Just before our love got lost you said
“I am as constant as a northern star”
And I said “Constantly in the darkness
Where’s that at?
If you want me I’ll be in the bar”
On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
With your face sketched on it twice
Oh you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I’d be on my feet
oh I would still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I’m frightened by the devil
And I’m drawn to those ones that ain’t afraid
I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
“Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed”
Oh but you are in my blood
You’re my holy wine
You’re so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you darling
Still I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
A Case of You by Joni Mitchell (covered by James Blake, Ana Moura etc.)
よもいずれのとしよりか、へんうんのかぜにさそわれて、ひょうはくのおもいやまず、かいひんにさすらえ、こぞのあきこうしょうのはおくにくものふるすをはらいて、や ゝとしもくれ、はるたてるかすみのそらに、しらかわのせきこえんと、そヾろがみのものにつきてこころをくるわせ、どうそじんのまねきにあ いてとるものてにつかず、もゝひきのやぶれをつヾり、かさのおつけかえて、さんりにきゅうすゆるより、まつしまのつきまずこころにかゝりて、すめるかたはひとにゆずり、さんぷうがべっしょにうつるに、
くさのとも すみかわるよぞ ひなのいえ
The days and months are travelers of eternity, just like the years that come and go.
For those who pass their lives afloat on boats, or face old age leading horses tight by the bridle, their journeying is life, their journeying is home. And many are the men of old who met their end upon the road.
How long ago, I wonder, did I see a drift of cloud borne away upon the wind, and ceaseless dreams of wandering become aroused? Only last year, I had been wandering along the coasts and bays; and in the autumn, I swept away the cobwebs from my tumbledown hut on the banks of the Sumida and soon afterwards saw the old year out. But when the spring mists rose up into the sky, the gods of desire possessed me, and burned my mind with the longing to go beyond the barrier at Shirakawa.
The spirits of the road beckoned me, and I could not concentrate on anything. So I patched up my trousers, put new cords in my straw hat, and strengthened my knees with moxa. A vision of the moon at Matsushima was already in my mind. I sold my hut and wrote this just before moving to a cottage owned by Sampū:
even this grass hut
could for the new owner be
a festive house of dolls!
This was the first of an eight verse sequence, which I left hanging on a post inside the hut.
From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
From love’s deep slumber and from death,
For lo! the trees are full of sighs
Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.
Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
Of grey and golden gossamer.
While sweetly, gently, secretly,
The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of faery
Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.
“From dewy dreams, my soul, arise” by James Joyce from “Chamber Music”