The Yale Anthology of Twentieth-Century French Poetry

JEAN FRÉMON

Hokusai arrived last, a basket in his hand and a roll of paper under his arm.
He unrolled a length across the grass beside the West Terrace and anchored it
down with a weight at each corner. He then mixed some blue ink in a little cup,
adding a lot of water to keep it fluid and transparent, and placed it beside the
paper.

He poured some red ink, the sort used for the seals of o≈cial documents, into
another bowl at his side. From his basket, he drew out a chicken, flapping and
squawking, ready for a fight, even though its legs were bound. Holding the bird
firmly, he dipped its feet into the red ink. Then with a little kick, he overturned
the cup of blue ink, spilling it across the paper and into the grass. With a flick of
his knife, he cut the cords, freeing the bird, who set o√ across the paper, leaving
behind her a brilliant trail of red.

Hokusai bowed low before the Shogun, saying,

Autumn, the

maple leaves

glide downstream.

The sovereign turned to consult his judges and then asked, ‘‘What’s your
name, and what’s your chicken’s name? One of you has certainly won, but I
haven’t yet decided which.’’

Hokusai (it is said) replied, ‘‘Sire, in every kingdom around, there are peas-
ants who raise chickens, but only one sovereign has for a humble subject an old
man mad about drawing named Hokusai.’’
—cole swensen