FURYU NANA KOMACHI

One pale spring day in 1760
Kutsukawa Shunsho decided to paint
A group portrait of the poetess Ono No Komachi.
Coaxed and persuaded, versions of her

Left, for a while, the ninth century
To pose with props in his studio. Afterwards,
The old dancer fell asleep, her head
On the lap of the girl who brought rain.
Komachi the courtier and Komachi the beggarwoman
Wandered about Edo, telling outrageous lies
And winking at every man they passed.

WINTER

If once the Winter King had fur-lined robes.

Thick gloves, warm boots, they are long gone.

His clothes are rags and thin to transparency

When I was a boy I would see him sometimes

Joining the used up men who would gather

Around oil drum trash fires, flaring high

They’d shuffle aside and make space for him

As should not courtiers for their king?.

CHAIR

You thought an enormous chair
Would just fill that empty corner
But the men who bring it to your house
Are strangely obsequious. One of them,
You think, tugs his forelock as he leaves.
In time, courtiers conjure themselves up;
You find yourself giving audiences
And practicing the common touch.
Before you know it, half of Europe
Has fallen to your troops. Your mother,
Long thought to be dead, turns up
A leader of the anti-you underground.