Relax. This won't last long.

Or if it does, or if the lines

make you sleepy or bored,

give in to sleep, turn on

the T.V., deal the cards.

This poem is built to withstand

such things. Its feelings

cannot be hurt. They exist

somewhere in the poet,

and I am far away.

Pick it up anytime. Start it

in the middle if you wish.

It is as approachable as melodrama,

and can offer you violence

if it is violence you like. Look,

there's a man on a sidewalk;

the way his leg is quivering

he'll never be the same again.

This is your poem

and I know you're busy at the office

or the kids are into your last nerve.

Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.

Well, they lie together

like the party's unbuttoned coats,

slumped on the bed

waiting for drunken arms to move them.

I don't think you want me to go on;

everyone has his expectations, but this

is a poem for the entire family.

Right now, Budweiser

is dripping from a waterfall,

deodorants are hissing into armpits

of people you resemble,

and the two lovers are dressing now,

saying farewell.

I don't know what music this poem

can come up with, but clearly

it's needed. For it's apparent

they will never see each other again

and we need music for this

because there was never music when he or she

left you standing on the corner.

You see, I want this poem to be nicer

than life. I want you to look at it

when anxiety zigzags your stomach

and the last tranquilizer is gone

and you need someone to tell you

I'll be here when you want me

like the sound inside a shell.

The poem is saying that to you now.

But don't give anything for this poem.

It doesn't expect much. It will never say more

than listening can explain.

Just keep it in your attache case

or in your house. And if you're not asleep

by now, or bored beyond sense,

the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at

yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.

Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.

There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,

You're beautiful for as long as you live.

I know who I am

I am here now

but I may be gone in an instant

even if I am no longer here I am me, myself

but in truth I do not have to be me

I am a plant at least a little

I may be a fish more or less

I am also an ore with a dull sheen

though I don’t know its name

and of course I am almost you

Because I cannot disappear after being forgotten

I am a rhythm in a refrain

I am a subtle wave and a particle

having arrived, if I may be so conceited,

riding on your heart’s beating rhythm

from the light years of distance

I know who I am

so I know who you are

even if I don’t know your name

even if there is no census record

I am crowding out into you

Feeling happy being wet in rain

feeling at home with the starry sky

cackling at crude jokes

I am me

beyond the tautology of “I am me”

— Translated by Takako Lento

Here is the video of the poet reading it in the original language.

Where had I heard this wind before

Change like this to a deeper roar?

What would it take my standing there for,

Holding open a restive door,

Looking down hill to a frothy shore?

Summer was past and the day was past.

Sombre clouds in the west were massed.

Out on the porch's sagging floor,

Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,

Blindly struck at my knee and missed.

Something sinister in the tone

Told me my secret must be known:

Word I was in the house alone

Somehow must have gotten abroad,

Word I was in my life alone,

Word I had no one left but God.

In visions of the dark night

I have dreamed of joy departed—

But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,

So trembled from afar—

What could there be more purely bright

In Truth's day-star?

I've lived to see my longings die:

My dreams and I have grown apart;

Now only sorrow haunts my eye,

The wages of a bitter heart.

.

Beneath the storms of hostile fate,

My flowery wreath has faded fast;

I live alone and sadly wait

To see when death will come at last.

.

Just so, when the winds in winter moan

And snow descends in frigid flakes,

Upon a naked branch, alone,

The final leaf of summer shakes!

.....

And all at once, and over all

The pitying rain began to fall;

I lay and heard each pattering hoof

Upon my lowly, thatchèd roof,

And seemed to love the sound far more

Than ever I had done before.

For rain it hath a friendly sound

To one who’s six feet underground;

And scarce the friendly voice or face,

A grave is such a quiet place.

.......

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,

not attentive, not distracted,

light footsteps, thin drizzle,

water that is air, air that is time,

the day is still leaving,

the night has yet to arrive,

figurations of mist

at the turn of the corner,

figurations of time

at the bend in this pause,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

without listening, hear what I say

with eyes open inward, asleep

with all five senses awake,

it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,

air and water, words with no weight:

what we are and are,

the days and years, this moment,

weightless time and heavy sorrow,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

wet asphalt is shining,

steam rises and walks away,

night unfolds and looks at me,

you are you and your body of steam,

you and your face of night,

you and your hair, unhurried lightning,

you cross the street and enter my forehead,

footsteps of water across my eyes,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

the asphalt’s shining, you cross the street,

it is the mist, wandering in the night,

it is the night, asleep in your bed,

it is the surge of waves in your breath,

your fingers of water dampen my forehead,

your fingers of flame burn my eyes,

your fingers of air open eyelids of time,

a spring of visions and resurrections,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

the years go by, the moments return,

do you hear the footsteps in the next room?

not here, not there: you hear them

in another time that is now,

listen to the footsteps of time,

inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,

listen to the rain running over the terrace,

the night is now more night in the grove,

lightning has nestled among the leaves,

a restless garden adrift—go in,

your shadow covers this page.

It is a kind of love, is it not?

How the cup holds the tea,

How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,

How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes

Or toes. How soles of feet know

Where they’re supposed to be.

I’ve been thinking about the patience

Of ordinary things, how clothes

Wait respectfully in closets

And soap dries quietly in the dish,

And towels drink the wet

From the skin of the back.

And the lovely repetition of stairs.

And what is more generous than a window?