Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Oguma Hideo

Phantom Urn

Beast's Child

The loneliness of nights at the maternity hospital—the dinner bell rings quietly.

Ogiya… Profoundly desolate maternity hospital—the beast’s child was born.

The beast’s child firmly clasps both hands against its chest, perhaps gripping something tightly.

The beast’s child with downy fur braced its four legs and began to breathe.

At noon, the beast’s child grew still, its nostrils faintly quivering.

Timidly, someone reached out a finger to touch the area around the beast’s child’s heart.

The beast’s child faintly stirred its eyelids, listening to the grass outside rustle.
The beast’s child, born knowing how to eat, was pitiable indeed.
The black rose spoke some prophecy directly to the beast’s child, did it not?
The beast’s child suddenly flailed its limbs in a frenzy and burst into tears.
The beast’s child, disgusted with this world, shook its head and burst into tears, yearning for the earth.
When the chilly autumn wind blew, even the beast’s child sensed it and trembled.

When the beast’s child soaked in the setting sun’s glow, its downy fur turned golden.

Secretly, secretly, the beast’s child laid its parent into the coffin.

Secretly, secretly, the coffin of the beast’s child’s parent left through the gate.

At the farthest edge of the field ablaze with sunset light, the red coffin remained concealed.

Pufferfish Belly

The spreading mist filled the sea; offshore, bells and drums sounded ceaselessly without pause.

O sky of colors too intense—when I gazed upward, indigo seemed to come crashing down upon me!

By the seashore, tapping a pufferfish’s belly and such things, I regressed into a childlike state—how poignant.

Coming out to the shore, they smashed shell fragments into millions upon millions, yet no smoke ever arose.

The children were searching for things like rough luminous pearls in the shade of blue-green algae.

The wagtail tapped its tail on the rocks all day long—how the sandy ground darkened.

Sad Dream

The Chinese man showed his yellow teeth, raised his whip, and declared: "Henceforth..."

From jet-black darkness suddenly emerged a blue man—it was I indeed.

When I wore this indigo-blue velvet uniform against bare skin, autumn seeped into my bones.

Darkening the eyelids of my pale face, I faced the mirror and smiled—it was I.

With sunken eyes so deeply endearing, I faced the mirror and rubbed them—it was I.

Exhausted from the mad dance, I collapsed on the velvet floor and slept—it was I.

"The joyous sustenance of this flesh is wine"—proclaiming thus through these eyes—it was I.

Collapsed on this floor from dancing—if I were to exhaust my life here, would that bring satisfaction?

When I seclude myself and think of my parent, I beat golden drums and dance—it is I; I sing—it is I.

Imitation of a Saint

On the hill where the sun set, he clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and imitated a saint—how poignant.

Though mere mimicry, this imitation of a saint felt sacred—facing the sea, I harbored no thoughts.

In the belly of the ascetic who closed his eyes, the tide’s roar resounded—deeply, desolately, low.

The false saint, his stomach empty, abandoned sainthood and stood up—how poignant.

When he opened his eyes—the setting sun spread across the sea, red and sharp, stinging his eyes—how poignant.
Having become one with a human heart, he stood up and brushed the dirt from his clothes—how poignant.
The closed eyelids bright—the setting sun glittered on the sea; how serene.

Diver

In the heavy, agar-like undulations of the sea, a diver emerged.

How pitiful the men who dove to the sea’s depths, relying on pumps operated by wives.

Upon the midday sand of the constructed port, divers’ suits hung upside-down—how poignant.

When bubbling foam rose to the surface, they thought the diver would die—how poignant.

Border

On the mountain path， red strawberries wet from rain lay spilled in vivid hues．

In unbearable inner desolation， I touched not the chance-met wild grasses， becoming drenched in dew all through．

When I looked back, my distant village lay contained within a single view, the river white in the distance.

In the neighboring country where Bon flowers bloomed profusely, I took a step forward and shed tears.

Miscellaneous Verses

In the misty steam of the morning bathhouse, an old man chanted Buddhist prayers with earnest absorption.

If one went to the embankment, the embankment's smell held sorrow—that embankment of blue-green grass that sprouted but could not endure.

In the blackness of the Tartar Sea—should a swan float there—I think its feathers would be stained.

Pressed my cheek against spring night window glass and gazed into sea-light—how profoundly this lingers.

Hushed and still all around, on the shore of the windless sea, the sound of sand was heard.

The boat children raised their voices in unison as they cast night nets into the dark offshore—how poignant.

In jet-black darkness, someone lit a bonfire; the ship’s hull glowed red, reflected on the sea.

Late Autumn Town

The red poster that the man painstakingly put up—now the wind comes and peels it away, perhaps.

At the crossroads today again crouched the deranged woman; in the trash can's shadow she ate something red.

When I peered intently at the dog's face, the dog too peered intently at my face—how poignant.

Briskly, wearing a solemn expression like the black dog journeying through streets, I walked through the town—how poignant.

The morning haze lingered stubbornly; the hoops of the great barrels at the brewery resounded.

The pottery vendor on the main street rubbed plate against plate, making a lonely sound—how poignant.

Amidst a crowd of white clothes, a single winter garment mingled in the desolate night street.

Walking through the town, I touched a woman’s skin with my finger and unwittingly startled.

Field Love

The sunflower that bloomed turning away from the sun withered because of that transgression, perhaps.

Bouncing vigorously, it became like a dwarf's temari ball; when the bean pod split open, it rolled out.

The young people’s field love—"Do not bundle the millet stalks"—the wind blew, how poignant.

Golden Fruit

The beast’s child became an adult; the absence of even a single hair was sorrowful.

The adult beasts gathered to speak of how to pluck the golden fruit—how poignant.

Over a trivial quarrel about golden tree fruits—the beasts drew their swords—how poignant.

Over a trivial quarrel about golden tree fruits—one beast lay dead—how poignant.

Even as they picked and picked, the beasts knew no satiety for the golden fruits; today too they plucked them.

How sorrowful—the beasts were wounded because they yearned so desperately for the golden fruit.

How sorrowful—the beasts yearned desperately for the silver fruit and told lies.
How sorrowful—the beasts yearned desperately for the copper fruit and hanged themselves.

Cremating a Friend

Bowing their heads, none speaking, they gathered bones in the crematorium’s silence—how poignant.

Counting the friend’s teeth one by two by—the crematorium where they gathered them with plain wood chopsticks.

After cremating the friend, on the narrow path through the flower field on the way back, the laces of their straw sandals had come undone—how poignant.

In the midst of the distant flower field, on a single straight-standing tree, a crow perched.

The crematorium lay hidden amidst the splendor of red spider lilies; in the distance, white smoke could be seen rising.

In the evening stillness, as the river roared, horses of eggplant and horses of cucumber came flowing down.

Crossroads

When the morning sun shone brightly upon the shoji screens, illuminating them entirely, the eyes grew dim.

On days when I desperately wanted to make a racket with firecrackers, I gazed at the sky.

In the early morning mist, the refreshing Hokke drum resounded—how tranquil it was.

Deeply feeling the regret of having been born human, I shed tears.

A human child was born, and someone came bringing round red-and-white rice cakes—how poignant.

In the clouded glass of the morning bathhouse, a woman's head from the women's section appeared reflected—how poignant.

Clink-clank—though I rattled the teacups, the loneliness remained unhealed; I ate my meal alone.

With parched hands, I solemnly ate the precious rice Mother had cooked.

A single white path it was—that very path where long ago I took your hand.

Taking a red pebble from the roadside into my hand, I blew breath upon it and gazed intently...

Having somehow become barefoot while walking through my town—my heart settled there—how poignant.

The rumor about udon blossoms blooming at the street-corner bathhouse had now vanished—how poignant.

Morning glories bloomed and withered in cycles—tumbling into their planter—how poignant.

Now, where shall I go from here? Standing at the crossroads, I looked around—how poignant it was.

With a boy’s heart, I rolled a stone block along the road.

In the town center, while surveying my surroundings, when I blew the signal whistle once, my heart grew calm.

When I thought of the candy seller who would return crossing ravines and mountains, the sound of a flute reached me.

With a clattering of loud footsteps on the bridge, the soldiers moved like puppets.

Modestly, Japanese women walked through town holding chrysanthemum flowers—how fitting.

With a cunning liar friend—late at night we conversed—knowing full well they were lies.

The children all lined up in a row; how comical their tightly shut mouths looked.

The child’s hat adorned with a bird, bathed in the midday sun, glistened white and did not stir—how poignant.

Owariya Old Man: Memories

Owariya Old Man, the woodcutter, was the fallen remnant of a samurai; he knew swordsmanship.

Rolling up newspapers, I would spar with the old man; now and then we would strike his bald spot—so it went.

Owariya Old Man, the woodcutter, was the fallen remnant of a samurai; he knew ninjutsu.

I begged the old man to show me ninjutsu; outside, a blizzard raged.

I closed my eyes and invoked the sacred thorn, yet no toad emerged, no mouse emerged.

He had said that if one drank sake, one could perform water-escape and fire-escape ninjutsu—yet ultimately he never did.

While I ate my meal, a thunderous crash came from the mountain behind—the sound of the old man felling a great tree.

Snowshoes... Wearing them, the old man entered the snow-laden forest of a clear morning—how poignant.

Autumn Sea Voyage

Among the ship’s passengers mingled a clown; a flute sounded hoarsely—autumn sea voyage.

At Kotonoro Beach where mountains lie distant, under the midday sun shining blue, even the grasses softened.

Dancing Crows

In summer's troubling midday heat, phantasmal crows formed a ring and danced.

How disquieting—at the dance's edge their legs jerked upward in wild disarray!

Tiptoeing two steps, three steps with limping gait—how they rolled those white-rimmed eyes!

When I witnessed these specter-crows' dance, how my chest tightened with anguish!

The crow laughed—kaa!—at love songs warbled by that capricious man.

Ainu Village

Peering into an Ainu house—how poignant, half a salmon hung there.

When Wako's child spoke ill to the Ainu, they laughed and said, "I'll draw my poison arrow!"—how poignant.

The smoke from distant mountain fires drifted and spread, appearing like haze—how poignant.
When one climbed the grassy hill, the Ainu’s dark brown granules lay scattered—how poignant.

Ōdate Town: Memories

A rainy midday when an aunt residing in Akita contemplated a pale-gleaming countenance—how poignant.

The child picking akebia was seen on the distant mountain path—scattering seeds as they passed by， shaking their head all the while—how poignant.

He asked the child picking akebia for one akebia—they did not give it to him, and how lonely that was.

The reflection of pale riverbed stones and such—closing my eyes, I came to think—how poignant.

In the dim light of the riverbank where bats fluttered, the children chased shadows and had not yet returned.

The striped leeches stirred in the dusk-swollen swamp—how sorrowful their innate knowledge of bloodsucking.

Where twilight dimmed the marsh shallows and water stiffened into skin, leeches writhed.

Horse Stable

The sound of horses eating cut straw in the stable resounded and rose to my head—how poignant.

Lying on the floor, I scolded the horse in the stable for its habit of chewing the roof beam—so it went.

To the young man skillfully wielding a hay cutter—"Don’t go cutting off your fingers," I called out—how poignant.

In the cut straw, slender wood was mingled; with a crisp snap came resistance in the hands—how poignant.

In the feed bucket of the horse stable, a barn bird had laid an egg—how poignant.

Daikon Field

In the mountain shade, bathed in pale sunlight, he dug up daikon—his hands grew cold.

As the earth resounded deeply, his hands halted their digging and bent to the soil.

As evening fell, the ground grew colder—how persistently his cough kept rising.

How absurd that daikon live in this world—the unmoving daikon.

In the evening dusk, the pale white piled daikon all vanish into the soil.

Moonlit Night

Walking while gazing up at the late-night sky—the moon hangs upon a utility pole—how poignant.

Brilliantly and majestically—the moon first illuminates every roof of the houses—how poignant.

Loneliness.

The malicious man of old is crying; he weeps under the guise of a woman’s memorial service.

Ceaselessly striking the chest's door, the red-clothed dwarves today too have struck.

In the very center of the eight-mat room, a single red apple lies rolled and stared at—how poignant.

What impulse made my young self startle at the devil’s voice that had peeled away?

Fervently cherishing my own body—how I rubbed my beriberi-ridden shins at the public bath!

What is sorrowful is this brandy in this tavern—how feeble its taste proves to be.

Purple-rimmed cups / rising cocoa steam whitens / the night—how poignant.

Standing on the hill,

Thinking of the loneliness of dying alone—I stand fixed on Sagiri Hill.

Standing on the hill, bathing in the profound sunset—how I came to weep until there was no satisfaction.

Having cried until I grew somewhat famished, I gathered wild berries and stuffed my cheeks—how I came to do so.

The carriage clatters over the uneven pebble-strewn path by the rocky shore—how poignant it appears.

Crushing grass seeds in hatred of your betrayal, red blood flowed.

If one were to pluck a fletch, that color is not a virgin’s—it’s the hue of your milk.

Like the children of ogres, the children ate grass seeds—how crimson their mouths were.

Having met with mother

How I watched my pitifully emaciated mother ride in a rickshaw—how heartrending.

So happy—so happy—I burst into tears and cried to lower the canopy—how piercing.

So happy—so happy—I blew my nose over and over while eating my meal.

How the veins on her forehead remained—traces of my mother's infantile convulsions from years past—how they lingered.

Children’s Kingdom

One child alone pulled taut a toy bow and loosed it with a shouted arrow—how poignant.

The child wearing a motley clown’s hat finally burst into tears—how poignant.

One child pretended to smoke tobacco—was it not sorrowful?

One child gathers grass with a girl, playing husband and wife—how sorrowful.

When one gazed intently at what the children were doing, a faint glow rose thinly from the grass and became visible.

Impressions of the Margins

I inhaled the air of the margins where something sorrowful had settled—how lonely it was.

As I passed by watching the man knead wall plaster—his bare feet looked so cold—how poignant it was.

When I came from afar and suddenly glanced back—the man kneading wall plaster was smoking a cigarette.

The face of the man kneading wall plaster came into view—only his beard was discernible.

Song of Travel Sorrow

Smiling aimlessly at no one in particular, a young woman descended the ship’s bridge—how poignant.

When melancholy’s deeds are exhausted, even a solemn man hums folk songs—such is the sea voyage.

The sailors, now accustomed to striking sorrowful bells and drums, pass through Kotonoro Cape.

The ultramarine sea's flatness—white waves passing unseen, the launch has departed.

At Mooka Port, new houses stood like building blocks from the days of youth.

The grass's color was so lush along the coast that I couldn't help but think of my hometown for a moment.

Abandoning parents—a sorrowful sea journey; return, return to the ship's hold, the waves' roar resounded.

Unable to bear the sight of my hometown; though I retreated to the ship's cabin—how sorrowful—it still appeared in the porthole.

Wind Chime and Wind

In the scorching heat—a windless noon—when I hung a wind chime, how the wind arose!

The surroundings were too still—a demon came—shake this heaven and earth!

The surroundings were too lonely—how my heart stirred to buy a wind chime.

Watching the wind chime sway, deeply I drank fever medicine—how I did so.

"Saki-chan."

With indignation in my heart, I called out to play with Saki-chan, the child from the back alley—how I did so.

How absurd—being a young girl, she played mother and clutched dolls.

The three-tiered undulations of the kappa's hair swayed—now it came running—how I witnessed this.

Being a girl who walked with her legs close together, Saki-chan’s tiny tabi socks were stark white—how pure.

In ohajiki, when she deliberately lost—"How happy!"—she danced waving her hands and stomping her feet.

Goldfish and Death

When frost fell and I thought how sincerely precious life was, I ended up telling the goldfish to die—how poignant.

A thousand, ten thousand times—to the very limit of their lives—the goldfish in the glass bowl moved their tail fins—ah.

The crimson goldfish tilted their bodies and drank water—ah, how deeply.

The six goldfish had dwindled to one by morning—a morning when snow was falling.

In the loneliness of the goldfish bowl where nothing remained—when I dropped a hearthstone, how it echoed in the depths.

Tavern and Nanjing Balls

The man who claimed self-reliance finally came to know drinking—yet his loneliness only grew.

On an increasingly cold autumn late night, when I drank sake—how my heart grew cold!

While watching the silver tail-wagging clock—I drank sake—how lonely it was.

The blue and red Nanjing balls strung by the tavern woman shone so brightly—how they gleamed!

The loneliness of stringing blue and red Nanjing balls one by one under the lamp—

With a rustling sound of autumn leaves brushing against each other—the Nanjing balls rolled so well—how they tumbled.

On the chestnut-colored round table—when someone placed the silver coins for drink payment—how they rolled.

Open Plain

Standing in the field and raising an index finger high—how he caught the small dragonfly that came to alight.

In a corner of the field where his gaze stretched far—wind arose; Bon flowers scattered crimson and small.

Taking withered autumn plants in hand and holding them up to moonlight—how he gazed through.

At the end of the narrowing path, having discovered a vast field—how he ran!

Having come from afar to the plain, he wandered through aimless grass and sat down.

Loneliness was the well sweep at the village outskirts—how clearly it had traced a semicircle now.

The wind swept across the field—the pitiable state of dried grasses; breaking them to hold close, yet their trembling did not cease—how they quivered.

While walking along the path piled with rice ears, how profoundly I chewed their grains one by one.

Gathering the strawberry-red morning sun into my eyes, how I descended the mountain path.

Having reached the mountaintop at dusk and looked upon the town—how suddenly its electric lights had blazed up!

Standing on that mountain surveying streets below—how many magicians might have been walking through them.

A trilling clarinet pierced dusk’s stillness—flowed through town streets.

Crouching to watch ants at pine roots—each meeting brought lowered heads in greeting.

In an earthen hollow of mountain pass—how someone had settled beneath tilting thatch.

Like a silent man, the burnt mountain's trees stood straight and tall—how they had grown!
Two children moved across Mt. Mukatsu holding a mist net—their spotless white hats visible.
Gazing over the field's barren soil ridged red by shadows, the sun set.
With a roar the train passed, leaving behind a silence that sank deep into the surroundings.
Under the embankment frogs croaked in chorus; from loneliness came another whistle.

Stop, children—peeling the bark of white birch trees is pitiful, for their red skin lies exposed.
The children, having found wood-boring insects in the tree’s bark, burned them and ate them joyfully—a remarkable remedy for childhood fits.

Phantom Vessel

The white swan of the marsh stayed close to the earthen jar; the jar did not look back.

The multitude of beasts formed a perfect circle around the earthen jar and howled—how they howled!

At the red cat's uncanny dance, the earthen jar swayed faintly, faintly—how it swayed.

Long ago, the snake had embraced the jar and died—ah! Now a blue serpentine pattern floated upon it.

Peer into the earthen jar's depths—spirits of violet sorrow pooled there, how they gathered!

How nostalgic was the warmth of mud from the earthen jar that seeped profoundly into both hands.

The uncarved earthen jar shone smooth, blue, and desolate beneath the moon.

At the Poultry Farm

Hens paced back and forth in the coop, crying out as if in labor—how they cried!

When in labor, the hens sniffed the scent of their own bellies—how they sniffed!

With a clamor they all ran about—how hateful! The hens came to know their own habit of devouring eggs.

Because they were cherished—to procure feed for hens—someone dug through snow and searched the cabbage field for cabbages.

Occasional Miscellany

When night fell，how one became a sleepwalker with large round eyes who craved drink．

In the quiet night，thinking how dear the back-alley vendor was，one drank sake quietly．

O sorrow—insects cried toward me，yet I lacked ears to hear their words．

Trying to silence the crickets’ chirping—the bush，wet with night dew，swayed ceaselessly．

Carefully prying up the large stone in the night path—yet no cricket dwelled there．

In the night street, a man walked holding an axe; suddenly fear welled up—how it welled!

Walking together with your mother of fair countenance—O child of a concubine, was this not sorrow?

In the night street, a voice resounded as though speaking hollowly, and someone passed by.

When I imagined the manner of my death, I pictured myself lying on the night bed, shrouded in a nightgown—such were the thoughts I had.

While staring at the confiscated red paper, my brother laughed foolishly—how he laughed!

The face that had laughed so foolishly looked desolate—how cold and blue it appeared!

Do not think drinking sake and singing songs lewd—for the woman is lonely.

Loneliness—like the heart of a jar buried in marsh mud—as night deepened.

Until breath might fail like some insect's gasp, I resolved to walk autumn's cold embankment singing.

Against reluctance I took up the poetry collection—how its cover's azure jar pierced with melancholy.

Having rebuked my blameless sister alone—this desolate heart turned toward dusk-clouded skies.

A night-mosquito sought this feeble man's lifeblood—needle poised between furrowed brows.

That quarrel when I bade you stay yet go—now strangely precious among memory's shards.

Forgive me—that time I struck the great tree in the mountain depths and cursed you to become a fiend.

Declaring I love this flower—when I touch the white rose, how sorrowful the falling petals.

Sparse Woods, Setting Sun

When I stood in the desolate woods, truly, how cold the dew felt—ah!

Beautifully, the sun had set throughout the sparse woods; there, a man would hang himself.

If one lingered listlessly in the woods, the vines urged them to hang themselves—how they urged!

If one hung oneself—“You’ll lose your parent!”—so came a cry toward the dangling vines—ah!

I sensed the incarnations of sorrowful things flickering in and out of sight, secretly drawing near.

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Other Tanka

Fiddle with the hearthstone

The howling wind like a sore-covered beast's—

O loneliness—

Fiddle with the hearthstone

×

Letting things take their course

"Leave it be," said the heartless one.

Two or three years that became my heart—ah

×

Touching the outside of things

My own fearful self
I lament my sorrowful nature alone

×

I returned from the barber - my cousin.

She looked intently at my face.

I went upstairs.

Tanabata

The road where someone had just walked dragging Tanabata willow branches.

Riverbed stones bleached white, and the wagtail’s tail too white.

My life—utterly［＊the latter "hoto" uses a doubled iteration mark］worn down by hardship.

Leave her be—the woman with her love-crushed heart.

Straight Street

The woman standing on Biei-cho's straight street was odious.

Sitting pensively in the afternoon sun that enticed one to bathe.

A wide nocturnal city where one wanted to pick up pearls

In the dead of night, a beast ran through the city.

It was the feeling of a child wearing rubber boots.

An unbearably beloved horse had passed through the street.

Walking feels so strange one can’t help but gaze at their feet.

It is not the pistol that shoots the woman who desperately wants a pistol.

The Atheist’s Song

Communism, anarchism, socialism—all worthless, yet somehow their texture on the tongue sits pleasant.

×

Like others, I took a wife and sired a child—and then, ah! The terror of what comes next—

×

I quarreled and struck her cheek; I quarreled and cut her hair—yet my wife remains my wife.

×
I vehemently declared I felt no love for my child—that was a lie—weak Dadaist.

×
God, save this one atheist and see—I declared, yet felt somewhat lonely.

Tormenting one's wife with every possible means—this they call the period of weariness.

×
Like a deserter, the motorized bicycle kicks up dust as it races through the town—ah.

×

I felt glad upon seeing the newspaper report that Hakodate’s monastery had burned down.

×

This life without money is not so strange; do not complain.

×

Like bacteria, the children multiplied; I hurriedly donned hakama and went out.

×

The wife and child appear like livestock; they humbly sip morning miso soup.

×

A man who drowns in drink when he drinks urinates on the church gate.

×

I thought I would build a small grave; if the child died we would make a promise to part as husband and wife.

×

Standing amidst vegetables in the vegetable field I thought it would be good to become one.

×

I visited a friend who had vomited blood on a Red Cross white bed, but the friend did not smile.

×

A moonlit night like a great crimson ball; it rises like a banner of rebellion.

Tanzaku Poems

How beautiful! The red and blue hues of kompeito candies at the confectionery shopfront in Biei.

(A tanzaku poem that hung by the sister’s bedside)

Second Asahikawa Poetry Meeting Drafts

The grassy hill lay buried under snow; this morning had truly turned to winter—ah.

Fourth Asahikawa Poetry Meeting Drafts

Passed by the stone wall of the back alley; the setting sun brightly illuminated the ground below.

Fifth Asahikawa Poetry Meeting Impromptu Compositions

Early Spring (Part 1)

Winter had ended and spring arrived; the garden pine's enclosing habit troubled the eye.

Sixth Asahikawa Poetry Meeting Record

In the front yard, they led out a horse, groomed its coat, and prepared for horse-drawn plowing—the farmers.

Ninth Asahikawa Poetry Meeting Drafts

The sky directly above the barn hung overcast; white clouds raced shadows across the gloom.

Tenth Asahikawa Poetry Meeting Drafts

The flowering beans that grew on my house's wall—in shadow, their colors faded.

Phantom Bird

——While Visiting Sōunkyō Hot Springs——

When they opened a road along the gorge, the men secluded themselves in the thicket and raised their voices high.

Passing beneath the cliff and looking up—crimson leaves emerged from deep mountains in their eyes, brightening the gorge.

Though midday, the phantom bird drew near and cried;

Striking trees with rough wingbeats—they held their breath trying to glimpse the phantom bird's form.

Even as steam bathed their faces, they remained bent over the deep blue pot's brim—

Though roiling, the water clarified—a mole's white feet sank into the pot's scalding depths.

As someone crawled up the mountain path, the lizard's tail glittered blue against the stone.

A man showered in steam drove stakes while laying a new pipe.

In the long corridor where a worker walked with a hand towel draped over their shoulder, the exterior lay shrouded in fog that settled heavily.

Perceiving the thickening mist, bathers sat motionless; the hot water tingled refreshingly against their skin—a pleasant sensation.

Is the one holding the lantern a woman? She comes and goes along the dark mountain slopes of the hot spring inn.

Hokkaido Travel Songs

(1) Asahikawa After Eleven Years

Having come all this way to learn purity and innocence, in the morning light I saw Mount Nutakukamushipe.

Faded and fluttering cold—the Hinomaru flag upon the conscripted household's roof.

Because of that aloof woman in the café, once again the coffee tasted exquisite—ah. (At Hokkai Hotel Tearoom)

After so long away, I stumbled into the hotel's bar—ah, if only morality didn't exist, I thought.

The beauty of a field awash with dandelions—touch them, and the petals resist scattering.

(Kaguraoka)

In Asahikawa there are friends, a sister, and liquor too—a weak heart fears the sword.

Asahikawa, emerged from snow yet still white—town of women, ah, how hard to leave.

(2) Rural Villages Here and There

The *watsusamu* sky's navy blue soaked into my eyes; peasants and sky and eyelids did not depart from sight.

In the dreadful darkness of windowless peasant huts, children lived.

There was a woman modestly minding the shop; on the corner stood a large "House of a Deployed Soldier" sign.

Bite and it hardened; lick and it sweetened—this fallen flower candy. Swallow it whole, and the throat clogged.

A person moved through the rice paddy's mud; they recognized her as a young woman by the red obi.

A moonlit night as bright as day; though I tried to erase them, a face surfaced.

Looking up, I blew Golden Bat smoke—Hokkaido’s heavy bedding, ah.

(3) Staying in Biei Village

The mountains are snow, the town is fierce heat—the people of Biei remain calm.

As dawn broke over Sulfur Mountain, a cream-colored mist settled upon the cliffs.

The large drum appeared reflected in the morning mist; the Tokachi Plain felt chilly.

At Shidan Mountain, the soldiers on the slope shot and shot and shot at the tochka until their spirits were satisfied.

From afar, the bedtime bugle was heard; white azalea flowers remained vivid even to night-accustomed eyes.

The tungsten moon cast a blue glow on the bayonets of soldiers standing guard in the deep night.

Abruptly ceasing, the voices of frogs—having come on a journey—the moon hung at mid-heaven in Biei’s town.

(4) At Shiohori Station

On the clothesline of a peasant hut across the plain—could these be garments meant for humans to wear?

The life of Hokkaido peasants who said there were no mountains to gather firewood that winter.

Though I pursued with my eyes that endless plain—wherever I went, there were Koreans.

O Koreans, Jews of Japan—wander and continue living by your mouths and the land.

A woman who showed kindness at Shiokari got off the train—that was the end of it.

(At Shiohori Station)

When one travels exhausted at desire’s end, what meets the eye is flowers unaware of time.

The morning glow dyes the mountains into mottled patches of vermilion and purple; daybreak approaches.

(5) At Nayoro Town

Alighting in broad Nayoro Town, I ask the tobacco shop girl for directions.

In Nayoro Town with low roofs where winds did not rage, people dwelt with bated breath.

Setting the black lily's fierce hue in my eyes, I began drawing water for the woman from the past.

What resonated in the dreary traveler's heart was the hard, cold plate of tonkatsu.

Bloomng with eyes brimming with surprise at the new—the pansy.

Early in the morning, a single horse galloped past—the street where scarlet bedding dried.

The horse that scattered light with its horseshoes late into the night would likely be requisitioned come dawn.

(6) Travel Sentiments: Miscellaneous Verses

The *Kenbuchi* lumberyard—the cross-sections of logs, these are all peasants' heads (Kenbuchi Observations).

Clouds rise over *Ranru* Station's wildness; even departing holds no heartlessness (At Ranru Station).

At the village school, the janitor calls the names of undernourished children and distributes lunchboxes.

While drinking, as I scatter an udo vinegared dish upon my pillow, the traveler's heart finds peace.

If it survives, stronger than fierce winds—the cluster amaryllis blooms drooping.

O town that birthed comrades of pure heart—Konno Dairiki was no longer in this world.

(Konno was from Asahikawa, a former editor of *Senki*.)

Yperite, phosgene—the Special Duty Sergeant Major raised his voice; aboard the train, they discussed tactics.

(End) In Asahikawa

In Asahikawa here I found a lone woman; anxiety swelled and I hurried to depart.
If one loves, it becomes a town of suffering; in the town where skies clear, one cannot dwell.
Though I depart, my thoughts never linger—the white embankment of Ishikari River.
In Hokkaido, creating love songs is a virtue—friends, do not blame me, for it is truth.
With a snap, the Tokyo-bound ticket was purchased; at last my heart turned toward returning.

Ah, the whiteness of the Ishikari girl's breast—
The train thundered across the iron bridge
Though someone gave turmoil and departed—when I hear "Grant forgiveness," the demon-lily flower blooms.

Travel Songs

At Kamakura

The profile was somewhat beautiful—that there was a window opened on the Great Buddha's back.

Not much of a handsome man—the Great Buddha of Kamakura was made to be devoured.

At Zushi

A place inconvenient for both living and dying—for Zushi's shore lies distant and shallow.

The rolling dark waves of Zushi's sea shatter into light—bioluminescent plankton aglow.

On my hand, bioluminescent plankton that refuse to vanish—coldly glowing, the heart of creatures.

The storm too shall one day abate—yet ceaselessly trembles the heart of the tree.

At Kotsubo

At Kotsubo, I met Kawashima Namiko; on the shore, she was playing with a dog.

At Biei

Swaying gently on Chishiro Bridge—coming and going with the wind—smoking a cigarette, ah.

(Smoking a cigarette—the flavor so rich—ah)

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Oguma Hideo: A Brief Chronology

1901 (Meiji 34): On September 9, Oguma Hideo was born in Otaru City, Hokkaido.
His father was Miki Seijirou; his mother was Oguma Matsu.
Because Matsu remained unregistered, no birth notification was filed.

October 1904 (Meiji 37): His mother Matsu died.
He became head of the household.
On December 26, Oguma Matsu was posthumously registered as an illegitimate child.
Father Seijirou took Naka as his second wife.
Later he migrated with his parents to Wakkanai, Hokkaido, and then to Karafuto.

1912 (Meiji 45): Around this time, he was taken in by his aunt living in Akita Prefecture for one to two years and received upbringing.

1916 (Taisho 5): At age fifteen, he graduated from the second year of higher elementary school in Tomarioro, Karafuto.
After graduating, he drifted between occupations such as assisting fishermen, working as a poultry farm watchman, helping with charcoal burning, and peddling kimono fabrics.

In 1921 (Taisho 10), triggered by the conscription exam, he learned he was Oguma Matsu’s illegitimate child; from then on, he abandoned the Miki surname and began using Oguma.

1922 (Taisho 11): [He] joined the Hokkaido Asahikawa Shimbunsha as an apprentice reporter (some sources say the following year). His literary talent was recognized, and he became a social affairs reporter.

In February 1925 (Taisho 14), he married Sakimoto Tsuneko, the third daughter of Sakimoto Tomisaburo of Asahikawa City.
In April he relocated to Tokyo with his wife, but in July they returned to Asahikawa.
During his time in Tokyo, he published a children's story in the magazine Aikoku Fujin.

1926 (Taisho 15): In January, his first son Homura was born.

In 1927 (Showa 2), he became responsible for the literary column of the Asahikawa Shimbun and serialized poems, children's stories, and other works.

In June 1928 (Showa 3), he resigned from the Asahikawa Shimbunsha.
He moved to Tokyo with his wife and child and began living in rented lodgings.
He worked at magazine companies and trade newspapers, earning his livelihood.
He began to publish works in the magazine Folk Song Poet.

In 1929 (Showa 4), he moved to Nagasaki-cho in Tokyo (present-day Nagasaki 2-chome, Toshima Ward).
He began his life in Nagasaki and Ikebukuro—a residence that would persist until his final years.

In 1930 (Showa 5), he joined the Proletarian Poets Association and published "Even If There Are Tens of Thousands of Spies" in the October issue of the magazine *Proletarian Poetry*.

In 1932 (Showa 7), the Proletarian Poets Association evolved into the Japan Proletarian Writers' Alliance (NAPP), and he accordingly joined it.

In 1933 (Showa 8), he published "A Mother Holds Her Son's Hand" in *Battle Line*, a poetry collection from NAPP's final period.
In autumn, he began preparations with Arai Toru, Tochi Terutake, and others to launch the coterie poetry magazine *Poetry Spirit*.

In February 1934 (Showa 9), he published "Poem on Horseback" in the inaugural issue of *Poetry Spirit*.
He subsequently published works such as "Gold Rush" (April issue), "With Dewy Eyes" (June issue), "Chatterbox" (September issue), and "Song of Milking" (October issue) one after another in the same magazine.
He also energetically continued his activities, publishing works such as "The Reality of Tightrope Walking" in *Reality*, "Immigrant Correspondence" in *Literature*, and "Plumbago Squadron" in *1934 Poetry Collection*.
Around this time, he began a friendship with Terada Masaaki, a Western-style painter and one of the residents of "Ikebukuro Montparnasse," and received instruction in sketching.
(Details about “Ikebukuro Montparnasse” can be found in the nonfiction work of the same title by Usami Shou.)

In May 1935 (Showa 10), he published *Oguma Hideo’s Poetry Collection* through Koshin-sha; in June, he released the long narrative poem collection *Flying Sled* via Zenso-sha.
The poet, who barked “Chatterbox” himself, continued creating energetically in pursuit of his goal to amass “poetry collections equivalent to his stature within his lifetime,” publishing works such as “For the Volga River” (*Poetry Spirit* May issue) and “Song of My Travels with the Wind.”
He published various works one after another, including those in (*Poetry Spirit* July issue) and others.
In November [1935], he became a member of *Taiko*, a satire magazine by poets and manga artists.

1936 (Showa 11): Sparked by "Chatterbox," he clashed with Kitagawa Fuyuhiko and others advocating new formal poetry.
His unrestrained poetic style began exerting influence within literary circles.
That year saw publications including "Padma" (*Poet* February issue), "Chaliapin" (*Poet* March issue), and "Song of the Carriage Departure"
(*Poet* August issue).
He concurrently serialized "Literary World Satirical Poems" in the Yomiuri Shimbun.
While maintaining vigorous output through works like "Hibiya Nearby" and short stories in *Chūō Kōron*, October brought the discontinuation of *Poet*—one of his primary creative platforms.

In 1937 (Showa 12), around the outbreak of the July Marco Polo Bridge Incident, leftist literary magazines were devastated and publication venues rapidly dwindled. He published literary criticism and cultural criticism in *Teidai Shimbun*, *Mita Shimbun*, *Miyako Shimbun*, and other outlets. That year, he held a solo exhibition of sketches at a café in Ikebukuro.

1938 (Showa 13): Around this time, he began coughing up blood and became plagued by persistent coughs and phlegm.
He began writing exhibition reviews alongside poetry for the magazine *Poetry and Art* and advanced into the field of art criticism.

In 1939 (Showa 14), he joined the magazine *Katamari* and published works in its pages including the long poem "Build a Daycare Center" (May issue) and "Satirical University Student" (August issue). Around this time, he completed a collaborative translation of Pushkin’s poetry with Yuasa Yoshiko, but the manuscript was scattered and lost.

In 1940 (Showa 15), he shifted his creative focus to the magazine *Modern Literature* and published numerous works such as “Occasional Poetry Collection” (January issue), “Wandering Poetry Collection” (March issue), “Vagrant Poetry Collection” (April issue), and “Correspondence Poetry Collection” (June issue). However, his health rapidly deteriorated, and on November 20 at 5:00 a.m., he died in his room at Tosho Apartment, 1-30 Chihaya-cho, Toshima Ward, Tokyo. He was thirty-nine years old. On the following day, November 21, he was cremated at Ochiai Crematory. His ashes were interred in Section 24 of Tama Cemetery. Furthermore, in 1947 (Showa 22), seven years after his death, *Vagrant Poetry Collection*—which had already been compiled during his lifetime—was published by Sanichi Shobō.

In creating this abbreviated chronology, I consulted the chronology by Mr. Tochi Terutake included in *The Complete Poetry Collection of Oguma Hideo* (Shichosha).
(Hamano)