by NONA BLYTH CLOUD
Each poem comes in its own way. Finding the rhythm and shape of a poem can be as natural as breathing, or as difficult as giving birth.
Some poems emerge full-grown like Athena from the head of Zeus, while others take endless re-writing – snipping here, hacking there, until at last like a Bonsai master, you’ve eliminated everything that isn’t poem.
Poets are also relentless hunters, tracking the elusive word. Trying this word, then another, going ever deeper into the thicket, seeking the one word that will make the poem whole.
Kihachi Ozaki (1892 – 1974) knew these tests of a poet’s will and craft. Even with the difficulty of translation from Japanese into English, his thoughts come to us in sharp focus.
A Word
I have to select a word for material.
It should be talked about in the smallest possible amount and have a deep suggestiveness like nature,
bloom from inside its own self,
and at the edge of the fate encircling me
it will have to become darkly and sweetly ripened.Of a hundred experiences it always
has to be the sum total of only one.
One drop of water dew
becomes the harvest of all dewdrops,
a dark evening’s one red point of light
is the night of the whole world.And after that my poem
like a substance entirely fresh,
released far away from my memory,
the same as a scythe in a field in the morning,
the same as the ice on a lake in spring,
will suddenly begin to sing from its own recollection.– Kihachi Ozaki 尾崎喜八
(translated by Edith Marcombe Shiffert & Yūki Sawa)

By ann summers

