Ashes for Breakfast Read Online Free PDF Page A

Matsuo — irgendein zen-
    buddhistischer Witz und die letzten
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Redensarten ringsum wie
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Speisereste verteilt.

NO. 8
    Astonishment at the brightness
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of even the remotest back alleys
    on a night of fresh snow—
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â there it was again
    that haiku-unerringness.
    Or on another occasion Master Bashō
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â when this leadenly coiled river
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the Elbe
    open sewer with its few animated
    tourbillons long since turned to oil one
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â morning lay there without its banks—
    flooded with joy! Those
    suddenly improbably low-slung
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â bridges! It was as though a few
    pontoons were adrift Mayday Mayday
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â squadrons of gulls
    drifted past the gentle slopes and the
    torrential rain brought the whole mélange
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of the dammed up Elbe valley
    to the boil. Some soup.
    Don’t think me malicious, Bashō. In me
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â there isn’t even what was left over
    from “old soldiers’ dreams,” the “summer grass”—
    to be mouthy: I’m fed up
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â with being so grief-stricken pinned
    from one impenetrable instant
    to the next in an aging city
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â in enforced silence in this
    sunken depression of heavy domes and
    narrow needle-spires—Dresden
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â viciously fire-bombed back
    another cold century of tiredness
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â and narrow bustle the streets
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â full of echoes of secret echoes.
    (How it fills the day: the old
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â alarm rituals of streetcars and
    noonday sirens all the noise that by
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â evening is dissolved into
    random nothing.) Because
    the refrigerator my heart
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â and the magically leg-rubbing fly
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â by the window
    are all so assiduous that it
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â almost appears as though there were a
    harmony of everything Matsuo—some Zen
    Buddhist joke and a few congealed
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â phrases served
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â like leftovers.

DIESER TAG GEHÖRT DIR
    Undurchdringliche Augenblicke eng
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â aneinandergereiht wie
    Gerüchte im Schein einer