Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Nakahara Chūya

*Songs of Bygone Days*

*Bashfulness*

――Songs of Bygone Days――

Why does the heart feel such shame?

Autumn—a day of bleached wind in the mountain's shadow it was.

In the hollow of chinquapin dead leaves
The trunks walked with unusually aged solemnity.
Where branches arch together—sorrowful,
The sky, filled with dead children’s ghosts, blinked.
At that very moment, over yonder field—
Asutorakan’s hemp interweaving—it was the dream of ancient elephants.
In the hollow of chinquapin dead leaves
The trunks walked with unusually aged solemnity.
That day—the gap between trunks—an intimate gaze
A sister-like hue—you existed there
That day—the gap between trunks—an intimate gaze
A sister-like hue—you existed there

Ah!
Moments when bygone days smoldered faintly yet vividly—

My heart—why, why did it feel such shame…

Emptiness

Fallen into the alleyways on the night of the year-end festival

The heart too tangled in a mesh of lines

The dew of greasy breasts too,

Bereft of anchor—I, a plaything woman

In fleetingness, unable even to weep

These days conceived darkness.

The distant sky rang in streaks.

Strait shore—winter's dawn wind

White rose’s petals of creation

Frozen through—heart also absent.

The bright day's gathering of maidens

All of them—my old friends

偏菱形＝聚接面そも

The sound of the kokyū—persists in being heard.

*Late-Night Rain*

――Verlaine’s Visage――

The rain tonight, as ever of old,

It sings an age-old song.

Drawn-out, drawn-out—to the point of relentlessness.

And there was Mr. Ver’s hulking frame,
proceeding along the path between warehouses.
Between the warehouses glistened a rubber raincoat,
then came the peat-stained shamanic play.
If only one could pass through this path—
if only one could pass through—this faint hope…
Ah well—could hope have been any different?
There was no need for cars and such!
Bright street lamps were all the more unnecessary!
The bar’s eaves lantern—its rotten eyeball—

In the distance, the chemical plant also rings.

Early spring wind

Today once more a golden wind
In the great wind, silver bells
Today once more a golden wind
As if it were a queen’s crown

Sat before the desk,
He faced the mold-covered window.
The wind blowing outside was a golden wind—
In the great wind were silver bells—
Today once more was a golden wind.
The sound of dead grass was so sorrowful.
Smoke reveled in the sky.
Sunlight joyfully swayed its form.
When the russet soil gave off its scent,
The clothesline pole headed into the sky.
Even as the climbing slope soothed,
The blue woman’s jaw—or so it seemed.
On the hill, treetops were thorny—
Today once more was a golden wind...

Moon

Tonight the Moon has overeaten myoga ginger.

The biwa hanging from the chemical plant roof could not even be imagined to ring.

Even if there was a smell of coal, there was no need to fear.

The shrubs honed their distinctiveness.

The sisters slept; the mother closed the red-ochre lattice!

Now, as for the balcony—

When I looked, there was a copper coin on the ground—or rather, was it a medal? Ah...

This was Fumiko-san’s, dropped today at noon.

Tomorrow I'll deliver this to her.

I put it in my pocket but it weighed on my mind; the moon had overeaten myoga ginger.

The shrubs were honing their distinctiveness.

The sisters slept; the mother closed the red-ochre lattice!

Blue eyes

1 Summer Morning

In a sad heart，night dawned，

In a joyful heart，night dawned，

Wait—what’s this all about？

And yet what a sad dawning of night!

Blue eyes did not move.
The world was still asleep,
And so 'that time' was slipping away,
Ah, a tale from far, far away.
Blue eyes did not move.

――Perhaps they're moving now……

Blue eyes did not move,

They were painfully beautiful!

I am here now, in the yellow lamplight.

I don’t know what’s become of things since then…

Ah, 'that time' was thus slipping away!

Blue, like gushing steam.

2 Winter Morning

And then what became of that...

That I did not understand.

Anyway, from the airfield shrouded in morning mist
The plane's shadow had already vanished forever.
What remained was cruel gravel, weeds—
A cheek-splitting cold remained.
--Even in such a cruel, desolate morning as this,

That people must face people with a smile—
It all seemed so utterly melancholy—
And yet even there—
Those filled with abundant laughter—
were feeling a sense of superiority.

The sun shone through the mist, the frost on the grass blades melted,
In the distant farmhouse, a rooster crowed, but
The mist, the light, the frost, the rooster—
None of it seeped into people's hearts,

People returned home and sat at the table.

(What remained on the plane was me,
kicking the empty bat box)

Memories of Age Three

Sunlight was falling on the veranda,

When resin sleeps in iridescence,

In the courtyard with a single persimmon tree,
The soil was loquat-colored; a fly droned.
Over the child’s toilet / I was being held,
Then from my buttocks / a roundworm hung down.

Because the roundworm squirmed in the shallows of the child’s toilet,

Because it moved, I was startled.

Ahh, I was truly terrified.

Somehow it felt strangely frightening,

And so I,

I cried and cried.

Ah, scared—so scared!

——The room was hushed.
The neighboring house had danced away into the sky!
The neighboring house had danced away into the sky!

June Rain

Once more came a spell of morning rain—
The iris hue of green,
An oval-faced woman with brimming eyes
Appeared and vanished away.

When she appeared then faded away,
Sinking into sorrow,
It fell upon fields
Endlessly falling.

Beating drums and playing flutes,
An innocent child on Sunday
Plays upon tatami mats.

Beating drums and playing flutes—
If they keep playing, rain falls
Beyond lattice windows.

Beyond the lattice window rain falls.

Rainy Day

Along the street, the rain poured down,

The houses' siding was old.

The myriad mocking eyes grew serene,

I awoke while dreaming of flower petals.

*

O russet scabbard of the ancient blade,

Childhood friend with an unruly tongue,

Your forehead was angular.

I remember you.

*

O rasp of a file, O hoarse voice,
O aged and weary stomach,
In the rain, listen distantly,
Gentle, gentle lips.

*

Brick-hued weariness of heart,

A rainy sky peeking in and out of view.

The clever girl's black hair and,

The benevolent father's head and nostalgic...

Spring

Spring makes the soil and grass sweat anew.
To dry that sweat, the skylark crosses the sky.
The tile roofs this morning voice no complaint,
From the long school building, a chorus ascends skyward.
Ah, quiet—so quiet.

It had come around—this spring of mine, this year's spring.

The hope that once stirred in my chest today—

Solemn indigo came falling from the sky upon me.

And I was left dumbstruck, turned into a fool.

In the thicket's shade—a stream, or silver, or ripples?

A stream in the thicket's shade—or silver, or ripples?

A large cat turned its neck clumsily,

Rolling a bell,

Rolling a bell while watching it.

Song of Spring Days

Flow, O pale demure blush—
Do you flow away to the sky's realm?
The heart lies scattered in the distance,
Egyptian cigarettes stray adrift.
Flow, O cold sorrow kept concealed—
Will you reach even the foothills?
The mystery of a face never seen,
To where the throat lies bare...
In the nap's dream-lushness,

The field's sky's sky above?
Waaah, waaah—will I burst into tears?
Yellow barns, white storehouses,
To where the water wheel is visible,
Flow—will it flow away?

Summer Night

Ah—the weary chest's depths,

A cherry-colored woman passed by.

A woman passed.

Summer night's rice paddy dregs,

Resentment made the mind grow distant.

―Do the mountains encircling the basin circle round?

Bare feet were gentle, sand lay deep,

Opened eyes were left stranded,

The misty night sky was high and black.

The misty night sky was high and black.
Parental love was irresistible.
—Through the weary chest's depths，flower petals passed.

Through the weary chest's depths, flower petals pass.
Occasionally, the gong touches the kimono.

The mist was beautiful, but it was hot!

Song of the Young Beast

In black night, in grass-deep field,

A beast inside a fire-extinguishing jar
struck flint and made stars.
A wind mingling winter cried out.
The beast could no longer see anything.

Castanets and moonlight besides,
Holding stars that never awaken,
Inside the jar welcomed blasphemy.
In after-rain fashion memories coalesced into a mass,
They linked arms with wind and surged in waves.

Ah, alluring tale—

Slave, find beauty alongside the princess.

The nobleman’s eggshell-fragile smile and

The child’s sluggish white blood cells—

They make even that beast tremble.

In the black night, in a field deep with grass,

The heart of a single beast smolders.

In the black night, in the field deep with grass——

In the Primordial Age, even soliloquies were beautiful!……

This child—

If kobolds frequent the sky,

In the field—

Pale—
This child.

This child.

If black clouds draw streaks across the sky,

This child.

Tears wrung out—

Silver liquid……

If only the Earth would split in two,

And one half should go abroad,

Then I would sit on the other half

Only the azure sky——

Granite crags—

Beach sky

Temple roofs and—

Edge of the sea…

Memory of a Winter Day

During the day, in the cold wind, the child who took a sparrow into their hands and loved it,

When night came, the child suddenly died.

The next morning, frost fell.

The child’s older brother went to send a telegram.

Even when night came, the mother cried.

The father was on an ocean voyage.

What became of the sparrow, no one knew.

The north wind had turned the thoroughfare white.

When the sound of the well bucket happened by chance,

A reply telegram from the father arrived.
Every single day, frost fell.
He was likely still unable to return from the ocean voyage.
As for how the mother had been since then…
The brother who had sent the telegram was scolded at school today.

Autumn Day

In the shade of trees lining the gravelly riverbed

Autumn—the beautiful woman’s eyelids

Even tears do not surface—the sky’s dampness

O hoofbeats of bygone days' horses
Due to the weariness of long years
If one walks the national highway, autumn pierces through them
It's nothing—I tell you it's nothing
Even the sound of wooden clogs pierces through

The sun now shines on half the gravelly riverbed
Through the current passes an invisible raft
Though distant fields lie prostrate
Even my companion's jesting voice

Strangely blends into the air,

Autumn presses worried lips together.

Cold night

On a winter night

My heart is grieving

My heart grieves without reason...

The heart rusts, purpled with tarnish.

Beyond the sturdy door,

old days wander vacant-eyed.

On the hill,

Cotton pods crack.
Here, firewood smolders,
the smoke rising
as if aware of itself.
Without being beckoned,
without seeking,

My heart smolders……

Winter Dawn

The remaining snow lies sparsely and hard on the roof tiles.

The dead tree's small branches slumber like a deer,

Six o'clock on a winter morning
My head is also sleepy.
A crow crows and passes—
The garden’s ground too sleeps like a deer.

——The woods fled, the farmhouse fled,
The sky was a sorrowful wasting away.

My heart is sad……

Before long, the pale sun shone

The blue sky opened.

In the highest reaches of the sky, Jupiter’s cannon roared.

——The surrounding mountains sank and,

the farmhouse’s garden yawned,

the road greeted the sky.

My heart is sad……

Let the aged ones—

——“Autumn Emptiness”
Twelfth

Let the aged ones abide in the realm of tranquility.

That they may repent to their heart’s content.

I desire to repent.

To repent to one’s heart’s content is for the soul to truly find rest.

Ah, how I long to weep without end—

Forgetting father and mother, brothers and friends, even strangers,

Like the eastern dawn sky, like the evening wind crossing the hills

Like a small flag fluttering, how I wish to weep.

Or perhaps the parting words echo, enter the clouds, and resound across the wilds.

As if passing through all places, mingled with the wind over the sea……

Envoi

Ah, for our cowardice—a long time, so very long time

Entangled in futile things, we had forgotten to weep—truly forgotten to weep…

[Autumn Emptiness, over twenty poems in total, have been scattered and lost and no longer exist.]
Only its twelfth [poem], Moroi

[it] has been preserved through Saburō’s composition.]

On the Lake

If the moon comes out round and bright,

Let’s float a boat and set out.
The waves would lap rhythmically,
There would be some wind.

If we went out to the open sea, it would be dark—
the sound of water dripping from the oar
would murmur intimately—
——through clearings in the forest of your words.
The moon would prick up its ears,
might even drift down closer—
when our lips meet
the moon would hang overhead.
You’d still speak on—
foolish things and twisted words—
I’d catch every syllable—
——but don’t you dare stop rowing—
If the moon swelled round and bright—

Let’s float a boat and set out,
The waves would lap rhythmically,
There would be some wind.

Winter Night

Everyone, tonight is quiet.

The sound of the kettle lingers.

I am thinking of a woman.

I have no woman.

So I have no troubles.

Of an indescribable elasticity,

In an air-like fantasy

I am imagining a woman.

Of an indescribable elasticity,

The silence of the night, clear and pervading

While listening to the sound of the kettle

I am dreaming of a woman.

Thus the night grows late and deepens,

A winter night where only the dog remained awake,
Shadow and cigarette and I and dog—
It was an indescribable cocktail.

2

There was nothing better than air.
Indeed, there was nothing better than the air in a cold night's room.
There was nothing better than smoke.
There was nothing more pleasant than smoke.
You would come to understand that in time.
The moment you shared this feeling would arrive.
There was nothing better than air—
like the hand of an emaciated middle-aged woman on a cold night,
like the elasticity of that hand, soft yet hard,
hard-like, like the elasticity of that hand,
smoke-like, like that woman's passion—
blazing-like, vanishing-like—
there was nothing better than the air in a winter night's room.

As if blazing, as if vanishing

There is nothing better than the air in a winter night’s room.

Autumn Tidings

Hemp in the morning clung to human skin.

The sparrows' voices too hardened.

The chimney's smoke scattered chaotically in the wind.

Digging through volcanic ash, it was as though ice resided within.

The blue sky sank coldly into the depths of vivid luminous ether,

sinking coldly, profoundly

On the stone steps of the church,
if one were sunbathing—
flowers swirled in sunlight;
in the shade, insect voices rustled clamorously.
Autumn days brought warmth to the body,
while hands and feet grew chillingly cold.

Lately, advertising balloons rose and drifted
in Shinjuku’s sky.

Bones

Look here, these are my bones,
filled with the hardships of when I was alive,
Having broken through that defiled flesh,
Bleached white by the rain,
The bone's tip jutted out abruptly.
It has no luster,
merely bleached white to no purpose,
Absorbs the rain,
Buffeted by wind,
It partially reflects the sky.
During the time I was alive,
This, in the bustle of the cafeteria,
There were times when I sat,
There were times when I ate mitsuba ohitashi,
When I think about it, it all seems utterly absurd.

Look here, these are my bones—
Am I the one watching?
How absurd.
The soul remains behind,

The soul had come back again to where the bones lay,
Was it watching?
By the edge of my hometown stream,
I stood among half-withered grass,
The one watching—was it me?

Standing among half-withered grass,

The one watching—is it me?

At exactly the height of a signboard,

The bone was bleached white and pointed.

Autumn Sun Frenzy

I have nothing left now.
I am empty-handed.
Nor do I lament it.
I am utterly devoid.
Still—this fine weather,
airplanes swarm since dawn.
Will Europe go to war?
Who could know such things?
Today's weather stays fine—
the sky's blue blurs with tears,
poplars flutter endlessly,

The children had ascended to heaven a moment ago.
Now on earth, they basked in sunlight.
There was no one left but the salaryman’s dear wife and the Dee-Dee vendor.
The sound of the Dee-Dee vendor’s beating drum
extolled the bright ruins all alone as it wandered.

Ah, won't someone come and save me?

In Diogenes' time small birds must have sung,

But nowadays even sparrows do not sing.

Even the shadows of things fallen to earth are already too faint!

——Be that as it may, where has the country girl gone?

Does that purple pressed flower no longer bleed its color?

Does sunlight not fall upon the grass?
Does even the illusion of ascension no longer remain?
What am I saying?
By what madness am I possessed?

Where did the butterfly fly off to?
Now it's not spring—was it autumn after all?
Well then ah, I'll drink some thick syrup
I’ll chill it and drink through a thick straw.
Slowly, without glancing aside, I’ll drink.
I’ll seek nothing—nothing at all!…

Korean woman

The Korean woman’s clothing cord
Has it been twisted by autumn winds?
At times along the highway they walk—
(She) forcibly pulls the child’s hand.
Thy face with knitted brow,
Her skin a dried thing of red copper—
What thoughts dwell behind that face?

—Truly, I have grown desolate—
In my heart, I must have stared vacantly—
She gazed at me in puzzlement—
Urged the children away and departed……
A wisp of dust that has lightly risen—
What do they take me for?
A wisp of dust that has lightly risen—
What do they take me for?…

・・・・・・・・・・・

A Dream I Tried Waking To on a Summer Night

When I tried to sleep and closed my eyes,
upon the pitch-dark field
of the baseball nine I had watched that afternoon—
only their uniforms faintly white——

The nine were each at their defensive positions.
The crafty-looking pitcher remained unchanged as ever.
The show-off second baseman

still as much of a show-off as ever,

Well, the awaited hit didn’t come.

As one thought “Oh well,”

The nine and the batter all vanished
The grounds where not a single soul remained—
Abruptly, the scorching midday grounds—
The poplar rows encircling the grounds
Azure-tinged leaves fluttering
The ceaseless shower of cicadas
While thinking 'Oh well'... I grew sleepy.

Spring and the Baby

What sleeps in the rapeseed flower field...

What is blown in the rapeseed flower field……

Is it not the baby?

No, what hummed in the sky were power lines, power lines.

All day long, what hummed in the sky—those were power lines.

What slept in the rapeseed flower field was the baby—though

What went rushing by were bicycles bicycles bicycles

What went rushing down the opposite road—

Pale pink, cutting through the wind……

Pale pink, cutting through the wind

What went running were the rapeseed flower fields and the white clouds in the sky.

―Leaving the baby in the field

Skylark

What hummed all day long in the sky―

Ah, power lines, power lines

What sang all day long in the sky―

Ah―a child of the clouds, a little skylark!

Azure, azure sky within
Whirling round and round, it dove deep
Chirp-chirp, it sang—
Ah—a child of the clouds, a little skylark!
What walked was the rapeseed field
Toward the horizon, toward the horizon
What walked were those mountains, these mountains
Ah—woi ah—woi under the sky

What sleeps is in the rapeseed flower field
What sleeps in the rapeseed flower field...
Blown by the wind in the rapeseed flower field
Is what sleeps there—the baby?

Early summer night

And once again this year, summer came,
night—a polar bear made of steam—
crossed over the swamp and arrived.
“There were all sorts of things, you see.
One had engaged in all manner of things.”

There were happy things too, but—

When recalled, everything became sad.

Iron-made, creaking as if

All in the approaching dusk's air

Childhood, old age, youth, and prime adulthood—all,

Together raising voices all too pitiful,

In the dusk, under dancing moths

They bore ephemeral yet delicate jaws.

And yet, though tonight was called a fine June night,

Though distant sounds came carried pleasantly by the wind,

That there was somehow a sad feeling—

The echoing sound of the just-vanished iron bridge,

Above the great river's iron bridge, the sky hung dimly slate-colored.

Northern Sea

What is in the sea—

That is not a mermaid.

What is in the sea—
That is only waves.
Under the cloudy Northern Sea sky,
The waves, here and there baring teeth,
Are cursing the sky.
A curse whose end cannot be known.
What is in the sea—

That is not a mermaid.

What exists in the sea—
That is nothing but waves.

Artless Song

When I think back, I had come so far

That evening of the twelfth winter
Echoed through the harbor sky
Where now drifts the steam whistle’s breath?

In the space between clouds, the moon lingered
When I heard such a steam whistle,
I shuddered and cowered
The moon was present in that spacetime.
How many years had passed since then?
Blankly at the steam whistle’s vapor—
I followed it with my eyes and grew sad.
Where now is the me of that time?
Now I have a wife and children

When I think about it, I’ve come so far.

From here on—how much longer still?
I'll probably keep on living, but...
I'll probably keep on living, but...

The days and nights that have journeyed far—
I find myself longing so desperately like this—

Somehow I can't muster any confidence,
yet as long as I keep living,
in the end this stubborn nature of mine—
when I think of it, even I myself—
what a pitiable creature I am.

When I thought about it—well,

In the end, even if I persisted,

There had been times when I longed for the past, and

I would probably manage to keep going somehow.

When I thought about it, it was simple.

Ultimately, it came down to will.

There was nothing for it but to keep going somehow.

As long as I just did it—

I told myself that, but then again—

That evening of the twelfth winter
Echoed in the harbor sky
The steam of the steam whistle—where now?
Serene desolation
Where nothing comes to visit,

My heart is serene desolation.
That Sunday’s covered walkway,
――Everyone had gone off to the fields.

The plank had a cold sheen,
A small bird sang in the garden.
The loosely closed faucet’s,
The faucet’s droplet glinted sharply!
The soil was rose-colored; in the sky, a skylark
The sky was a beautiful April.
Where nothing came to visit,

My heart is serene desolation.

Jester's Ditty

That matter of moonlight,

The one who taught the blind girl was—

Beethoven or Schubert?

My memory's delusion—

Though my delusion wanders tonight,
I think it was Bet-chan—but
Wasn't it Schu-chan?

In an autumn night when mist had settled,
On garden stone steps they sat,
Bathed in moonlight's glow,
The two kept silent—then

Entered the piano room at last,
Began to play as though tears would flow—

Wasn’t that Schu-chan?

Gazing at the hazy town lights in the distance,

In the suburbs of Vienna,

On that night when stars too seemed to fall—

At the hour when insects swarmed in thickets,

The thirteenth son of a teacher,

That short-necked man,

As though taking the blind girl's hand,

Lunged toward the piano,

His forehead glistening with imminent sweat,

Those cheap-looking glasses,

His round back appearing pitiful too—

What he played as if spewing forth:

Wasn't that Schu-chan?

Schu-chan or Bet-chan—

Who could ever know such things,

Tonight, in Tokyo where stars fell,

He tilted a beer glass,

Were one to gaze at the moonlight,

Bet-chan and Schu-chan both died long ago,
Even that they had died long ago,
No one would have any reason to know...

Memories

On a fine day, the open sea—
How incredibly beautiful it was!

On a fine day, the open sea—
Aren't they just like gold and silver?
In the gold and silver waves of the open sea,
Drawn and drawn, to the tip of the cape—
I came, but the gold and silver—

Still receding, they shone in the offing.

At the tip of the cape stood a brick factory—

In the factory courtyard, bricks were laid out to dry,
Bricks were laid out to dry, glaring brightly.
And yet the factory made not a sound.

At the brick factory, I settled myself,
I smoked a cigarette for a while.
As I smoked in a daze,
Out in the offing, the waves roared.
As the waves roared in the offing,
I remained heedlessly dazed.
When I was dazed—my head and chest—
They were warmly, warmly aglow.

They were glowingly, glowingly warm.

The factory at the cape was bathed in spring sunlight,

The brick factory made no sound at all,
Birds were singing in the grove behind.

Even when birds sang—the brick factory
Didn't budge an inch but remained perfectly still.
Even when birds sang—the brick factory's
Windowpanes were bathed in sunlight.
Even bathed in sunlight
They didn't look warm at all.
On a fine day at spring's beginning—
Brick factory at the cape's tip!

＊ ＊

＊ ＊

The brick factory fell into decline after that,

The brick factory died.

The brick factory’s windows and glass,

Now lie shattered—those things.

The brick factory fell into decay and withered,

Before the grove, it still loomed dimly,
In the grove, birds still sang, but
The brick factory only continued to decay.
The waves in the offing still roared, but

Sunlight fell on the garden soil—
but at the brick factory, no laborers came.

At the brick factory, I too do not go.

The chimney that once spewed smoke
now stood ominously, merely standing there.
On rainy days, it felt especially eerie.
Even on clear days, it felt quite eerie.
Even this eeriness of the chimney—

Now, even so, one couldn't lay a hand on it.

This massive old stalwart

Would sometimes seethe; those eyes were terrifying.

Those eyes being terrifying, today I

Came out to the beach and sat on a rock,

Vaguely looking down while brooding over it,

Until even my chest heaved like waves.

Lingering Heat

On the tatami matting I would lie down,
A fly buzzed droningly.
The matting too had already yellowed—
this morning someone had said so—now that I thought of it.

This and that, aimlessly,

Memories surfaced in my head,
Letting them float as they came—
Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.

I woke up near evening.

The evening cicadas were still singing,

The treetops were catching sunlight,
but I watered garden trees.
Water clung to leaf-tips on lower boughs,
their endless glinting holding my gaze.

New Year’s Eve Bell

The New Year’s Eve bell rang in the dark, distant sky.

For tens of millions of years, it trembled the ancient night air,

The New Year’s Eve bell rang in the dark, distant sky.

It was the fog-filled sky above the temple’s forest…

It rang in that vicinity, then reverberated from there.

It was the fog-filled sky above the temple’s forest…

At that time, the child would be eating soba beneath their parents’ knees,

At that time Ginza was packed with people, Asakusa too packed with people,

At that time, the child would be eating soba beneath their parents’ knees.

At that time Ginza was packed with people, Asakusa too packed with people.

At that time—what feelings must have gripped him—what feelings—
At that time Ginza was packed with people; Asakusa too was packed with people.
The New Year’s Eve Bell rings through dark endless skies,
shuddering millennia-old night air across ten million years,
the Bell rings once more through endless darkened skies.

Ode to Snow

When snow fell, to this I life became—
something both sad and beautiful—
a thing steeped in melancholy.

That snow had fallen on medieval castle walls,
had fallen too in Ōtaka Gengo's time...
The hands of countless orphans
stiffened numb from it,
and urban evenings grew profoundly sad because of it.

At a Russian country villa,
the snow seen beyond the bamboo fence
hung eternal to the point of weariness,
and on snowy days even noble ladies were thought perhaps...

It was thought there might at least be some complaint…
When snow falls, for me, life—
into something both sad and beautiful—
I found myself thinking of it as something steeped in melancholy.

My Bygone Days

I endured a great deal of hardship.
What sort of hardship was that,
I did not even entertain discussing such things.
And whether that hardship ultimately held any value—
whether it had any value or not—
I never considered such things.
In any case, I endured hardship.
Enduring hardship—that’s what it was!
And now, here before the desk,
I do nothing but find myself,
staring fixedly at my outstretched hand—
That is all I can do.

Outside tonight, the leaves rustle.
A spring evening steeped in distant longing.

And I shall die quietly,
I shall die, remaining seated as I am.

The Bachelor

Autumn wind blew across the soapbox.
On the road that demarcated suburbs from city streets,
an Oharame woman walked alone.

He was a bachelor.

He was extremely nearsighted.

He wore his formal clothes as everyday attire.

He had also served at a seal engraver's shop.

At this very moment he emerged from the bathhouse.

The pale sun shining at three o'clock in the afternoon.

Wind blew on the soapbox,
On the road demarcating the suburbs and the city area

An Oharame woman was walking alone.

Spring Night Contemplations

The rain stops, and the wind blows.
Clouds drift; they hide the moon.

“Everyone, tonight is a spring evening.”

A tepid wind blows.

Somehow, a deep sigh,

Somehow, a distant fantasy,

It wells up, but that cannot be grasped.
To no one can it be spoken.
To no one can it be spoken.

But that very thing is—
isn't that life itself?
Yet it cannot be shown...
Thus each human being,

If they felt with the heart and faced each other,
smiling faintly—that sort of thing

“Doing that sort of thing, they pass their whole lives, don’t they?”

The rain stops, and the wind blows.

Clouds drift; they hide the moon.

“Everyone, tonight is a spring evening.”

A tepid wind blows.

Cloudy sky

One morning, I within the sky,
I saw a black flag fluttering.
Flutter flutter—it was fluttering,
No sound reached me—such was its height.
I tried to haul it down,
With no rope, even that proved impossible;
The flag did nothing but flutter and flap,
as though dancing into the sky’s innermost depths.

As though fluttering into the sky's innermost depths.
Such mornings too in days of youth,
I often recall having seen.
Back then, it was upon the field,
Now upon the city's rooftops.
That time, this time—times were sundered,

Here and there differ the places,

Flutter flutter—alone in the vast sky,

O black flag of yore, unchanging still.

Dedicated to a Dragonfly

Too clear was the autumn sky
A red dragonfly flew
Bathing in the pale evening sun
As I stood in the field

In the distance, factory smokestacks
Hazed by sunset glow appeared

I heaved a deep sigh
Crouched down and picked up a stone
That stone fragment's chill

As it gradually warmed in my hand,

I let go and turned to grasp at grasses.

Bathing in the sunset, I pulled up grass.

The pulled-up grass lay on the soil,

faintly, faintly withering away.

In the distance, the factory smokestacks

were visible, hazed by the evening sun.

Autumn of Eternal Parting

Gone, never to return

——Kyoto——

I was at the edge of this world.
The sun was warmly showering down, and the wind was shaking the flowers.

The wooden bridge's dust kept silent all day, the postbox blazed brilliantly all day, and the baby carriage with its windmill remained parked on the street.

Neither residents nor children appeared on the streets; I had no relatives whatsoever; my occupation lay in occasionally observing the sky's hue above the weathervane.

Yet boredom never came—the air held honey within it, an incorporeal honey suited for perpetual sustenance.

I did try smoking now and then, though even then I only cared for the scent.
What's more, I would never smoke indoors.

Now, my beloved possessions amounted to a single towel.
Though I had a pillow, when it came to bedding there wasn't even a shadow of futon; while I did possess something like a toothbrush, the single book I owned had nothing written inside—I would occasionally pick it up and take pleasure in its weight alone.

The women were truly dear to me, but I never once thought to go meet them.
Just dreaming was enough.

Something indescribable ceaselessly propelled me onward; though I had no purpose, hope thrummed in my chest.

＊ ＊

＊

In the woods there was a park so strange it defied belief, where women, children, and men strolled about with cheerfulness so intense it felt eerie, speaking a language I couldn't understand and expressing emotions I couldn't comprehend.

And in that sky, a spider's web shone silver.

A Fairy Tale

The autumn night—in its far reaches—
lay a riverbed strewn with small stones.
Upon it, sunlight sifted down
with a dry rustle as it fell.
Though called sunlight, this was like quartz
or some immense solid rendered to powder—
and precisely because of this composition
did it make that faint sound while falling.

And now，upon a small stone，a single butterfly had just alighted，
Pale yet distinct，
It was casting a shadow.
When the butterfly eventually disappeared，before one knew it，
In the riverbed where no water had flowed until now，
The water was flowing with a rustling，rustling sound……

Phantom

In my head—since when I don’t know—a seemingly ill-fated Pierrot had taken residence alone. It wore gauze-like garments and bathed in moonlight. At times it would make feeble gestures, incessantly moving its hands in pantomime whose meaning never once came through—doing nothing but stirring pity. As its hands gestured, its lips too would move—like watching some ancient shadow play—yet no sound emerged at all.

There was no sound at all，and
I couldn’t understand what he was saying．

Bathed pale and stark in moonlight，
In an eerily luminous mist，
While slowly moving his faint form，
Only his gaze remained endlessly gentle．

The husband of a shameless woman sang：
“You love me—not even once—
You’ve never once hated me．

“I love you too.”
“From a previous life—”

As if it were all predestined.
And so the two souls loved each other gently and unknowingly.

By now it was a long-standing habit.

And yet they also had,

they had terribly fickle hearts,

the most natural feelings of love,

At times, they found it bothersome.

More than the sweet fragrance of perfume,

They yearned toward the hospital’s—ah, that smell.

So the closest two people,

At times they hated each other most intensely.

And afterwards, in an unknowable state—

They immersed themselves in feelings of regret.

Ah, between the two there was infidelity,

That obscured the truth.

More than the sweet fragrance of perfume,

They yearn toward the hospital’s—ah, that smell.

Wordless Song

That lies in a distant place—

I must wait here.

Here, the air was thin and pale blue.
Like a green onion root, faintly pale.

Never rush

I must wait here long enough.

I must not gaze into the distance like a maiden’s eyes.

I should indeed wait here.

Even so, that lay hazed by sunset in the distant beyond—

it was deep like a steam whistle’s sound yet fragile.

But you must not dash toward it.

I must indeed wait here.

If I do so, my panting will soon return to calm.

I can certainly make it there without a doubt.

But that was like chimney smoke
drifting far and faintly, trailing endlessly in the crimson sky.

Moonlit Beach

On a moonlit night, a single button
At the water's edge lay fallen.
I picked it up, thinking to put it to use—
Though truth be told I hadn't thought at all—
Yet found myself unable to discard it.
I slipped it into my sleeve.

On a moonlit night, a single button
At the water's edge lay fallen.
I picked it up, thinking to put it to use—
Though truth be told I hadn't thought at all—
Toward the moon I couldn't cast it,
Toward the waves I couldn't cast it.

I put it into my sleeve.

On a moonlit night, the button I picked up—
It seeped into fingertips, seeped into heart.
On a moonlit night, the button I picked up—

How could I ever throw it away?
Spring will come again…

People say spring will come again.
But I am in pain.
What good would spring’s coming do?
That child won’t return.
When I think—back in May this year,

Holding you at the zoo

Even when I showed you an elephant, you called it a cat.

Even when I showed you a bird, you called it a cat.

The last deer I showed you—

Was it those antlers that held your gaze?

You said nothing, only kept gazing.

Truly, even you back then—

There in the heart of this world's light

You stood watching...

Moonlight Part I

The moonlight was shining.

The moonlight was shining.

In the corner of the garden, in the thicket of grass,

The one hiding was the dead child.

The moonlight was shining.

The moonlight was shining.

Oh, Chirithy and Amantho

Had come out onto the lawn.

They had brought a guitar, but

It lay abandoned there.

The moonlight was shining.

The moonlight was shining.

Moonlight Part II

Oh, Chirithy and Amantho
had come out into the garden to play.
Truly, it was a spring evening.
A tepid haze lingered.
Bathed in moonlight,
the guitar lay on the garden bench.
Though it sat nearby,
they showed no sign of playing it.
Across the lawn stretched a forest,
pitch-black in its depths.

Oh, Chirithy and Amantho
While they whispered furtively,

In the forest,
the dead child
crouches like a firefly.

Village Clock

The village's large clock had been moving all day long. The paint on its face had already lost its luster. When I approached it, there were many small cracks. Even when bathed in sunset light, it maintained a subdued hue. Before striking the hour, it would wheeze—whether from its faceplate or inner mechanism neither I nor anyone else could understand.

Portrait of a Certain Man

1

The dandy who had returned from abroad,

Even as he aged, he kept applying green oil to his hair.

Night after night he appeared at the café,

and the way he conversed with its owner seemed pitiful.

When people heard he had died, it made him seem all the more pitiful.

2

——Disillusionment is the color of steel.

The sheen of hair and the gold of the lamp at twilight

Toward the garden, from the wide-open doorway,

He went outside.

Freshly shaven—his neck and wrists,

Every part of him parched and dry,

It was cold.

From the doorway left wide open,

Regret, together with the wind, mercilessly

was blowing in.

Reading, stifled love,

Warm tea too—together with the twilight sky—

were no longer there with the wind.

They were no longer there—gone with the wind.

3

She

She had entered into the wall.

And so he was alone,

In the room, he was wiping the table.

Winter’s Nagato Gorge

At Nagato Gorge, the water was flowing.

It was a cold, cold day.

I was at the ryotei.

I drank sake.

There was no one else besides me,
There were no guests at all.

The water flowed ceaselessly, as though possessed of a soul.
On and on it flowed.
Then came a sunset like a mandarin orange,
spilling its light over the railing.
Ah!

——There were such times too,

It was a cold, cold day.

Yoneko

The twenty-eight-year-old virgin,

suffering from tuberculosis, had thin calves.

Like a poplar where no one passes,

She stood along the sidewalk.

The virgin’s name was Yoneko.

In summer, her face appeared soiled,

In winter and autumn, it was beautiful.

——She had a faint voice.

The twenty-eight-year-old virgin,

if she were to marry, the illness—

it was thought she might be cured.
And thinking so,

I often saw the virgin…

But I never once put it into words.

It wasn’t particularly because it was hard to say.

It wasn’t because I thought speaking would cause her disappointment instead,

I wonder why—it ended up being left unsaid.

The twenty-eight-year-old virgin

stood along the sidewalk,

an afternoon after the rain, like a poplar.

——I want to hear that faint voice once more……

Noon

Maru Building Scenery

Ah, it's the twelve o'clock siren, the siren, the siren!

Oh they come streaming out, streaming out, streaming out!

Salaried workers on lunch break, swaying idly as they waved their hands,

From behind, from behind they came out, they came out they came out

The large building’s jet-black, tiny tiny entrance and exit.

The sky stretched vast and thinly overcast, thinly overcast; some dust was also rising.

Whether glancing up with startled eyes or casting them downward…

What in the world were these cherry blossoms? Cherry blossoms? Cherry blossoms?

Ah, it was the twelve o'clock siren, the siren, the siren!

Oh they came streaming out, streaming out, streaming out!

The large building's jet-black, tiny tiny entrance and exit.

In the sky-blowing wind, does the siren reverberate and reverberate only to fade away?

Spring Day Rhapsody

1

When the beloved dies,

One must commit suicide.

When the beloved dies,

There is no other way.

But even so, with karma (?) being deep,

If one must still persist in living,

One must adopt a mindset of service.

One must adopt a mindset of service.

Since the beloved has died,
Since that has indeed died,
Since it can no longer be helped,
For the sake of that very thing, for the sake of that very thing,

One must adopt a mindset of service.

One must adopt a mindset of service.

2

One adopted a mindset of service, but—

Well—there was nothing particularly special to be done.

So as before—if books meant thorough reading,

So as before—if people required politeness,

Took walks at measured tempo,

Devoutly plaited Sanada straw braids—

This way became toy soldiers,

This way turned every day Sunday.

Strolled through shrine sunspots,

Met acquaintances with practiced smiles,

Befriended candy-hawking elders,

To the pigeons—beans and such—scattering them about,
When it became too bright，one would enter the shade,
There，one would look over the ground and plants.
The moss was truly cold,
Beyond description was today’s splendid sun.
Shrine visitors straggled along,
I wasn’t angry at all.

｟Truly, life—a momentary dream,
The beauty of a rubber balloon.｠
Rising into the sky, shining, vanishing—

“Ah, good day. How are you today?”
“It’s been ages. How have things been since then?”

“Let’s have some tea somewhere around here.”

Though they eagerly entered the tea shop,
as for conversation—there was little of substance.
They sullenly blew cigarette smoke,
made an indescribable resolve—
The outdoors was truly lively!

“—Well, see you again sometime. Give my regards to your wife.”
“If you go abroad, please send word.”
(You shouldn’t drink too much alcohol.)

Carriages passed, and streetcars passed.
Truly, life—a radiant bride.

Dazzlingly, beautifully, and yet bowing her head,
If made to converse, would one simply grow weary?
Even so, it sets the heart aglow—
Truly, life—a radiant bride.

3

Now then, everyone,

Neither rejoicing too much nor grieving too much,

Let us shake hands at proper tempo.

With proper Tempo, let us shake hands.

In other words, what we lack—

As for something like integrity—let us take to heart.

Now then, everyone—now, all together—

With proper Tempo, let us shake hands.

Croaking of Frogs

The sky covers the earth,
And on the earth there happens to be a pond.
At that pond tonight, frogs will croak all night long——
——What are they crying out?

That voice came from the sky,

Would it depart back into the sky?

The sky covers the earth,

And the frogs' croaking ran across the water's surface.

Even if this region was excessively humid,

For our weary hearts,

The pillars were still felt to be too dry,

The head was heavy; the shoulders were stiff.

Now, despite that, when night came frogs croaked,

That sound raced across the water's surface and pressed against the dark clouds.

Afterword

What is collected here constitutes the majority of works published after *The Songs of Goats*. The works span from those created as early as Taisho 14 to as recently as Showa 12. While I mention it in passing, *The Songs of Goats* contains works from the spring of Taisho 13 through the spring of Showa 5.

If writing poems alone could constitute a poetic life, then my own poetic life would have already spanned twenty-three years. If one were to count from when I resolved to make poetry my profession, then it has been fifteen years.

Whether one called it long or short, during those years I felt and thought not a few things.
Merely considering outlining them now chilled me to the bone.
I had nothing—therefore I did not intend to engage in conversation.
Only this did I wish to state: that from the day I confirmed with certainty my individuality suited poetry best, I had dedicated myself to it as my vocation.

I was now compiling the manuscript for this poetry collection, entrusting it to my friend Kobayashi Hideo, parting from thirteen years of life in Tokyo, and withdrawing to my hometown. There was no particular new plan, but I intended to immerse myself ever deeper into my poetic life.

Well then—what would become of me from here... When I thought of that, it loomed vast and formless.

Farewell, Tokyo!
O my youth!

[1937·9·23]