High-class geishas who wouldn’t permit a commoner a touch, even
give him the time of day, happily snuggle their sandalwood-scented
silk-kimonoed plump and pricey posteriors into my cushioned seat.
Divine but as yet undiscovered geniuses who pawn their inks and
brushes for a few cups of gruel power me, handsome men with legs
like muscled pistons and lungs like the bellows of mighty organs.
Their cries clear me a path through crowds shopping on the Ginza.
From one street corner I see Fujisan’s fashionable new winter cap,
from another, rain clouds headed for Hiroshige’s Ohashi bridge.
Along the road I go, past merry teahouses afloat in the Sumida and
cherry trees weeping blossoms into the imperial moat guarding the
castle where the emperor himself breathes dust from my wheels.
Joe Smith poet
Honoria Starbuck illiustration
I found the painting in a 2009 sketchbook. Yesterday I looked through my copy of 100 views of Mt. Fuji and did this little ink sketch. Then I looked through the ideograms collection of over 300 poems doing a search for "Fuji". I found 2 poems, Cuttlefish and Rickshaw. Both had reference to Mr. Fuji. But I also had an ink drawing of a cuttlefish so the illustrations aligned themselves to their ideograms.