Otomo No Sakanoue No Iratsume Translation

To a Daughter More Precious than Gems by Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume loose translation by Michael R. Burch Heaven's cold dew has fallen— and thus another season arrives. Oh, my child living so far away, do you pine for me as I do for you? I have trusted my jewel to the gem-guard; now there's nothing to do, my pillow, but for the two of us to sleep together! I cherished you, my darling, as the Sea God his treasury's pearls. But you are pledged to your husband (such is the way of the world) and torn away from me like a blossom. I left you for faraway Koshi; since then your lovely eyebrows curving like distant waves ever linger in my eyes. My heart is as unsteady as a rocking boat; besieged by such longing I weaken with age and come close to breaking. If I could have prophesied such longing, I would have stayed with you, gazing on you constantly as into a shining mirror. I gaze out over the fields of Tadaka seeing the cranes that cry there incessantly: such is my longing for you. Oh my child, who loved me so helplessly like bird hovering over shallow river rapids! Dear child, my daughter, who stood sadly pensive by the gate, even though I was leaving for a friendly estate, I think of you day and night and my body has become thin, my sleeves tear-stained with weeping. If I must long for you so wretchedly, how can I remain these many months here at this dismal old farm? Because you ache for me so intently, your sad thoughts all confused like the disheveled tangles of your morning hair, I see you, dear child, in my dreams. Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume (c. 700-750) was an important ancient Japanese poet. She had 79 poems in Manyoshu ("Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves"), the first major anthology of classical Japanese poetry, mostly waka. The compiler of the anthology was Otomo no Yakamochi. Lady Otomo was his aunt, tutor and poetic mentor. In the first stanza, Lady Otomo has left her children in Nara, possibly to visit her brother. In the second stanza, the jewel is her daughter, who has been trusted her husband's care. As for the closing stanza, it was popularly believed that a person would appear in the dreams of the one for whom he/she yearned. Keywords: Mother, Mothers, Daughter, Daughters, Girl, Girls, Japan, Japanese, Translation, Waka, Tanka, Haiku, Pine, Pining, Long, Longing, Desire, Affection, Closeness, Distance, Husband, Husbands Passionate One by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love of my life, light of my morning— arise, brightly dawning, for you are my sun. Give me of heaven both manna and leaven— desirous Presence, Passionate One. Stay With Me Tonight by Michael R. Burch Stay with me tonight; be gentle with me as the leaves are gentle falling to the earth. And whisper, O my love, how that every bright thing, though scattered afar, retains yet its worth. Stay with me tonight; be as a petal long-awaited blooming in my hand. Lift your face to mine and touch me with your lips till I feel the warm benevolence of your breath’s heady fragrance like wine. That which we had when pale and waning as the dying moon at dawn, outshone the sun. And so lead me back tonight through bright waterfalls of light to where we shine as one. Sunset by Michael R. Burch for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Between the prophecies of morning and twilight’s revelations of wonder, the sky is ripped asunder. The moon lurks in the clouds, waiting, as if to plunder the dusk of its lilac iridescence, and in the bright-tentacled sunset we imagine a presence full of the fury of lost innocence. What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame, brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim, we recognize at once, but cannot name. Talent by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Roberts I liked the first passage of her poem—where it led (though not nearly enough to retract what I said.) Now the book propped up here flutters, scarcely half read. It will keep. Before sleep, let me read yours instead. There's something like love in the rhythms of night —in the throb of streets where the late workers drone, in the sounds that attend each day’s sad, squalid end— that reminds us: till death we are never alone. So we write from the hearts that will fail us anon, words in red truly bled though they cannot reveal whence they came, who they're for. And the tap at the door goes unanswered. We write, for there is nothing more than a verse, than a song, than this chant of the blessed: "If these words be my sins, let me die unconfessed! Unconfessed, unrepentant; I rescind all my vows!" Write till sleep: it’s the leap only Talent allows. The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme ... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Roses for a Lover, Idealized by Michael R. Burch When you have become to me as roses bloom, in memory, exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot, will I recall—yours made me bleed? When winter makes me think of you, whorls petrified in frozen dew, bright promises blithe spring forgot, will I recall your words—barbed, cruel? Hearthside by Michael R. Burch For all that we professed of love, we knew this night would come, that we would bend alone to tend wan fires’ dimming bars—the moan of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew an eerie presence on encrusted logs we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves. The books that line these close, familiar shelves loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs, too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park, as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss. I do not know the words for easy bliss and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark, long-unenamored pen and will it: Move. I loved you more than words, so let words prove.