A String of Flowers, Untied . . .: Love Poems from The Tale by Murasaki Shikibu, Jane Reichhold

By Murasaki Shikibu, Jane Reichhold

Expressions of ardour and heartbreak, written via Murasaki Shikibu 1,000 years in the past, go beyond time and tradition during this new translation of the poetry within the first 33 chapters of the story of Genji. it's the courting among the novel's characters and the poetry that creates the wonder and sustained erotic tone of woman Murasaki's tale. For the 1st time, those four hundred+ poems are awarded within the more and more renowned layout of tanka (5-7-5-7-7), besides prolonged notes that exhibit the hidden info and intensity of which means in Murasaki's genuine and fictional worlds.

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A String of Flowers, Untied . . .: Love Poems from The Tale of Genji

Expressions of ardour and heartbreak, written through Murasaki Shikibu 1,000 years in the past, go beyond time and tradition during this new translation of the poetry within the first 33 chapters of the story of Genji. it's the courting among the novel's characters and the poetry that creates the sweetness and sustained erotic tone of girl Murasaki's tale.

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Additional info for A String of Flowers, Untied . . .: Love Poems from The Tale of Genji

Sample text

Keep walking. A doll’s red-cheeked face, golden curls tumbling in the foam that pumps in and out at the shore like the edge of a huge heart. But it’s not up to me to put the doll together. It’s understood: I’m here to guard separation, preside over the widening drift. 42 Dog Adrift: Poland, January 2010 The terror of small dark eyes that have given up measuring the vast whiteness. A dog drifts on the Baltic, hunched on his little floe of ice. Frozen whiskers, tail folded beneath his body. There is nowhere to go.

Lips of stone that own no tongue. How tenderly fingers of light and shadow brush the chipped cheekbone. 31 Bone Flute We find things, change things. A flute from a bird’s hollow bone. Slanted through braided hair, a long white feather. How fascinating our early selves, their leavings in display cases. Our tarnished Roman coins. The red shards of our pottery. Our first attempts at glass, the small perfumeries peeling in layers of mica. An iron key, like a lost tooth. The lid that it fit still buried, locked in the earth.

Yet this was how she needed to remember herself, fingers black with dirt, bare arms plunging to the shoulders into the phlox and tangled poppies. 47 Blue Heart Walking past that much lavender was a sort of trial, a sort of bliss I couldn’t stop to savor, and the ghost of lavender hung about me as I kept moving, an incense bomb with its smokily transparent arm hard around my shoulders, and I breathed in the dusk-colored breath, the blue whisper with the merest edge of blood spice, something beautiful has exploded from the earth, I knew this down to the roots of my fingernails, something beautiful survives in this city, the clock of its blue heart is ticking, its thousand tiny seeds numbered among us.

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