Eric Hoffman


A Selected Saitō Sanki (1900-1962)

1936

Bedridden—
legs face
the icy sea

Cannon fire—
one two three—
snowflakes melt on my tongue

Trains and women depart—
start of a lunar eclipse

Eating a plum—
sunlight seen 
through a child's ears

Summer dawn—
a child draws
horses in the mud

Nightfall,
no smiles today—
I eat grapes

The grapes are so sweet—
I silently seethe
over the death of a friend

How to define realism?
The grapes
have a sour taste

1937

Dead winter garden—
a snow-white dog
watches me

A monk on board
a black battleship—
how silent its departure

1939

On a hillside 
our shadows and the shadows
of sunflowers mingle

At night, the lake—
a lit match illuminates
my pallid hands

Machine gun—
from the skull
blood blossoms

From cold, 
bloodstained ground,
mushrooms grow

In the trenches
an insect rests
on my hand

Machine gun 
sputters,
scorpions fuck

Air-raid siren—
I gently caress
her moonlit fingers

1945

My country hungers—
count me among those who see
a winter rainbow

1946

Midlife—
astonished by my monologue
as I climb a hill in winter

He laughs,
his shadow laughs—
house bathed by summer rain

How immense
are some women's breasts—
here comes summer

1947

This morning,
koto on radio ends—
leaves me hungry

Autumn wind—
charred tree
far away

A rooster—
under fallen leaves
nothing

Tenderly—
snow falls
on snow

Distant sea—
I crouch down
and dig for winter shells

Pink cherry blossoms
against a slate gray sky—
a mirror reflects my lonesome tongue

Hototogisu—
my child no longer
a child

Face cleanshaven,
centipede dead,
I go out

Green plums
populate the darkness—
a baby wails

Moonlit night—
a furry caterpillar sits on a rock,
wide awake

At Hiroshima,
mouth open only when 
I eat a boiled egg

1948

All I own
is my shadow—
the heat surrounds me

A father staggers drunk
through a withered field—
headed home

In a rainstorm,
sparks like stars fall
from the streetcar pole

A giant moth
adhered to the ceiling—
rented home

1949

At the foot of the cliff,
I hammer nails
into a chilly hut

Home again—
the horse's wound festers,
inviting flies

With my fingers,
I eat green grapes
with the dead

1950

Light snow—
a gravedigger's head
slightly seen

A bee bumps
against the window—
sun between rain

Earthworm
struggles in sand—
I step over it

Red dragonfly 
arrives, takes hold
of my shoulder

The nisō's tooth 
I removed
has finally dried

1951

A locomotive
empties its hot water
into a dry riverbed

1952

Cold night dawn—
red zōka
remains

Odd rock struck 
by hailstones
then dim light

Kingyo licks
thin ice,
then descends

Frog breath
gentle on an
iron sheet

1953

My older brother's cancer-ridden—
I hear his quiet voice 
over the telephone

Spring gloom—
newborn earthworm
squirms

1954

The ox and I
silenced by
hailstones' fall

A choir of frogs
defends
the dark earth

1955

With her teeth
she unclasps a kurippu—
snow begins to fall

This world in which
he has ceased to be—
sunlight stippled by leaves

1957

Winter fly
whispers in my ear
his death haiku

1959

From the trees
the scent of apples—
volcano belches smoke

1960

The skeleton
of a massive fish
reclaimed by the sea

1961

Death's weightlessness
from hand to grave—
nakidori

Eric Hoffman is the author of Circumference of the Sun (Dos Madres, 2021), and the editor of Conversations with John Berryman (University Press of Mississippi, 2021) and a new edition of Philip Pain's Daily Meditations (Spuyten Duyvil, 2021). He lives in Connecticut.

 
 

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