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Three Poems

Three Poems A Y U K A W A N O B U O man on t he b ridge (1942 ) Man on the bridge resting your elbows on the high parapet casting a shadow in the clear sky. The weeping trees, or black stream flowing far beneath the endless roofs of the town made of stone do you really feel the prow desperately advancing, plowing through heavy stagnant time striking at vanity with its oars? Man on the bridge watching the fireworks you came to the far bridge to look down on the image of yourself-- abandoning the abominable wall sighs flickering on useless paper. Turning away birds fatigued by artificiality to their late gloomy branches on the faraway bridge you look up at the fireworks of midday. Man on the bridge with a parched spirit, in the quiet ebb and flow of the sleeping wave the faces of mother, father friends, too, are wavering. Is there much deeper toil than this smooth cave? Even if the pure green calls to you from the grave mound, the surface of the water refuses to move. Man on the bridge who is dreaming-- the day when this mud-soiled stream will http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

Three Poems

Ayukawa, Nobuo
Manoa , Volume 13 (1) – Jan 4, 2001
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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2001 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
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Abstract

A Y U K A W A N O B U O man on t he b ridge (1942 ) Man on the bridge resting your elbows on the high parapet casting a shadow in the clear sky. The weeping trees, or black stream flowing far beneath the endless roofs of the town made of stone do you really feel the prow desperately advancing, plowing through heavy stagnant time striking at vanity with its oars? Man on the bridge watching the fireworks you came to the far bridge to look down on the image of yourself-- abandoning the abominable wall sighs flickering on useless paper. Turning away birds fatigued by artificiality to their late gloomy branches on the faraway bridge you look up at the fireworks of midday. Man on the bridge with a parched spirit, in the quiet ebb and flow of the sleeping wave the faces of mother, father friends, too, are wavering. Is there much deeper toil than this smooth cave? Even if the pure green calls to you from the grave mound, the surface of the water refuses to move. Man on the bridge who is dreaming-- the day when this mud-soiled stream will

Journal

Manoa – University of Hawai'I Press

Published: Jan 4, 2001

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