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  • Mist in June Near Carrig na Mban or Zen Mountaineers Prefer to Climb Mount Fuji in the Fog / Neblina en junio cerca de Carrig na Mban o los montañeros zen prefiferen escalar el Monte Fuji en la niebla
  • Eva Bourke
    Translated by Jorge Casanova

Mist in June Near Carrig Na Mban
or Zen Mountaineers Prefer to Climb
Mount Fuji in the Fog

It was only when I reached the age of 73that I began to grasp the true form and nature of birds,fishes and plants. By the time I am 80 I will have madesome more progress. At the age of 90 I will comprehendthe essence of all things. At 100 I will reach a high degreeof perfection and if I live to be 110, everything I create,every stroke and dot, will live. Hokusai

Last night a mist came inland from the sea.dragged layers of heavy sodden feltacross the Twelve Bens and the bay,and wielding a large soft brushit primed the world with a grey wash.

The wind which usually runs full tiltis hung up like a slack old coat,and the blue ships beside the pierlie half turned over on their sidesas in a dream, their tangled nets

are filled with broken stars and shears.Just yesterday the world was definite and clearbut now all lines seem vague and blurred.Even the cuckoo that wakes us at dawnex cathedra surveying her domain

from an electric pole outside the housecounts out our few remaining yearswith slightly dampened confidence.If you are wandering on days like thisgo into one of the luminous fields,

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Neblina En Junio Cerca De Carrig Na Mban
o Los MontañEros Zen Prefieren Escalar
El Monte Fuji En La Niebla

Hasta que cumplí la edad de 73no comencé a comprender la verdadera forma y naturaleza de lospájaros, los peces y las plantas. Cuando tenga 80 habré hechomás progresos. A la edad de 90 comprenderéla esencia de las cosas. A los 100 alcanzaré un alto gradode perfección y si llego a los 110, cualquier cosa que cree,cualquier brochazo o punto, vivirá. Hokusai.

Anoche llegó una neblina tierra adentro desde el mar.Traía capas de terciopelo empapadoa través de las doce montañas y la bahía,y manejando una brocha grande y suavecubrió el mundo con una mano de gris.

El viento que normalmente corre con fuerzaestá colgado como un viejo y deshechado abrigo,los barcos azules en el muelleestán medio vueltos sobre sus quillascomo en un sueño, sus redes enredadas

Llenas de estrellas rotas y tijeras.Aún ayer el mundo era claro y definidopero ahora todas las líneas son vagas y borrosas.Incluso el cuco que nos despierta por la mañanaEx cathedra vigilando sus dominios

Desde un poste eléctrico fuera de la casacuenta los pocos años que nos quedancon una confianza ligeramente húmeda.Si en días como éstos vagasVe a uno de los campos luminosos,

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where colours show themselves up closeto you, spreading in concentric ringsaround three peaceable white cowslowering their soft-muzzled headsto the abundance of wet grass,

Flag irises stand tall among the reeds,their raincoat-yellow pointed hoods rolled tightor loosely bunched up round their throats,lording it over fog-drenched buttercup and daisybee orchid, lady's smock and meadow rue.

Lie back letting a winged shadow passyou overhead, then turn and read the grass,its various, unspectacular scriptof roots and pollen, panicles, and seedslike downy tufts on old men's heads,

and note on every blade and freshened leafthe droplets gather pulling them to earthrolling like water from a bird,the wires of fences strung with spheresthat transport each an upturned universe.

The mist will serve you on a shimmering platethe inside story, the more intimate viewof things the sweeping dramas hide from us,something the artists of the Mustard SeedGarden School of...

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