Mutsuo Takahashi

 












Socrates was around only yesterday. — Kenneth Dover

 
 

 

Early Summer 1969



At the top of the stone steps of the Acropolis, I head into the Parthenon
Lean briefly against a pillar before casting off on sandaled feet
I’d been reading Kitto’s The Greeks, and as I traced the lines,
I saw how ridiculous I was, feeling I’d turned Greek in some small way
Before I knew it, I was nodding off on sea breezes of far-off Piraeus
And in the rounds of sleep, the world was nothing but tenderness
Held in this soft world’s embrace, I felt as if I could do it all
I was young, so young, though it was just yesterday, or perhaps the day before

 
 

May


Livadeia


Thirty minutes at the bus stop, guided to the second-floor tavern terrace
Something strikes my nostrils—what is this intense scent?
Pine trees gather on the mountain slopes stretching straight from the yard
Between their needle-leaves stand sullen blue-green projections
It’s now May, season of Greek fields and mountains, of love, of estrus
When gods go into heat with ten thousand, raw-scented reproductive organs
Each time summer rolls around, the Greek gods begin to rut
They are reborn, and lively, vividly, Greece becomes Greece once again

 


Mulberry Tree in Troezen


Hippolytus


In Troezen, a mulberry tree, green and verdant, giant in stature, sways
Avoiding harsh spears of light, pushing apart the dense clusters of leaves
Hanging fruit ripens, ready to be picked, shining, milky, tinged with green—
Innocent whiteness attesting to the unblemished spirit of the one who
Prematurely deceased, is worshipped there
It is the white of blank space in which his exploits,
Unrealized and unfinished, would have been written
Even so, the fingertips of the traveler who picked the mulberries,
As well as the lips to which they were carried, are, strangely enough
Immediately stained dark purple as if
Immediately the impurities censored, suppressed within them
For thousands of years have suddenly spilled forth
The traveler wonders, if he were a creator of eastern instruments
How many biwa could he carve from the tree’s thick trunk? 
The sound of the biwa, like tearing silk, would whip up
White waves from the filthy, whirling flow of mud—
How strongly the angry sadness of old age
Resembles that of youth driven to death!

 
 

Ode to Eros



To represent the Greek gods
Instead of Zeus at his masculine prime
Or Apollo with his abundant youth, one might choose
Eros, but not during his adorable boyhood—
It is said that a woman from Mantinea said this
To young Socrates—nor as a rough beggar of unknown years
Some say he was born from the primordial egg that created the world
A strangely shaped creature in the form of a terrible bird
And through his mysterious powers, all came into being
The gods in the heavens, the people in the markets,
Even the shadowless dead beneath the surface of the earth

 
 

Navigation by Night




The boat is the symbol of desire—
            The fleets of Achaean ruffians off to conquer Troy,
The Argo off to steal the Golden Fleece,
            The new-built ships of rogues searching for the New World
During my youth, the nightly navigations
            Of the bow between my thighs was no exception
Now I am moored to the pier—my small boat rows
            Secretly at night toward poems on my desk
As my only guide, I rely upon the unreliable ars poetica
            Learned during days adrift on a sea of immorality

 
 

My Ars Poetica



The gloom of bars, bathhouses, and places of ill repute were my school
Socrates wasn’t the one always there in the light, it was Eumolpus in the dark
Wordlessly with fingers and tongues, sometimes with backs, we deciphered truth
Much of my ars poetica comes from what I learned those youthful nights
That’s why it’s so far from the dubious indecency your noses detect

 
 

Banzai to the Buffoon



Banzai to the buffoon! 
The king of buffoons has been selected
The citizens have become citizens of buffoonery
The nation has become a nation of buffoons
The buffoon’s time will last at least four years
And if the citizens wish, perhaps eight
Eight years will not end with eight years
Eight years are eight years for a century
A century is a century for a millennium
That is the secret wish of the citizens
The buffoons keep doing whatever they want
Without the slightest responsibility
What could be more fun than that?
The nation of buffoons celebrates each day
As they sing and dance to extinction
Banzai to the buffoon! Banzai to the nation of buffoons!

 
 

Limitless Grave



After death, he was cremated, his ashes scattered on the sea
So all the seas covering the earth became his grave
When the sun’s heat draws the seawater upward, the heavens are his grave too
When the rain falls, fields and mountains become his grave as well
He has become the universe—no, the universe has become him

 

Mutsuo Takahashi (高橋睦郎), born in 1937, is one of Japan’s most prominent
living poets, having won almost every major poetry prize in the nation. Since
first attracting the attention of the Japanese literary world with his bold poetic
evocations of homoerotic desire in the 1960s, Takahashi has published several
dozen books of poetry, essays, prose, and literary criticism. Five collections of
his poetry are available in English translation: Poems of a Penisist (University
of Minnesota Press), A Bunch of Keys (The Crossing Press), Sleeping, Sinning,
Falling (City Lights,), Two Shores (Dedalus), and We of Zipangu (Arc Publications).
His memoir Twelve Views from the Distance (University of Minnesota Press),
was shortlisted for a Lambda Literary Award.


Jeffrey Angles is a poet, translator, and professor of Japanese literature at
Western Michigan University. His collection of Japanese-language poetry
Watashi no hizukehenkōsen (My International Date Line), won the highly
coveted Yomiuri Prize for Literature, making him the first non-native
Japanese speaker ever to win for a book of poetry. He believes strongly
in the role of translators as activists, and much of his career has focused
on the translation into English of socially engaged, feminist, or queer writers.