NOTHING WHATSOEVER
by: Fujiwara no Yasusue
(translated by Donald Keene)

Nothing whatsoever
Remains of you in this grass
We once used to tread;
How long ago it was we came --
The garden now is a wilderness.

SILENCE

by Marianne Moore

My father used to say,

'Superior people never make long visits,

have to be shown Longfellow's grave

or the glass flowers at Harvard.

Self-reliant like the cat --

that takes its prey to privacy,

the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth --

they sometimes enjoy solitude,

and can be robbed of speech

by speech which has delighted them.

The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;

not in silence, but restraint'.

Nor was he insincere in saying, 'Make my house your inn'.

Inns are not residences.

NEITHER OUT FAR NOR IN DEEP
by Robert Frost

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.

As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.

The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be --
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.

They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?

THE DRAFT HORSE
by Robert Frost

With a lantern that wouldn't burn
In too frail a buggy we drove
Behind too heavy a horse
Through a pitch-dark limitless grove.

And a man came out of the trees
And took our horse by the head
And reaching back to his ribs
Deliberately stabbed him dead.

The ponderous beast went down
With a crack of a broken shaft.
And the night drew through the trees
In one long invidious draft.

The most unquestioning pair
That ever accepted fate
And the least disposed to ascribe
Any more than we had to hate,

We assumed that the man himself
Or someone he had to obey
Wanted us to get down
And walk the rest of the way.

WIND, ANT, HISTORY
by Özdemir İnce
(translated by Talat Sait Halman)

The wind had hanged itself on the plane tree
"death is God's command," they said, "but why did he destroy himself?
he was young, brave, had a bright future,
like magic, all things good and beautiful were his."

It was autumn,
rain kept coming down in torrents,
an ant drenched way down to its marrows
was looking for the safety of a hole
among the fibers of the oily rope.
"Let me pass on a secret to you," said the ant to the rain:
"this wind didn't commit suicide, they hanged him."