na-kazora

One of my favourite books, The Tales of Ise, blends history, poetry and timeless gossip, some of my favourite things, stretching perceptions and experience.

Growing up as I did from country to country, floating from Dutch to Italian, French, English, Indonesian, German (and my own hybrid, incomprehensible jumble of them all), I’ve always loved finding new expressions and new ways of thinking – unique, without equivalents in other languages.

The Tales of Ise has lots of that, and more – inexpressible, seldom-thought-about topics, described in words that don’t exist in other languages, whose meaning is hard to pin down.

Writing the inexpressible in non-existent words is as good a definition of poetry as any you’ll hear.

Long ago, I wrote about this in a haiku, an almost untranslateable form in itself:

between any two

untranslateabilities

we find more meaning.

In episode 21 of the Tales, two lovers exchange poems, seven in all.

The final one has the image of:

… a cloud in mid-air

that vanishes in the sky

leaving not a trace.

The translator, Peter Macmillan, comments: “The word ‘mid-air’ (na-kazora), referring to the space between the sky and the earth, is a metaphor for being in a state that is neither one thing nor another.”

Elsewhere, I’ve seen “nakazora”  described as “a Buddhist word” meaning “empty air” or “a state where the feet do not touch the ground”.

Elsewhere still, the etymology of なかぞら is explained as being made up of “naka” (middle, or centre) and “zora” (sky, or empty space).

The range of meanings has made the word understandably popular in Classical Japanese literature and, obviously, to me.

I’m not sure whether the romanisation of the word, hyphenated as “na-kazora”, is strictly correct, but I prefer it to “nakazora”. The word’s dismemberment furthers the ethereal, ungraspable aspect of its meaning.

My tanka poem:

na-kazora

blue sky, wide and still

—all in solitude, so rare,

floats a single cloud,

seen by all, na-kazora,

so untouchable.

*

Untouchable – something (or someone) everyone can see, but out of reach, like a star (either in space or a famous person).

Ethereal, in suspension, between states, shape-shifting, untranslateable.

Like lovers estrangeing, as in the Tales’ episode (or are they really finding true love)?

Or readers reading something new and strange?

In this game, only the reader can tell.

 

 

winter solstice—yule 2021

the shortest day is swallowed by the longest night

and though the time is festive we can close the darkness out in sleep

until we rise again to greet the waking light

*

last night’s cold moon is waning gibbous and the town shines bright

and while the spreading mist and frost grow thick and deep

the shortest day is swallowed by the longest night

*

we walk this world we wish for warmth and all that’s pleasing to our sight

but nightmare deepfake monsters of perverted dreams disturb us in our sleep

until we rise again to greet the waking light

*

O pity our poor planet filled with foolish deathly viral agents mired in their own shite

they rave and squall around our godforsaken earth and even as we weep

the shortest day is swallowed by the longest night

*

but there’s a ruthless aimless tenderness in nature’s creatures and in you that rare delight

we find when we’re alert to each mere moment whose uniqueness we can keep

until we rise again and greet the waking light

*

now in the southern hemisphere the sun shines at her height

but we are locked in dark and where the shadows creep

the shortest day is swallowed by the longest night

until we rise again and greet the lengthening light.

*

**

*

freddie omm

she lifts her veil: a vision – three rondelets

 

I was in the Musée d’Orsay last week and took this picture of a striking sculpture by Barrias (Nature Revealing Herself to Science).

(From this angle her limpid marble eyes have a disconcertingly full, yet vacant look, brimming compassion yet somehow indifferent – although that may be a fanciful not to say pretentious notion…)

Coincidentally, I have been working on a poem called She Lifts Her Veil.

It consists of three rondelets – a charming medieval French lyric form.

The subject of the poem isn’t medieval exactly nor is it really about the grand Victorian personification of Nature Unveiling Herself to Science. It’s more about modern men and women and how they see each other:

 

she lifts her veil –
a vision: blank, dilating eyes,
she lifts her veil.

you breathe, the smell of her inhale,
flushed lips mouth fire – as flames chastise
brazen flashing immodesties –
she lifts her veil:

*

they see her face –
fragrant and nude, beyond the pale:
they see her face

itching to put her in her place –
frustration makes them bluster, flail,
so helpless – lewd and sexed and frail –
they see her face:

*

she drops her veil
lets it float, fall, fade where it lies…
she drops her veil

to speak her peace – a piece of tale
embodies what she prophesies,
when in the mirror of our eyes
she drops her veil.


freddie omm, spring 2012