Takashi Hiraide

 

from FOR THE FIGHTING SPIRIT OF THE WALNUT

translated from Japanese by Sawako Nakayasu

 

20

23

29

30

32

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

20.

 

The rounded back of that lonesome wrecking professional, I wonder if it isnÕt there, the true identity of a line of poetry. Hiding his true face further within the dust that sprays back like an enemyÕs blood, enjoying the intensifying, post-destruction sunshine as if the damage were his own – the narrow back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

23.

 

ŌBECAUSE ALL THEORIES ARE IMPLICATIONS SLIGHTLY TOO LARGE FOR THEIR SUBSTANCE, THEY SHOULD, WITH NEITHER REJECTION NOR ENCOURAGEMENT, BE RUBBED WITH CARE AND SINCERITY, SPAT UPON AS THE TRANSFERRED IMAGE SPAT OUT BY--THE WAYSIDE IN BYGONE DAYS. IN THIS WAY, THY LOST, SOFT SKIN, RATHER THAN THE DRAWING, COMES TO BE DRAWN IN THIS MOVEMENT OF THE RUBBING FINGERS. SUBSEQUENTLY IT IS TO BE HIT BY A STONE, DRIED BY THE SUN, AND IF THOU SHOULDST SCRAPE AT IT ROUGHLY WITH--SHARPENED FINGERNAILS OR A HIGONOKAMI KNIFE, EVEN THE DUST OF IMPLICATION SHALL APPEAR TO DANCE A--SMALL TEMPEST—AND THAT IS AN ESPECIALLY JOYFUL THING

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

29.

 

The swirling has started after all. Just look at that keel tip, wavering at the directive approaching from up ahead. Just try looking through that empty memory of yours. Tied together, the bells which report their whereabouts dance, and between these dancing bells, look, the swirling has started after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

30.

 

The blood plasma seeping into the pavement. Sturdy arms that squeeze tight. The murky light of the city quietly pins me down, thrashes me, breaks me apart. I am a construction site in July, spreading upon a hazy brow. I lash out. Into the rumpled interval of sun. At the someone in the center. Tears belonging to no one well up, and wash, as if hitting, the pit of my stomach, sunken into the pavement.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

32.

 

Why not use your fluttering tongue to wipe the sweat off of that starling who is trying to strip off her wings. ItÕs so distant of you, my arboreal lover on the outskirts of town. From the shadow of the clothes hanging in a thrift shop, a single antelope watches you. Steel-colored eyes of contempt.