At Fifty, Basho, This Poem Is For You Poem by Dennis Ryan

November 2001; line rearrangement on Tuesday, October 21,2014 at 11: 50 a.m.

"On the second day of the new year I will get up early
to give welcome to the floral spring."
- Basho, from Oku No Hoso Michi (The Narrow Road to the Deep Interior)

I can hear the sounds of mourning birds, trowels digging
wild potatoes; see tears in the fishes' eyes, and the glinting
point of a fisherman's arrow; that bare branch, still;
the smell of autumn across the brim of your cedar-strip hat;

and plum blossoms along the mountain trail; the taste of
salt spray at Narumi; the horseradish that burns again and again.
At fifty, you rubbed moxa on your road-weary legs, and began
your last journey; and I sense you seeping deep down into me.

Am I that shrill insect sound that penetrates the rock?The pine?
The bamboo?Sabishisa... 寂しさ Thank you for helping unlock
the who knows who knows what.I look for younow among
the rocks, roots, and groundswells, expect to findyou there...

Shall we see the like of you again?The tinesof the deer
whisper "no" from the deep forest glen, andsturdy clams
fall apart at the thought of losing you.We all come home
at the New Year to celebrate as youhave written, yet weep

to find our umbilical cords nestled in the doorways of our
fathers' houses, and despite such surprises, what else might
we expect?Despite our best intentions, we wanderthrough
our dreams to chance upon the brightly-colored bird of history,

eyes alert, looking at us across the open field.How deal then
with time, history?I think of how Yoshitsune had looked down
into the valley from the mountaintop where he had hung his war
gong; how there followed theterrific onslaught, the headlong escape

of the young emperor, his mother, and grandmother carrying him
to the waiting boat at sea; how many things of value must have been
lost there, thrown overboard, been dropped in the sand during their flight;
how that final betrayal followed—how all this has been washed ashore,
forgotten after a thousand years, save by the memory of the breaking sea.