Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Takako Arai

A RIVER’S TWISTS AND TURNS

Rivers do not belong to you. Even if one flows through your land, it just keeps coming of its own accord. As it flows along and dries up, it doesn’t listen to a thing you say. It’s always the same, even though the river flows from your own eyes.
Water wells up. Sad, sad sobs rise up, one after another. But how can we describe this sadness? It simply flows, inevitably flowing along, doesn’t it?
It connects. Like a river, like a river’s twists and turns, the lachrymal gland ties you and me together, ties us with him, ties us with her.
If anything, it’s human nature to be buffeted around by things we cannot see. That’s always been true. Invisible rivers flow along—if a bird were to look down from above, the rivers would trace transparent labyrinths,
Filling all available space.
That’s why our eyes are so wet. Why they’re wet right now.
So when someone passes away, a single false step can send a person plummeting downward, unable to swim, unable to fly, unable to claw or climb their way back up. They plummet downward, sending ripples outward like a pebble thrown into a pond.
That’s why
Weeping always involves
Stepping into the place of another who can weep no more.
Tumbling into this river of tears, the surging ripples of those who have drowned draw close and overflow, pouring from our eyes.
When my mother died, I wept. I sobbed. She wanted to live, wanted to live, so every morning, every night, she clung to life, to dry katsuobushi flakes.
She grew irritated, impatient, frightened of her own thinning blood. In fact, she strayed from her path,
Underwent a metamorphosis,
And became a tabby cat.
Lying under the plane I used to shave off the flakes of dried fish, she stretched out on her belly and stuck out her tongue. She stuffed her mouth so full that the katsuobushi flakes fell out of the corners of her mouth. With her claws, she grabbed onto the bulwark along the river’s edge.
Shaking her whiskers, she demanded, “Gimme lots of that dark meat!”
Every day that summer, as the cicadas sang, I shaved off some katsuobushi for her as a kind of blood transfusion. But even so, she grew thinner and thinner.
She hurled abuse at me as the flakes caught in her uneven teeth. “Damn it, you’re being hissssss-stingy today. I told you get me the top-of-the line brand, but this was just some mark-down from the general store-mraaowwwrrrr.” Even now, I can’t forget her eyes, blue-black irises surrounded on three sides by white.
Then, finally, on the thirtieth day, the waters carried her away. 
Gyaaaagoro, gyaaaagoro—meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr. Even the river was calling out. What could I do but cry? I stood on the riverbank weeping, gyaaaagora, gyaaaagora— meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr.

 
When someone passed away
It was in that same voice
Everyone recited the phrase
Gyaaade, gyaaadeGone, gone to the far shore
It was in that same voice they mourned my mother, tears profusely flowing. 

 

’N BOCHT IN ’N RIVIER

Da’s nie’ van u hè, ’n rivier. Als die bijvoorbeeld over uwe grond loopt, dan komt se hoe dan ook, toch. Sij luistert nie’ naar wat er wordt gesegd hè, of se nu volgt of opdroogt. Da’s ’tselfde, ook al lekt se uit uwe ogen.
Se sijn nat, hè. Ge treurt en ge treurt, dan komt ’t snikkend omhoog, hè. Wat is dat toch, dat verdriet. ’t Stroomt en ’t stroomt maar, is ’t nie’?
Omdat ’t verbindt, daarom. Net als ’n rivier, net als ’n bocht in ’n rivier, u, mij, om ’t even wie, om ’t even wie weet se te verknopen hè, de traanklier.
Maar ’t sal hunne aard sijn gemanipuleerd te wesen omwille van wat u nie’ kan sien hè, de mensen. Da’s altijd so, hè. ’n Onsichtbare rivier die stroomt, als ge er met vogelogen op neerkijkt dan draait se rondjes door ’n doorsichtig doolhof, over ’t volledig oppervlak.
Daarom worden se wat nat hè, uwe ogen, nu ook.
So komt dat bij gestorvenen voor, dat mensen misstappen en ba-am! vallen, daarom. Se kunnen nie’ swemmen, nie’ vliegen, nie’ aan hunne nagels omhoog kruipen, daarom. Se ba-am! vallen, en in ’n patroon soals ’n kiesel maakt ontstaan dan golven.
Daarom,
is ’t ’n plaatsvervanging hè,
’t huilen.
Golven van op ’n rivier rondtollende, verswakte mensen rollen aan, sij stromen over, uit uwe ogen.
Toen moeder stierf, heb ik gehuild, tranen met tuiten huilde ik. Se wilde leven, wilde leven, elke ochtend elke avond, hield se ’t stevig vast, ’t bonito-blok.
Se werd steeds bleker, in haar aansien, se raakte geërgerd, ’t was angstaanjagend. Nu ja, al was sij eigenlijk al misgestapt,
se veranderde
in ’n cyperse kat.
Onder de schaaf waarmee ik ’t bonito-blok tot vlokken schaafde kroop se op haar buikje, stak se haar tong uit, en vrat se ’t tot de vlokken uit haar bekje vielen hè. Se sloeg haar nagels uit, en klauwde sich vast hè, aan die kademuur.
“Hé, geef me van ’t beste stuk, ’t bloeddonkere”, sei se met trillende snorharen.
In de somer wanneer de vette cicaden singen, schaafde ik voor haar als was het ’n bloedtransfusie, elke dag elke dag. Moeder die met sprongen vermagerde sei:
“Vandaag ben je weer voor het goedkope spul gegaan, miauw. Ik sei je nog van ’t chique merk te kopen, maar ’t is uitverkoopspul uit de Aldi, miauw, dese bonito-vlokken.” Terwijl se verstrikt raakten in haar slagtanden, schold se me uit. ‘t Donkerblauw in haar vele oogwit sal ik nie’ vergeten.
En so dreef se op de dertigste dag uiteindelijk weg.
Kya-âh-grr, kya-âh-grr: ook nog in de rivier schreeuwde sij ’t uit, en kon ik niets anders dan huilen, terwijl ik aan de oever stond: kya-âh-grr, kya-âh-grr.

 

Die stem
toen een ander doodging en boeddha werd
sal gij dat ook gesongen hebben:
gyaté, gyaté
Toen we voor moeder een dienst ter nagedachtenis hielden, toen sal ook gij ’n boel gehuild hebben.

 

川曲

あんたのものでァねァでしょう、(かわ)は。たとえ敷地(うち)(なが)れておっても、どうしても()るわけでしょう。()うことなんぞ()かんでしょう、つたうときも()れるときも。()なしだよ、あんたァのから()れでたけれども。
(うる)むよねぇ。(かな)しゅうてしゅうて、しゃぐりがってくるよねぇ。だァども、その(かな)しみって(なん)ですか。ただただ(なが)れておるのでねぇのかや。
(つな)がっておるのだァもの。(かわ)みだいに、川曲(かわわ)みだいに、あんたと、あたしと、だれかさんと、だれかさんと、(むす)んでおるがよ、涙腺(るいせん)は。
なァに、()ぇないものばがりのために、()りまわさィるサガでしょう、にんげんァ。いつだって、そうでしょう。()ぇない(かわ)れてて、(とり)(まなぐ)見下(みお)ろしゃァ、()きとおった迷路(めいろ)(めぐ)る、
いちめんに。
だァもの、いぐらかれておるがや、(ひどみ)というのァ、いまだって。
ほうして、()くなるモンのあるときゃァ、(ひど)なんて、()みはずしゃァ、パ――ッと()ちてしまいますから。(およ)ぐことも、()ぶことも、(つめ)()てで()()がるのもできんのだァもの。パ――ッと、()ちて、小石(こいし)(ひろ)げる波紋(はもん)のごとく(なみ)()つ。
だから、
だれかの()()わりなんだよ、
()くというのは。
なみだの(かわ)(ころ)がって、(おぼ)れたモンらの人波(ひとなみ)が、()せて、(あふ)れてくるのだァもの、あんたァのその()から。
(かあ)さんが()んだとき、()きました、号泣(ごうきゅう)しました。()ぎたくてぎたくて、(あさ)(ばん)に、むしゃぶりついてたひとだから、鰹節(かつぶし)に。
()すくなってくじぶんのが、()れったくて、おっかなくて。なァに、ほんとうはもう()みはずしておったども、
げたがよ、
虎猫(とらねご)に。
あたしが(けず)(かんな)のしたへ、(はら)ぼうて、(べろ)ツッ()んで。(くぢ)(はし)からオッこぼすほど、()らっておったっきゃぁ。ギィッと(つめ)()て、しがみついでおったがですよ、その岸壁(がんぺき)サ。
()()いバたんとの背節(せぶし)ゃァよこせぇ」って、(しぎ)ゃァらしてねぇ。
あぶら(ぜみ)()(なづ)に、輸血(ゆけづ)みだいにィとったの、あたしァ、くる()もくる()も。そィでもそィでも、しんしん()せる(かあ)さんは、
「きょうも、おまいはケチしたにゃぁ。にんべんのとうたのに、よろず()()()(ひん)にゃぁ、この鰹節(かづぶし)ゃァ」。八重歯(やイば)サそれを(から)まして、(どぐ)づいて。三白眼(さんぱぐがん)(あお)ぐらさが()っせらィねァ。
ほうして、とうとう三十日(みそか)めに、(なが)さィてしまったったぁ。
ぎゃあごろ、ぎゃあごろ、(かわ)でも(おめ)ぇでおったれば、あたしがぐほかねァがしょう、岸辺(きしべ)()って、ぎゃあごら、ぎゃあごら。

 
その(こィ)だよ、
(ほとげ)さんバたときゃァ、
あんたァもィたがしょう。
羯諦(ギャーデー)羯諦(ギャーデー)
うちのかあさんろうて、ぎょうさんいでくれしゃったがしょう。

Close

A RIVER’S TWISTS AND TURNS

Rivers do not belong to you. Even if one flows through your land, it just keeps coming of its own accord. As it flows along and dries up, it doesn’t listen to a thing you say. It’s always the same, even though the river flows from your own eyes.
Water wells up. Sad, sad sobs rise up, one after another. But how can we describe this sadness? It simply flows, inevitably flowing along, doesn’t it?
It connects. Like a river, like a river’s twists and turns, the lachrymal gland ties you and me together, ties us with him, ties us with her.
If anything, it’s human nature to be buffeted around by things we cannot see. That’s always been true. Invisible rivers flow along—if a bird were to look down from above, the rivers would trace transparent labyrinths,
Filling all available space.
That’s why our eyes are so wet. Why they’re wet right now.
So when someone passes away, a single false step can send a person plummeting downward, unable to swim, unable to fly, unable to claw or climb their way back up. They plummet downward, sending ripples outward like a pebble thrown into a pond.
That’s why
Weeping always involves
Stepping into the place of another who can weep no more.
Tumbling into this river of tears, the surging ripples of those who have drowned draw close and overflow, pouring from our eyes.
When my mother died, I wept. I sobbed. She wanted to live, wanted to live, so every morning, every night, she clung to life, to dry katsuobushi flakes.
She grew irritated, impatient, frightened of her own thinning blood. In fact, she strayed from her path,
Underwent a metamorphosis,
And became a tabby cat.
Lying under the plane I used to shave off the flakes of dried fish, she stretched out on her belly and stuck out her tongue. She stuffed her mouth so full that the katsuobushi flakes fell out of the corners of her mouth. With her claws, she grabbed onto the bulwark along the river’s edge.
Shaking her whiskers, she demanded, “Gimme lots of that dark meat!”
Every day that summer, as the cicadas sang, I shaved off some katsuobushi for her as a kind of blood transfusion. But even so, she grew thinner and thinner.
She hurled abuse at me as the flakes caught in her uneven teeth. “Damn it, you’re being hissssss-stingy today. I told you get me the top-of-the line brand, but this was just some mark-down from the general store-mraaowwwrrrr.” Even now, I can’t forget her eyes, blue-black irises surrounded on three sides by white.
Then, finally, on the thirtieth day, the waters carried her away. 
Gyaaaagoro, gyaaaagoro—meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr. Even the river was calling out. What could I do but cry? I stood on the riverbank weeping, gyaaaagora, gyaaaagora— meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr.

 
When someone passed away
It was in that same voice
Everyone recited the phrase
Gyaaade, gyaaadeGone, gone to the far shore
It was in that same voice they mourned my mother, tears profusely flowing. 

 

A RIVER’S TWISTS AND TURNS

Rivers do not belong to you. Even if one flows through your land, it just keeps coming of its own accord. As it flows along and dries up, it doesn’t listen to a thing you say. It’s always the same, even though the river flows from your own eyes.
Water wells up. Sad, sad sobs rise up, one after another. But how can we describe this sadness? It simply flows, inevitably flowing along, doesn’t it?
It connects. Like a river, like a river’s twists and turns, the lachrymal gland ties you and me together, ties us with him, ties us with her.
If anything, it’s human nature to be buffeted around by things we cannot see. That’s always been true. Invisible rivers flow along—if a bird were to look down from above, the rivers would trace transparent labyrinths,
Filling all available space.
That’s why our eyes are so wet. Why they’re wet right now.
So when someone passes away, a single false step can send a person plummeting downward, unable to swim, unable to fly, unable to claw or climb their way back up. They plummet downward, sending ripples outward like a pebble thrown into a pond.
That’s why
Weeping always involves
Stepping into the place of another who can weep no more.
Tumbling into this river of tears, the surging ripples of those who have drowned draw close and overflow, pouring from our eyes.
When my mother died, I wept. I sobbed. She wanted to live, wanted to live, so every morning, every night, she clung to life, to dry katsuobushi flakes.
She grew irritated, impatient, frightened of her own thinning blood. In fact, she strayed from her path,
Underwent a metamorphosis,
And became a tabby cat.
Lying under the plane I used to shave off the flakes of dried fish, she stretched out on her belly and stuck out her tongue. She stuffed her mouth so full that the katsuobushi flakes fell out of the corners of her mouth. With her claws, she grabbed onto the bulwark along the river’s edge.
Shaking her whiskers, she demanded, “Gimme lots of that dark meat!”
Every day that summer, as the cicadas sang, I shaved off some katsuobushi for her as a kind of blood transfusion. But even so, she grew thinner and thinner.
She hurled abuse at me as the flakes caught in her uneven teeth. “Damn it, you’re being hissssss-stingy today. I told you get me the top-of-the line brand, but this was just some mark-down from the general store-mraaowwwrrrr.” Even now, I can’t forget her eyes, blue-black irises surrounded on three sides by white.
Then, finally, on the thirtieth day, the waters carried her away. 
Gyaaaagoro, gyaaaagoro—meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr. Even the river was calling out. What could I do but cry? I stood on the riverbank weeping, gyaaaagora, gyaaaagora— meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr.

 
When someone passed away
It was in that same voice
Everyone recited the phrase
Gyaaade, gyaaadeGone, gone to the far shore
It was in that same voice they mourned my mother, tears profusely flowing. 

 

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