaps--
dark sound.
The spring sea rising
and falling, rising
and falling all day.
Evening wind:
water laps
the heron's legs.
My arm for a pillow,
I really like myself
under the hazy moon.
The end of spring--
the poet is brooding
about editors.
He's on the porch,
to escape the wife and kids--
how hot it is!
Not quite dark yet
and the stars shining
above the withered fields.
Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
a moment.
The old man
cutting barley--
bent like a sickle.
Listening to the moon,
gazing at the croaking of frogs
in a field of ripe rice.
