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Mount Fuji |
Waterlilies | 25. View in the Mountains of Totomi Province |
How Hokusai loves wood--he saws these planksEvery night, dreams he is fastening beamAnd joist and rooftree with wooden pegs, lashingRushes, bamboo, and willow to the shelter.His architectural imagination lets him constructWindow, rail, porch, bridge, and barrel,Like Pythagoras or Euclid, visualizingWhat you can do with a straight line, an angle,And the pure circle. Here, in Totomi,He found the raw scaffolding, ropedTo the trimmed trunk; he saw how many hoursIt took one man to saw straight down,Ten, fifteen or more feet, not drifting intoThe saw track of the man below, sawing up.
The minutiae of tools, too--how to fileA crossbuck saw, where to lay the rush pads,How to hold the saw--he saw,And made into the scene he reviewed,Each evening, as he lay down for his five hoursOf unconscious building. He loved maple most,Easy to cut, hard enough to hold,Sweet scented, sappy, and deciduous,Lush under oil, austere in the rain.
No image was as fixed as oak,Or as fluttery as a bamboo grove;He worked in pine and cherry,Mulberry, and mostly maple, choosingAn elaborate jigsaw puzzle of chunks,Each distinct, yet yoked together, and,Groaning, communicating, still alive,In the flex of a ship, or the giveOf floorboards, as the servants bring more tea.Beyond the hut of the country workers,The apprentice burns up the sawdust,A sacrifice to the divinities in the trees,Where the fox spirit roams and the green.
Always composing scenes, HokusaiMakes triangle upon pyramid, lookingOut at the ideal cone, perfectly placed,Not centered, because he never likedTo balance; he went as far out,Cantilevered, as he could, given the weightAnd vector of his wood. Beyond,The stable form stares back,Not made, but poured, bubbled up,Then hardened to rock: he shapesEach scene around it, using itAs a plumb line, guide, and survey post.From the muscular push and pull, and the slantingForce of wood, he attends to this icon of soul,The unruffled, unborn Mount Fuji. |
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