Chomei at Toyama

Author(s): Basil Bunting

Source: Poetry, Vol. 42, No. 6 (Sep., 1933), pp. 301-307
Published by: Poetry Foundation
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20579139
Accessed: 25-11-2015 18:20 UTC

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 VOL.XLII
No. VI
A Magazine ofVerse

SEPTEMBER 1933

CHOMEI AT TOYAMA

bornat Kamo "i54; died at

Kamo-no-Chomei,
Toyama onMount Hino, 24thYune 1216.

I
T HE swirlsleepingin thewaterfall!
The scumonmotionlesspools appearing
disappearing!

Eaves formalon thezenith,

loftycityKyoto,
wealthy,without antiquities!
[ 301]

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 POETRY: X Magazinie of Ver-se

Housebreakersclamberabout,
buildersraisingfloorupon floor
at thecornersites,replacing
gardensby bungalows.

In the townwhere I was known

theyoungmen stareat me.
A fewfaces-I know remain.

Whence comesman at his birth?orwhere

does death lead him? Whom do youmourn?
Whose stepswake yourdelight?
Dewy hibiscusdries, thoughdew
outlast thepetals.
II

I have been notingevents fortyyears.

On the twenty-seventh May elevenhundred

and seventy-seven, eightp.m., firebrokeout
at thecornerofTomi andHiguchi streets.
In a night
palace,ministries,university,parliament
were destroyed. As thewind veered,
flamesspreadout in theshape of an open fan.
Tongues tornby thegusts stretchedand leapt.
In thesky clouds of cinderslit redwith theblaze.

Some choked,some burned,somebarelyescaped.

[ 302 ]

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 Basil Bunting

Sixteengreat officialslosthouses, and

verymany poor. A thirdof thecityburned;
several thousandsdied; and of beasts,
oxen and horsesand such, limitlessnumbers.

Men are foolsto investin real estate.

III

Drought, floods,and a dearth. Two fruitlessautumns.

Emptymarkets, swarmsof beggars. Jewels
sold fora handfulof rice. Dead stank
on thecurb, lay so thickon
RiversideDrive a car couldn't pass.
The pest bred.
That wintermy fuelwas thewalls ofmy own house.

Fathers fed theirchildrenand died,

babies died suckingthedead.
The priestHoshi went aboutmarking theirforeheads,
A, Amida, theirrequiem;
he counted themin theEast End in the last twomonths,
forty-three thousandA's.

IV

Crack, rush,yemountains,buryyour rills!

Spread yourgreenglass, ocean, over themeadows!
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 POETRY: X Magazine of Verse

Scream, avalanche, bouldersamok, stranglethedale!

O ships in theseas' power,0 horses
on shiftingroads, in theearth's power,withouthoofhold!

This is theearthquake, thiswas

thegreat earthquakeofGenryaku!

The chapel fell,theabbey, theminsterand thesmallshrines

fell,theirdust roseand a thunderof houses falling.
Oh, to be birdsand fly,or dragonsand rideon a cloud!
The earthquake,thegreat earthquakeofGenryaku!

A childbuildinga mud house against a highwall:

I saw him crushedsuddenly,his eyes hung
fromtheirorbits like two tassels.
His fatherhowled shamelessly-an officer.
I was not abashed at his crying.

Such shockscontinuedthreeweeks; thenlessening,

but still a scoredaily as big as an average earthquake;
thenfewer,alternatedays, a tertianague of tremors
There isno recordof any greater.
It caused a religiousrevival.
Months. . ..
Years. . .

Nobody mentions it now.

This is theunstableworld, and
we in itunstable,and our houses.
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 Basil Bunting

Since I have trodden Hino Mountain

noon has beaten throughtheawning
overmy bamboo balcony,evening
shoneonAmida.
I have shelvedmy books above thewindow,
luteandmandolin near at hand,
piled brackenand a littlestraw forbedding,
a smoothdeskwhere thelightfalls,stoveforbramblewood.
I have gatheredstones,fitted
stones fora cistern,laid bamboo
pipes. No woodstack,
wood enough in the thicket.

Toyama, snug in thecreepers!

Toyama, deep in thedense gully,open
westwardwhence thedead rideout ofEden
squattingon blue cloudsofwistaria.
(Its scentdriftswest ofAmida.)
Summer? Cuckoo's Follow,follow-to
harvestPurgatoryhill!
Fall? The nightgrasshopper will
shrill,Fickle life!
Snowwill thickenon thedoorstep,
melt likea driftof sins.
No friendtobreak silence,
no one will be shocked ifI neglect therite.
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 POETRY: A Magazine of Verse

There's a Lent of commandmentskept

where there'sno way to break them.

A rippleofwhitewater aftera boat,

shiningwater aftertheboatsMansami saw
rowingat daybreak
at Okanoya.
"Betweenthemapleleafand thecaneflower"
murmurs the afternoon-Po Lo-tien
sayinggoodbyeon thevergeof Jinyoriver.
(I am playingscales onmy mandolin.)
Be limber,
my fingers, I am going toplayAutumnWind
to thepines, I am going toplayHasteningBrook
to the water, I am no player
but there'snobody listening
I do it formy own amusement.

VI

I am shiftingrivermist, not to be trusted.

I do not ask anythingextraordinary ofmyself.
I likea nap afterdinner,
and to see the seasons come round ingood order.

Hankering,vexationand apathy
that's therunof theworld.
Hankering,vexationand apathy
keepinga carriagewon't cure it.
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 Basil Bunting

Keeping a man in livery

won't cure it. Keeping a private fortress
won't cure it. These thingssatisfyno craving.
Hankering,vexationand apathy..
I am out of place in thecapital,
people takeme fora beggar,
as youwould be out of place in thissortof life,
you are so-I regretit-so welded to yourvulgarity.

vii

The moonshadowmergeswith darkness

on thecliffpath,
a trickyturnnear ahead.
Oh, there'snothingto complainabout.
Buddha says: "None of theworld isgood."
I am fondofmy hut..

I have renouncedtheworld,
have a saintly
appearance.

I do not enjoy beingpoor

I've a passionatenature.
My tongue
clacked a fewprayers.
Basil Bunting

[ 307]

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