Three homesick gentlemen stopped
to weep at the eightfold bridge
overgrown with irises. Inspired by grief,
they composed an acrostic
lament on the syllables
oj iris,
more a sigh than a word, really ,
in pale English: to the left
all disappears off the edge
only to start again, in the following
panel , with a few opaque
stalks , like a voice rising in
gentle inquiry as it murmurs
iris.
The garrulous right-hand screen,
though, whose chatter of blossoms
peaks and ebbs as they scallop across the air
with the eager precision
of architectural bays ,
will only answer with
kakitsubata:
the drawn-out stutter of sobs
like those of the courtiers,
choking with sentiment and poetizing,
who cried until their lunch of
dried rice was dampened with tears.
I paint, naturally, for money. What can
summon all this eloquent
growth as urgently as gain?
On the other hand , you might say that I paint
money itself, that the gold
medium where nature springs
is every coin ever coveted, now ground
to powder and sprinkled on
the waiting screen, now warming
and at last melting happily in the sun .
Wealth, like a rare essence , can
flower from the minimal.
Soothing the rich , my resonant irises
are still richer themselves : for
look how simply they bestow
a lush nostalgia on the chamber where you
make love, make tea, give or take
