Some Can Sing

This spring has been absolutely glorious! Most springs are, but this one has been above average. And tramping through the woods and hopping over creeks with my friend Carrie I've been on site and in a mood to notice the glories. But few of us notice the wonders of nature with the clarity of the old Japanese poets. They noticed more because they took the time to sit and watch, to lie down and listen. We have a very hard time waiting for life and the world and glory to make themselves known to us. But when we do take time to notice, oh what an amazing creation meets us at every step!







Even with insects--
some can sing,
some can't.
--Issa--



old pond.....
a frog leaps in
water's sound      
--Basho--



White dew --
One drop
On each thorn
--Buson--

Translated Poetry

Poetry depends to such a large extent on the sounds of the words that to speak of translating it almost seems to be an oxymoron. Robert Frost once even defined poetry as "that which is lost in translation."

Yet people persist in translating it, and I read a great many poets in translation. Some translations work, some don't. I find that some Russian poets (Yevtushenko and Pushkin spring to mind) survive translation well, although the musical quality is lost or distorted. French poetry might as well remain French. Little comes through translation.

What would we have if Dr. Seuss were translated into German?