there is one who shines
beneath this high halo
beneath this golden glow
of incandescent bistro bulb
it is a holiness lent by light
a heaven-sent hagiographic theft
that is accepted by the dead one
he who comes to life beneath
not so cold to the eyes around
now less corpse, more confidente
and open to confessional whispers
a beautiful illumination
not drawn
but
drawn by a distant artist

rise like steam
from sewer to cold sky
it is from hot despair
to cutting cold clarity
that lift can be grasped
how great are your black wings
to contain the escape
of an ugly updraft
from the deep old earth
sighing to the highest heaven
follow it like the last exhale
into the winter wind
to become pure at last
falling to paint the muddy graven ground in white

once i had no box
just a wide, wide
and i could walk
past the edge of all things
the great sharp white edge
that bled blue and kept on
but experience breeds walls
define yourself
what are you?
make your box fit tight
six foot by three
but from inside
i cannot see horizon
best to burn those walls

My book of Miyazawa’s poetry arrived today and I love it. I will share a sample but must set the context. Miyazawa died at the age of 37 having suffered from pleurisy (a lung disease) his entire life. In light of this and the fact that he was relatively unknown until after he died I find the following poem intensely poignant.

Night

So far for two hours
the blood from my throat hasn’t stopped.
Outside people walk no longer,
trees quietly breathing and budding this spring night.
This very place is the training ground of spring, the bodhisattva
     has abandoned a billion of his bodies,
various buddhas live here in nirvana, and so
tonight, now, here, seen by no one,
I can die alone –
I’ve decided on this thought many times,
I have told it to myself,
but again lukewarm
new blood wells up and
once again pale-white I become frightened.