Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

The past of Japan - this Oriental nation filled with incomparably beautiful illusions - is something to which I cannot help feeling attached as my homeland.

And at the same time, regarding how in my country—which ought to be beautiful—a child bearing this demonic countenance of mine was born, I deserve thorough reproach from someone.

Whether compiling these unfathomably aberrant thoughts of mine into a poetry collection and presenting it to the world now should bring joy or sorrow—I myself cannot tell.

Some label my ideology as humanism; others brand me a poet of devilism or pessimism; still others vacillate between declaring me romanticist or realist.
For this past year criticisms of every stripe have assailed me from all quarters; had I lacked that truth-devoted stubbornness which refuses defeat, I would have been flattened beneath criticism's weight before ever publishing this collection.
Yet compiling this modest system of thought into one volume here and creating contact with the people's heart fills me with boundless joy.

I believe that you, dear readers, will come away from this poetry collection of mine with the impression of having encountered “a certain special something.” I believe you have sensed some new addition to conventional poetic forms and concepts from my poetry; this is none other than the partial harvest of my continued destructive work upon Japan’s poetic forms thus far, carried out with all the capability and potential power I possess as a poet. My poetic endeavor to establish “poetry” as truly being the language of the people is a daunting one, though my instinct will likely continue sustaining it henceforth.

The remark someone made—"Oguma is a great natural fool"—stood as the criticism that convinced me most thoroughly; I believe I have experienced the psychology of the people's great foolishness; the people now live with utmost mania, bottomless melancholy, and endless laughter from reality's depths; I want to give voice to the will of this 1935-era populace—seemingly dull-witted, giving the impression of mental numbness.

And in this seemingly foolish era of Japanese melancholy, how are we to ensure truth's penetrating clarity and purity? I shall continue to struggle alongside the people with this very question.

May 1935

Oguma Hideo

I

Song of the Farrier

"Don't cry,

Don't be startled,

My horse.

I am a farrier.

From your hooves

I raise raw smoke—

Is my work cruel, I wonder,

Young horse.

Young man,

Upon your nails

I’ll make you wear crimson-hot iron shoes.

And singing a work song,

“Endure this—

Soon that iron will cool,

become part of your feet,

armor for your nails.

Now you’ll run free—over any thorns,

any stony path—

charge through them all—”

As I comforted you,

clang-clang went my hammer shaping shoes.

“Ah, my horse,
my friend,
listen closely to my song.
My songs are likely crude,
my songs likely aren’t sweet—
to answer your pain,
my songs
are songs of suffering.”

The red-hot horseshoe
Pressed to your living hooves—
Like smoke at the moment of contact,
My songs
Rise as grey song.

"Become strong,
My friend,
Young man—

Take my crimson flame
With your four legs!
You there—that rugged crag—
Use those strong legs to crush your way upward!"

Clang-clang forging horseshoes—
The struck and the striker—

"You and I are brothers,
Together in reality’s shared suffering."

Poem on Horseback

For my great thief

Throw the lasso!

My will stands quietly.

Try to seize that will.

That will is there.

Not there but here.

"No—not there! Over there!"

"Oh prosecutor! Bailiffs!"

“Be confounded!”

The eight-pronged sleeve-snaring man-catcher,

that thorn-studded thing—

drive it into my flesh.

Even if they tear my flesh, I will make good my escape.
The colt—its mane only just beginning to grow—
I ride the dear creature,
My sole steed,

In the midst of riding it around,

Even as a great thief,

I catch colds,

Develop crushes on women,

Drink,

Take naps—

Everything lives a human existence.

But my great thief's work lies in
creating poetry on horseback,
undertaking the vanguard,
being the avant-garde,
all culminating in demonstrating courage.

When I was on horseback
If I sang a poem—

Ah, that poem—

stealing something from the world of the wealthy,

First I stole their spines
so they'd go limp and crumble at the waist
then stole history
and rewrote it in our ledger
then stole women
This one was an irresistible catch
Stole chance into necessity's sack
stole scholars
had them create our records
stole girls
for our comrades' brides
stole the nation
dipped this one in blood for good measure
stole religion
Even had they given this one for free

In our world, there are no takers.

My friends,

Fight,
The enemy's possessions are abundant—

Steal,

Each of you—demonstrate the great thief's dignity,

A group of foals,

Our crimson expeditionary force,

The bailiffs' pursuit,

Meet them with your flashing key-rope cloaks,

If the cloak comes off,
Meet them with your coat,
If the coat slips off—nakedness,

If the saddle falls off,

A naked horse.

All we—

We are stripped utterly bare—

Ahead lies storm,

Clothing was unnecessary—
Ride in naked!
Sing naked poems!
My great thief-poets!

Gold Rush

An outrageous story,
Word came fluttering in from the north—
"You there—quit dilly-dallying,
All those worthless things lying around here—
Everyone—throw it all away and let's get going."

Bid farewell to home, bid farewell to fields—
Lingering sentimentally now—
Don’t go peeking under the floorboards.
Anyway, this endless depression’s brought us here—
No sense hiding wads of cash beneath the floor joists.

Go pick up the brats from school,
They might be in class,
Don't give a damn—just drag them here.

“If the teacher complains,”
“Don’t give a damn—tell ’em off and come back.”

“Hey brats who still ain’t paid tuition—hands up!”
and
he barked.

The landlord’s lackey
grabbed us poor folks’ brats—

“Squabs, fall in line!”

“Ain’t no use whinin’ this way or that now.”

Now they made even brats carry shovels.

In the river, they made them dig up the riverbed right then.

When it came to hands, they'd even borrow a cat's paw.

Just gold digging—that's all it was.

"As for my own brats—I'm taking 'em along myself,"

"Tomorrow—not a single brat in the whole village"

"will be going to school—go tell 'em that,"

"What's all this panic? Putting on my wife's leggings inside out—"

"I’ve turned sixty—
At this point I don’t want to cross seven mountains—
Grunting and shuffling without even properly speaking—"

Peasants, convinced they should act as peasants ought to,

“Yes sir to this, yes sir to that—”
“We’ve stayed poor just like you lords ordered.”
Cross seven mountains
and glittering gold awaits—
“What hell’s this—now my luck’s dried up complete.”

“Hey, you! What’re you spacing out for—”

He stood there like a dazed person—

“That rope goes into this bag.”

“When you put away the karasuki hoe, don’t forget the whetstone.”

I’ve lost all patience for being poor any longer—

In reckless desperation, this old man’s resolve to cross the mountains—

The sentiment in this old man's heart to cross the mountains must be the same as any soul in this village—
Oh, oh—the sky blazed bright,
He set fire to this accursed house.

That was fine too—my resolve was set—
While at it—into that fire—
If I threw the brats in too，all the better—
Once lightened，

“Alright，let’s head out，village folks.
Tomorrow，this village’ll have only the government office and police station.
They’ll stand lonesome-like.
The whole place’ll be emptied clean.”

Come on—vigorously—oil cans—someone was smashing them—
They lit torches vigorously, making everything lively.
Even that damn horse—
On the way out, for good measure,
they were kicking off the horse stable’s siding—
As for us too, in parting,

At the government office entrance

“Shōben—alright, let’s go do it proper!”

“What’s this—the bride’s sniveling,

Anyway, that drum-taut belly—

With her belly sticking out like that, walking must be difficult—

Child in the womb—so it doesn’t drop out—on top of the carriage,

With a heave-ho, stacking futons

If they ride along, that’d be best.”

――As for the sun god and fresh water—

Wherever you go, they follow—

When we reached the riverbank—the brats’,

Heads thrust into the river,

Make them drink water till their bellies split,

When they vomited bile, gold dust came flying out.

The desperate villagers'
They had to cross seven mountains.
What was to be burned was burned,
What was to be smashed was smashed—
Leave not one shred of attachment behind.
As for living creatures—
They were not to leave a single thing behind—
They smashed an entire village.
They headed out to the gold rush,
A procession stretched three chō (approximately 327 meters),
Torches aplenty,
Cows mooing, cats meowing,
What a commotion it was,

They crossed seven mountains,
Overturned the riverbed,
If there was no gold dust,
Again they would have to cross seven mountains.
If there was no gold dust there,
Again they would have to cross seven mountains.
If there was no gold dust there,

Again, they crossed seven mountains toward town.

When they reached town, their procession stretched taut in formation.

Before the government office they lined up, all flicking out their tongues—

"Might as well show 'em,"

"If this old coot leads the charge—"

"You'll bite off your tongues and die as one!"

Milking Song

For that which spurted forth,

Sing praises

For that which was white and sweet—

O cow, you ate well, you slept well,

eagerly chewing your cud,

And vividly clear upon your forehead

floated the hue of suffering—

I thought of you as dear,

If I were to touch your soft udder

how much suffering I would bring upon you

and even wondered if I would inflict it—

Because I had claws and my strength was great—

Because there were times when I squeezed roughly—

I resigned myself

While crying, I clung to your udder.

My occupation was milker,

I slug your forehead

A cow killer and I—fifty steps to a hundred.

Beloved one, O cow, forgive me—I cried out,

Crouching beneath your enormous dark body

the aluminum container

When I placed it beneath your belly and squeezed,

The milk clattered against the container, making a sound like rain,

At first, pitter-patter, pitter-patter like a light rain,

And soon like a storm—.

I was ashamed of my occupation—
Was this what life meant,
Was this the reality of milking—
From your dark body's depths
squeezing out white, sweet things—
whether I had to extract it—
For a long time I suffered through my work,

One time, I took your spurting milk; when it was splashed on my face, I washed my eyes with milk. Then my eyes snapped into focus—all the surroundings appeared as a world filled with unexpected joy. I was astonished; the sun was burning,

The grass stood straight, vibrant,
The lark sang a song of joy,
There existed not a single trace of fate there,

What I once thought to be a base, painful life
The fellow milkers

They came out from the barn with joy,
they had fulfilled their daily tasks,
the carpenters repairing the wooden enclosure
the earthworkers building the pasture paths also
All the workers were full of vigor,
Moreover, the cows' voices were loud,

Exposing their large udders,

—Milk today,

Milk tomorrow,

—Milk the day after too,

I will eat grass

To store milk—

Facing me, the cows kindly encouraged me,

I, moved with emotion, clung to this eternal udder,

convinced of zeal and skill,

the sweet thing violently spurting out

We began to extract our own milk for ourselves,

The work that was once painful
That this work came to be performed with joy
Could not have been merely due to accidentally washing my eyes with milk
This realization arose because until then I had dwelled too deeply within life's
Diminished shadows
Because fate had compelled me to extract milk
I who perpetually milked
Because bovine bodies intercepted sunlight
Reality—like cows eternally

because I had been convinced it was something screaming,

O serene cow in the cosmos,

O my milking,

Let us lift our eyes,

“O Youth,

With conviction, let us squeeze from reality,

—Let us squeeze today,

Tomorrow too we shall squeeze,

Our milk for our sake—

Yesterday storm, today clear weather

Across the wilderness,

Storms and clear weather—

Forming a scrum,

These two things dashed off

They dashed from south to north.

Pointing to this,

People criticized them as capricious fellows,

Storm and clear weather—
At a glance, they seemed like ill-matched fellows.

I do not think so

I, in that way,
sing songs of storms and songs of clear skies.
Yesterday and today differ violently.
Why am I so capricious?
How unfortunate a life my past must have been,
My neck was always being bitten by enemies,

My life was always whirled about,

Yesterday storm,

today clear weather,
Tomorrow will likely be a storm,
I am a hybrid offspring of storm and clear weather,
My life is like a sky in upheaval.
Is poverty poetry in the first place—
Occasionally I think so
So much so that I write poetry
fighting poverty,
Writing poetry—stopping thoughts of suicide,

O Poetry, my life,

O my comrade,

It seems poetry and I are perfectly matched after all,

“O critics, O saints,
The discipline of proletarian emotions—
How am I to comprehend?
Instruct me in that,
O woman’s lips, O reality,
Lay the whip to this caprice of singing thus!
Grumbling friend,
For your sake—with your silent drum
Keeping company and losing rhythm—
To strike such things? I’d rather die than comply.
You there—I bid you replace your drumhead!
I pound my drum in wild cadence,
That is my drum’s individuality.”

All enemies, appear for my sake!

The tumultuous beauty of struggle,

I have forgotten everything except rebellion,

"Friend,

To you I surrender Zola's reason,

I take on Shakespeare's madness.

I will make it something compelling."

“Friend,”
“Even if I emit some preposterous cry,”

“Don’t be startled—
when you grieve
and I sing cheerfully,
forgive me;
when you laugh,
know there come hours
I mourn too.
Together freely”

“Let us cry and laugh,”

And let us consider our future fate,
Even if we live apart from one another,
In bed, let us ponder that intently,
Let us meet at the street corner tomorrow,
Let us share our thoughts,
Even if I cried all night through,
I would surely show you a smile,
―Because that’s simply the kind of person I am,
“Don’t misunderstand me, friend,

I truly

Because we love our fate,

―So be it—today's fate—
Whether fortune's hand
Or misfortune's grasp—
We could pledge tomorrow,

Oh, the place where we now stand

There—where once we
It was the horizon we had gazed at from afar.

Furthermore, let us raise our eyes,
Let us look forward,
There must lie a new, dawn's horizon,
Having crossed several horizons,
In this way we advance,
As evidence of this,
"You there—pray show the soles of your shoes,
They're worn down so much,

Let us make a promise,
With every emotion—
We shall continue our journey together,

Ah, Fate!

Our Fate,

I have repeated this phrase countless times,

I pondered again and again in my heart—
What a phrase brimming with allure,
What a word this is—
Further, further—our Fate—
We would make it rich in allure—
Our Fate was by our hands—
For it would be carved open in every way possible—

Poem to the Homeland

Homeland,

I won’t be seeing you for some time.

You remain composed and unperturbed,
On the sofa of recession,
You've settled yourself down,

Anyway, you—
It was the land where I was born,
the place that merely made me let out a birth cry in an instant,
You were not harsh,
You could never be called kind.
I was raised on milk,

From Mama Mother,

I miss cows.

Homeland,

There was swirling, whirling water in the valley,

There was an extremely quiet place there,

Splashing lively, yamame trout and rockfish were leaping,

As soon as I lowered the hook, the fish leaped at it,

So fishing was never interesting at all.

You remain composed and settled,

O depressed mountains of my homeland,

The charcoal kiln hut was a miserly palace,

In that hut there was
one citizen, I recall—
a loyal citizen—
peeling butterbur stalks,
snapping them one after another by hand.

the farmer who was hurling them into the pot, boiling and devouring—
What became of that sixty-some-year-old citizen,

O Homeland,

Like a snail's trail,

Like silkworms,

From my memory, endlessly drawn forth

O inexhaustible one,

I won't be meeting you for some time now,

To plant asterisks—

For your rising,

I have always kept an asterisk concealed in pocket

I’ve become a villain,

—The rich call us villains.

We

We're now pushing through quite cheerfully.

As for our so-called villains—as for comrades,

Homeland,

Everyone misses you.

With fresh eyes,

With fresh eyes I look at you

You, answer with fresh eyes,

You should answer, you have an obligation to answer,

I compel you to it,

Do not hide your entrails,

Like a sly fishmonger,

Hurling theoretical water,

Don’t dress up your scales to look fresh,

Those who devoured you

Because everyone will have diarrhea,

Begin from the feet

waist, torso, chest, eyes,
stop timidly looking up at your opponent from below,
look straight into your opponent's eyes,
understand in an instant,

At the bend of the mountain pass,
A bear and a human came abruptly face to face.
The bear turned away.

The human also turned away,

And they were able to pass each other by safely,

Creatures thus

They fear looking each other in the eye.

You—do you wish to remain unscathed like that?

If your eyes are fervent eyes,

I would not regret being struck down by you,
I declared a comrade to be a spy,
I with fervent eyes
silently pursued,
I was mistaken,
He was truly a good man,
For that, how many days must I have suffered?
If I think about that even now,
every pore across my body
broke into sweat all at once,
All misunderstandings stem from raw eyes,
stem from not looking each other in the eye,
Eyes, take pride in your class-based forthrightness,

To answer your class-based forthrightness,
I would bear any obligation,
In that way, in that way,
In that way—
Ah, that is not
the swarming eyes of mosquito larvae,

With fresh eyes,

With thousands, tens of thousands of eyes,

Let us dissolve a single entity,

The dragonfly heads north, I head south.

What, after all, is money?

My childhood self was perplexed.

For that very thing alone, the quarrel between father and mother continued on and on,

I stood motionless in the dark entryway,
listening anxiously to their quarrel.
Mother kept crying endlessly,
while Father kept trying to explain something to her.
In the morning, the three sat at the dining table.

The bowl Father offered Mother
was roughly snatched by Mother's hand.
That morning, Father kept grabbing me—
he tried to make me laugh with his funny stories—
but I didn't find any joy in it.
What is money—
the thing that makes parents fight?
That must be like a toad’s child—
just some thing pulled from wallets and stuffed back in.
I secretly tried opening Mother’s wallet,
but the toad’s child inside—

turning silver then brown,

coming out and going in, constantly changing,

What a strange thing.

However, this thing was somewhat deserving of respect—

it must be something of value,

My boyhood self had no greater understanding of money than this—

I had no concept of money—

Life within fairy tales was

also a fairy tale within life,

Between reality and dream

without the slightest strain,

my boyhood emotions moved back and forth,

But gradually I was provoked.

To the raw reality—.

And then loneliness came upon me.

Then I made an effort to strip it away,

I went absently outside.

And then I looked up at the town’s sky.

In this small town sandwiched between mountains,

Now came tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—that could not be counted,

A swarm of dragonflies pushing north and ever northward,

They flew on.

My boy was astonished,

"Why are they all heading north together?"

"Can they actually make agreements?"

Wonderfully pure

Magnificent dragonflies,

Where were they going and for what purpose, I wonder,

Among them were two

Mutually connecting their abdomens to each other,

And yet, this two-creatures-made-one—

seeming to put so little effort into flying,

they joined the lightly flying swarm,

When I saw that,

I found myself enveloped in unreasoning happiness,

And that swarm of dragonflies'

days passing northward continued day after day.

I looked up at them daily.

At night, my father and mother would whisper through the night,

I heard them arguing about money—
I—money and father and mother and sister and—
other than those around me—
something more distant—

I came to think there must be someone hateful hiding somewhere.
I felt certain there was some deep connection between that guy and money.
And I tried to investigate it—
The dragonflies flew north, and the boy I was watched them—
I began seeing those dragonflies as creatures living a collective life
many times more magnificent than my own—a magnificent collective life,

And gradually I came to see myself as foolish and began feeling rebellious,

O dragonflies,

You go northward in unison,

I shall make my way south,

With those words my boy fled toward the south,

The first rebellion—that

I began by abandoning my hometown.

Why won't you sing out?

Farewell, farewell,

You chant your farewells

O Nakano Shigeharu—you

Compose final parting odes

Cease hymning common purslanes

You who address things beyond humanity

No—who address humanity itself

As the last poet of negation

You are the final—

While I stand first

Now singing as poet of affirmation

Nakano Shigeharu—

Through bourgeois verse's inherited craft

Within our ranks

You reached technical climax

But that reached the intelligentsia—
it does not reach the workers.
That is because you, as a proletarian poet,
were not an offensive poet
but a defensive one.

If you and I were to

If we were to line up our pillows and commit suicide,

What would society say—

Nakano Shigeharu died in despair—
And Oguma too despaired perhaps—
No—no—in my case it differs—
I am entirely different.

I—for exultation—
The fact that I could choose death was indeed conceivable,
I affirmed life,
I affirmed death as well.
What a greedy creature I was—wasn't I?
Nakano Shigeharu, why didn't you sing out?
It was crucial for women to sing songs of miso soup, but
Men had to sing songs of "power"
Because singing became all the more necessary.
You—your charming poetic type—

Show it again

The struggle—

The struggle was never stagnant,

The struggle remains fierce—
For defense—
For the offensive—
It matters not what form it takes—

For the struggle—
We’ll scatter every bit of technique we possess—

Let's hurl!

Toward the sun

Then evening came—it was morning,

It was noon,

Evening came again,

The marvelous speed of a day's passage, the repetition—
That one—the Sun—

It warms the grass for an instant, then departs,
You clamp shackles onto our whirlwind lives
And drag us along.

Over concrete, over gravel,
Over hills, over rivers,

Over everything,

Giving shadows to all things
then erasing them one by one.
Sun—
make the promise—
pledge the day you’ll cast
for us
beautiful five-colored tape
for the event we await—
You race through swiftly
but we want calmness—
You trudge through sluggishly
but we will stir with excitement—

You, like an aged elder sister,
love us yet lack understanding—
rapidly
dragging a shining rope,
and with light lay bare all things' feet.
Dawn—you emerge from terror's entrance,
Night—you hide in terror's valley,

Amidst terror upon terror,
Humans merely shuttle endlessly back and forth,
Insects—more than humans—

They flew around continuously and leisurely,

The only ones never forgetting to act bashful were flowers,

Dawn—you Sun dragged us along,

Abandoned us in night,

Do we dream fulfilled dreams for life's sake,

Or else it's a ridiculously foolish dream of oblivion.

Sun,

Show the exit, make it point the way out,

A world with entrance but no exit—

I cannot believe such a world exists.

Search for it—search—you too,

That bastard Sun,
It swiftly runs through dawn and night.
Rapidly, in an instant of time.

Kiss
Russians,
In your country—
they drank and reveled until they fell (Note 1)

"That Kobak dance probably no longer exists.

But do not grieve,

By the Dnieper,

Since your hearts must be throbbing and dancing,

You have taken flight—do not grieve for the nightingales,

Even if there are no nightingales,

Because a fortunate night has arrived for you,

You must fight harder against the lice of your country,

Or have you finished expelling those lice—

The work of driving out—

Do you mean to say you've completely finished,

In our country, far from expelling them,
"

Our place—we were lice incarnate,
Now on my desk lay my Russian comrades—
You excellent poets,

Bezymensky and

Zharov and

Utkin and

A photograph taken by the three of them was displayed,

I just kissed it,

A kiss—that in my country

It was not a way of showing affection based on custom—
In the Orient, they stood ten meters apart
And bowed their heads deeply,
Those heads containing precious brains—
They did not even shake hands to convey bodily warmth,
This restraint likely extended beyond mere greetings—
In our country, everything remained formalistic,
Everything still bound by tradition—
Ah, but soon through our youthful hands
These customs would surely disappear—
Moreover, new forms had begun emerging
The new tradition had already taken root.

We became visibly Russianized—
Not that stagnant Russia—
But your Russia—
Russians—
The Dnieper's murmuring waters never reach my ears.

What reached my ears were our country's ferocious singing voices and shouting voices. But I—the murmur of the Dnieper's waters—I wanted to transplant it into my heart. I desired such lofty emotions. You there—for lice and bedbugs—for the world's common vermin—

From our respective lands where we stood—
Let us jointly drive out these vermin!
Russians!
You there in the workroom—offer your hand!
I grasped it in my workroom
Without a moment's pause
With hands sharing the same current—
Those must have been electric hands
Let us exchange further kisses
—following humanity's custom with doves and ducks (Note 2)—
Kisses!
Oh—unhygienic perhaps
Yet what candid emotion!
O most bodily of greetings!

We stood ten meters apart in the Oriental style—
We had been fighting that way, but
Now we began smashing our bodies together in struggle,
Our reality had taught us that necessity,
We silently approached
In the manner of your country's customs—
We firmly clasped hands,
We too would probably exchange kisses like yours—
The victorious bearded kisses of male comrades

Oh, how magnificent that is!

(Note 1) A passage from Bezymensky's poem "Tragic Night"; the Kopak dance was an old Russian peasant dance.

(Note 2) “It is said that only humans, turtledoves, and ducks have the custom of kissing.” Voltaire

As wolves in escort

“Bourgeois poets,

You lot are always prattling about pedigree—

From generation to generation,

proud as inheritors of poetic technique.

But proletarian poets differ:

We are not successors of poets.

Everything becomes new departures,

We are poets as mere sons of the people.

We do not possess like you

the right to advertise poets to others,

nor license for self-indulgent debauchery and licentiousness—

They flaunt such arrogance within civic society,

permitted no haughtiness by anyone.

You all flash a glimpse—”

They slip smoothly through—
those who possess proper gate passes.
You take human integrity there,
you peddle your services there.
The absurdity lies here:
your patrons
inspect your wares
and send them back, crying “Mold grows here!”
There you weep in choral unison—
“Poetry holds no social standing,”
“The commodity value of verse declines”—
these grievances of yours...
Oh, purveyors in service—

"You—across how many centuries into the future—
do you intend to repeat—
You’ve already lost everything—
Even your patrons—
you’ve already lost your patrons’ long-standing favor
Do not panic, O poets—
The revival of the poetry world—in any case—
comes from proletarian poets—
Rather than panicking—at least be clever—
Ultimately—those idiotic products of yours—
Turn them inside out and examine every seam—"

"Do not grieve, O poets—
for the time being,
you may yet remain objects of the girls’ adoration,"

They swaggered through massive buildings—
Even poets who became mere nags in old age
Moreover—those called poets—
Did not relinquish their gate passes,
We proletarian poets—
you poets
Let us escort you to the cliff’s edge,
We shall never leave your backs,

We maintained an intimate friendship—
That was the friendship of an escort wolf—

Soft meat

“Friends! O cooks!
Lately—that tyrant in your hearts—
What manner of muttering does it make?
I’d like to hear that, you know.
Or perhaps you’d claim—within your hearts—
Nothing sizzles or sputters?
Nothing at all—?
Your hearts now—
Your frying pans—
Living amidst such raging oil and flame—
Are you proprietors?
Aren’t you servants?
What belongs to masters ought to be lavishly wasted—”

“If you keep skimping on charcoal,
you’ll never manage decent dishes.
My cook’s been furious for ages.
Reality—ah! Where oil flows abundant,
where charcoal lies thick—
Therefore we cooks
must now show our full skill!
At any moment, on my white apron—
the fire leaps.
I’ve resolved to die a flaming pyre.
Hey you—this reality we inhabit—”

What a slippery place that was,
Both buildings and streets were thoroughly soaked through with oil,
Glossily gleaming,
"Everywhere calls forth fire—"
"—You mustn't smoke—"
"The taste of secret puffs—irresistible—"

“This can be passed down through generations—mark my words,”
“Being a cook makes for an honorable profession!”

“What a cute fellow, this frying pan—
Toss in the meat with a plop,
Make it sizzle sharp.
Too hard and you can’t chew it,
Too soft and it’s no good either.
Medium-rare generally suits the customers’ palates—
Bite down till blood oozes between your teeth.
Frying meat like this? Superb.
My friends,”

“O cooks,
behold how the customers come swarming!
You too must raise your efficiency with intent to become human torches,
retighten your headbands,
secure your ropes,”

"The customers are all young—
they have youthful teeth!
I beg you: tender meat now!
If it's too tough,
it won't please modern tastes!
Handle it with utmost care—
not your precious protagonist—
your patron's—"

Death of a Farmer's Union Member

--To the Spirit of Our Comrade--

The young man was standing on the edge of the cliff.

O new romanticism,
O Courage,
The azure sky’s blue meeting the sea’s blue,
There stood a single human with arms spread wide.
This shabby fishing village facing the Japan Sea

The young man came out to the tip of the cliff.

What was this young man trying to do,

The young man shouted from the cliff toward the sea.

"—Fellow farmers,

'We farmers—' he said."

Why would they interpret this young man as mere romanticism—could this be called a heroic act? When he shouted "Fellow farmers" toward the open sea, the fish made puzzled faces as they watched his movements from between the waves. On land rang the youth's cry; in the sea passed a shark startling small fish; clouds crossed paths. Through their gaps leapt the morning sun—thrusting out a thick, sturdy gleaming arm to seize a corner of the village with crimson hues. In the wilderness, horses were set loose.

The wind streamed through the horse's mane,

O wind,

You were an excellent groom for the horses.

The young man would face the sea each morning as part of his daily routine,

shout "Fellow farmers,"

then spin on his heel

and go to the farmers' union office.

Doggedly, he would go to begin the struggle.

When work ended, this young man would head back to sleep.

Rice plants were piled like a small mountain.

He stood beneath them.

This rice was his bed,

and soon he burrowed into the pyramid of rice.

“Where’d you stay last night?”
“Ah, I—at my friend’s place—slept in my bed, I did.”

Mother and son worried about each other,
The mother was inwardly surprised,

That her son was gathering all the village youths. Toward the sea, as if he were Nichiren-sama preaching, the son who kept shouting something. That there were days he had slept in the rice piles and did not return home. That recently he had begun coughing violently, like gunfire in rapid succession, that he had started coughing in a way that seemed painful.

That ＊＊ were frequently tailing her son.

The rose-colored sky
One day, to this young man, it appeared shattered.
―Ma
I want to live long!

It was yesterday that he had spoken so earnestly.

However, the very next day

He, who had been sitting, suddenly coughed once.

“Ma,
I’m done for.”
He said rapidly,
and then smoothly like a folding screen,

He then quietly fell backward, and that was all.

For the mother, what a meager life her son had led. If only he had stayed by her side—if only he could have taken his time with even just his dreams—she had wanted to show him all sorts of things before it killed him. But truly, this young man had never remained still at his mother's side for even a moment. In those fleeting instants, rather than meager dreams—so busy was he that he had no time to look—sleeping in the rice, he dreamed a dream that seized eternity,

Moreover, he had captured the eternity of that poor village.
The young mourners grieving his death
sang songs unknown to the mother and formed a long procession.
The mother then thought from the depths of her heart:

The young folks of this village—
more than me, his own flesh and blood—
seemed to be grieving my son's death
many times over—

To the Poseur

I boast

That I am a poet,

That I occupy the highest position,

Height means—the sacrifice of myself

I speak of the psychological staircase's height that demands sacrifice.

Poseurs,

To your facade

I'll hurl an unvarnished iron bullet

Your mask shatters

so from beneath your true mug emerges,

We must be hated more—

To make a hundred thousand allies

Why should we fear making a thousand enemies

How could we possibly afford to fear?

O dripping honey peach,
O sweet strawberry,
O grape,

Hurling every fruit into a barrel,
I make emotional jam
I'll hurl it at the deceivers' heads,

The poet's attack—
Let them taste its layered bitterness,
I make way for stray curs
Though none witness this deference—
But before the leopard's gaze
I shame to retreat one pace
Only those wedded to motion
Can drink deep of action's potion
That am I—

I am indeed the pleasure-child of battle
Only for a lifetime of combat
The word called "poet" must be permitted.

II

Rant away!

I don't mean to protest against you—

—About this claim that my poetry is chatter.

I am happy now—

How my tongue flies!

That silence is a form of servility—

This I know full well,

And that silence—what opinion

It has ever expressed,

Or what must never be expressed—

This too I know—

So I speak:

Young poets, you too must rant away,

We who remain silent can keep silencing and marching,

We can keep marching forward, relentlessly silencing them—
Pretentious poets,
And misguided critics—
If I am a chatterer,
What are you—
Aren’t you tongue-tied?
I—the same things—
I fear repeating twice—

Chatter—that’s what you call repeating something two or three times—
Chatter—that’s what you call repeating it four times—

My poetry holds no right to compel its readers—
I ask readers sincerely
if they would nod in understanding—that’s all—
the purpose of my poetic work has ended—
For whom do I get carried away—

For whom does your tongue trip—
If you claim to speak for the proletarian class—
A stumbling tongue becomes the problem—
Lenin put it well—
At assemblies, those who stay silent
Consider them opinionless—
None would pry open your lips
None would force class matters from your tongue—
There’d be none trying to make you speak.

We are busy now—

—Are there any statements?
—Then we'll take silence as agreement—
The resolution stands.
Comrades, keep advancing our work at this pace—
I speak to claim my voice.

Readers,

A rose has no mouth,

It speaks through scent to your nose—
The moon, having no mouth,
Speaks through light to your eyes—
By what means should the poet speak?

Four women—with ease—a single man
To the point of silencing them completely—
With comrades' power, they must chatter on—

O Proletarian poets,
We should clamor vigorously—
With comrades' solidarity,
With comrades' strength—
Until we silence the enemy

Fiercely—.

On Controversy

I heard my comrade's spirited debate.

That night, worn out, I slept deeply.

Why do we argue like this,

why purse our lips

and make them tremble like flute reeds?

We must not avoid this.

Young comrades,

When you avoid debate,

You will become a conventional person,

Do not despise debate in Oriental fashion.

When speaking of love, when speaking of justice,

Is love, is justice truly simple—

You and I, like a single graft,

We cannot afford careless compromise,

From the tip of a grafted branch

It is ill-advised to bear dubious fruit,

Struggle,

You—go stir excitement through your veins,

For your youthful cells,

There's nothing wrong with talking through the night,

Let us scorn those young-old men—detached in their prime,

Silence holds no inherent greatness,

If you cling to silence,

Guard against their conjectures and misunderstandings.

With the foremost effort,
Speak for truth,
Speak with youth's effervescent words,
Never falter to proclaim victory,
For those who seek stillness—

There is a path leading to the grave,

Here, all things stagnate.

O youthful vigor born of physical strength,

We today grapple with fundamental issues,

Let us laugh and clasp hands tomorrow,

With sword-swallowing skill

O gullet that grinds down sharpness,

To shit thickly

Don't be a meager asshole,

Ah, with what imprecations—

Days of persistence shall stretch unending,

But I will never grieve,
At the very moment you confront me with debate,
You are like a spark,
Hammering understanding into my chest.

To My Sister

The scent of acacia flowers,

Where it drifts pungent and high on the wind—

My sister must be thinking of her unfortunate brother.

He who got drunk and rampaged,

The dissolute younger brother,

Now my body stands taut and tense.

And the younger brother is thinking—
Hardship—
how much it strengthens people.

I have forgotten the act of grieving,
That very thing—
That which makes me saddest,
That very thing—it gives me the most courage.

I have leapt out toward the city countless times,

when I have fluttered back to my hometown countless times

Sister, you who cried all night long,

the times you admonished me

It came clearly to mind—
"Why does this child want so badly
to go out to Tokyo?"
The younger brother did not answer, remaining silent.
As for fate—to me now,
it is a small thing like a handful in the hand.
I grip this firmly, tightly—
I feel a thrill—
"I do not live to eat—
I live for life itself."
So much so that now I can speak bold words—
I can now utter them—

the hand clenched for labor

I gently tried opening it,
There was nothing there at all.
I was merely sweating with hatred,
Please rest assured,
I have settled in Tokyo.

One's Own Path / Others' Paths

How wondrous!

I have lived precisely as I desired,

Carried through all these years,

Here now—unrestrained toward any—raging,
weeping,
rejoicing,

Detesting falsehood,

For those stubborn fools,

Answering them with class-stubbornness,

To my guileless friend,

Laying bare my soul,

More than tidal ebb-flow—

More tempestuous—

The tracks of spent passions
I knew clear,

To humans,
to cats,
to dogs,

To flowers,
to trees,

To all non-human things,
I will give voice to their hopes.
The yearnings of childhood do not vanish.

The ecstasy of youth does not depart—
Day by day, freshly vivid—
Rather these things redouble themselves—
For the bastard trying to blockade my life—
The act of hurling abuse—

What sublime joy this must be!

Within death

For the fools unaware of death's existence

I will sing "The Song of Death" for them,

Within life,

To those unaware they live as well—

And I denounce them,

—You all are no longer living,

To those who waste their youth,

I will pray for them to grow old swiftly.

I do not know

The whereabouts of my and my friend's souls, their direction—
where there exists a ladder ascending,
where there exists a staircase you descend—
what I know is

Not upward nor downward, but toward the difficult front—
As for the path I take—
I paved my path with my own emotions and pressed forward,
Not others' paths but my own path—
Not borrowing others' anxieties—
It was a path of my own anxiety.
I did not possess the courage to point out my path to others—
I had no courage.
Friends—you comrades—sang earnestly:
Joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure were excellent instruments,

I too will strike the drum of emotions in the rain,

And for the longed-for sunny day,
I forget fatigue
I resolve to become a drummer of courage.
You docile ones,
O unconsoled day,
But no trash bin receives our discontent,
This muttering to comrades—
How it must weary them,
To bare grievances before the enemy—
This panders to their malice!
For comrades, affection;
Against enemies, only attack.
Now then—our dissatisfaction, dissatisfaction—

Where shall we find that outlet—
Or take these dissatisfactions
Steadfastly endure them as they stand
And let time devour us?

That is no good.

O docile people,

The method for processing dissatisfaction—

From the throes of agony—

Draw it forth, I implore you,

Docile one,

That wins affection even from comrades,

And is loved even by enemies—

Well—what we call class struggle’s

Posturing masculinity,

I despise such docility.

On the Moon and Stars That Meet After Hundreds of Millennia

I walked with my head down,

What did I think about as I walked, you wondered—

It was many things,

Even trivial events—

For instance, a room made hazy with the scent of yuzu—

I walked while thinking about entering a closed bathhouse.

Then I soaked cotton with alcohol,
the time when I wiped my dead friend’s face—
walked while thinking about that,
walked while staring fixedly at the ground.
I do not consider my way of seeing things shallow in the least.
If my gaze were an iron rod or hoe,
never again along paths once taken
could any pass through so thoroughly—
the ground must have been churned by my gaze.
With hatred, I look at that bastard,

That bastard will die right there.

I, as usual,

I walked through the night street with my head down,

Then I, in contrast, looked up at the sky.

Adults with solemn expressions and

a group of children—I noticed them,

They were people who seek out some sort of unusual event,

It was the usual crossroads where they would choose to stand,

Was there a fire in the distance,

I unintentionally looked up at the sky as people do,

There, I saw something strange.

What was in the sky,

It was an elegant gathering of intimate companions engaged in stylish banter.

They glittered in the sky,

appearing somewhat smug,

In an immensely vast space,

They had nonchalantly occupied their positions,

It was an upturned three-day-old crescent and,

the sharply shining Venus below it,

Above the Moon was Saturn, dimly glowing.

“Nearby stars bring deaths among people, I tell you,”

Someone who appeared elderly was talking about such things,

"—The moon and stars tonight—"

"—apparently meet once every several hundred thousand years."

Having learned from that morning's paper,

someone was chattering excitedly like this,

Before one's eyes, Venus...

Venus began to circle around the Moon.

While pondering the actual existence of stars

and their influence on humans,

I once again began walking with my head down,

And I thought thus:

In that black sky, astronomers

With white chalk, they drew countless lines,

And so they, in the several hundred thousandth year,

The courses of the Moon, Venus, and Saturn

they were able to learn would align today,

What a grand human endeavor this must be—.

But scholars cannot pull the moon and stars—any of these glowing celestial locomotives—into the sidings they desire, nor switch the points to make them pass each other; it's beyond human power.

None of these glowing celestial locomotives in the sky
could be pulled into their desired sidings,
nor could their points be switched to make them pass each other—
it was beyond human power,

The shining beings of the sky,
The glowing locomotives -
What souvenir did they bring me that day?

That souvenir was this:
For me, these three shining entities
appeared exactly one week after
the fact that my comrade had taken his own life.
Ah—as those stars orbited
and drew near each other—
the comrade had been approaching self-destruction due to ideological anguish—
that he had been nearing his end.
The moon and stars' encounter after hundreds of millennia
and their subsequent estrangement meant
that now my friend and I
could never meet again,

Now I was alone,

I witnessed this beautiful convergence of moon and stars,

That became the first gift those moon and stars had brought me.

The second gift.

For me who survived—

O stars, it was an overabundance of your impression,

That light of yours,

The light of you reaches my living hands.

Because of that, my hands appeared all the more beautiful,

I have been depressed this past week because of my friend’s death,

Because of that, I walked with my head down even more than usual.

Tonight's moon and stars were already moving apart,

But tomorrow, again in some place unknown to us,

Once more in the several hundred thousandth year,

Though any number of stars might converge—we could not know,

Perhaps in town people would watch amidst the commotion—

Again, I might cause another comrade to die,

But I, in any case,
always with emotion whisper to the stars
about my new life.

On the new future.

On new problems.

With emotion——,

I should be able to whisper to you.

The beauty of youth

O new things,

O all new things,

Born for justice

various forms

I love unconditionally—
Moreover, if you wield
the passionate weapons of emotion
as a youth—
whatever form they take—
Even so, I will love and trust them.

I was not surprised,
though upon your face
a cunning expression might surface.

I do not grieve—
Though cowardice lingers in your actions,
If it serves to protect you—
All the more your youthful solemnity
And courage of youth
Press close with new era's
Bewitching beauty
To its counterpart.

O youth—
We stand encircled by watching eyes,
Guarded by all existence
While raising fervent prayer-cries—

In reality's harshness,
To your aged father and mother covering their eyes——
To your sighing brothers and sisters——,
These nearby presences protect you.
But the distant ones—

They merely trembled.

You should believe,

You hold even the stories in your dreams——

The dreams you see—how filled with joy

O you whose dreams glow with hues of overflowing emotion,

We knew
the youth—the youth’s dream—
what nature it possessed—
what manner of thing it was—
Quake,
your bodies,
Protect,
your emotions,
And you entered

To that most melodic realm—
for those grown old,
a crucible of anguish;
for us who were young,
a domain where feeling flows—toward its innermost sanctum.

In Response to Malicious Criticism

How many glorious days would last for a cowardly man,

His criticism toward a single work

did not come grappling roughly face-to-face,

but through tripping at the ankles and grappling from behind,

sometimes like a random attacker

skimming across the surface of the work.

He passed by muttering something in an indistinct voice.

He dismissed my two-hundred-line poem with five lines

of impressionistic criticism.

Oh, the magnificence of his criticism!

When my poetry rode journalism's currents,

in that instant he took up my poem.

In that instant, I felt disgrace—
and in that same moment, he laid bare that he was no guardian of our ranks,
no protector at all,
but merely a watchdog of journalism.
The criteria he wielded for criticism
and those of journalism—
what fortuitous alignment!

“Proletarian writers,”

We must not fear criticism,

I was happy when praised,
and got angry when spoken ill of.
But that was merely a blink—
a mere flicker of the eyelids.
In truth, now even if I am praised I am not happy,
even if spoken ill of, I no longer get angry.
Only true critics move us,
By pointing to him,
With theory and criticism

Do not mistake those who claim to guide the masses aright—
In truth he writes not criticism
but extortionate missives aimed at masses and writers alike,
resorting even to threats against the people
to force them toward his own direction.
His theory
has now taken on distinct fascist hues—
This fervor for truth—
What a pitiable spectacle!

However, in our excessive zeal—
We must guard against becoming like him—
This peril of transforming into terrifying dogmatists—
Let us remain vigilant against such mutual corruption,
Comrades! Here we stand amidst these critics
And the glinting eyes of countless watchers—
Steadfast in our convictions,
Let our works flow freely!
Spurn the critics' violations—
If your creation maintains its chastity—
Then let us thank these very critics for their silence,
Let us be grateful for their neglect—
Comrades! Let not the censure of critics

Do not write works targeting them,
If we are directly loved by the mass readers,
That suffices—

To the Singers of Defeat

The song of defeat quietly drifts through,

Your body produces a fine voice -

Voices of screams and regret and fear and suffering.

The things around you—for instance, your hideout's

The door creaked as it always did with its terrible noise—
You pricked up your ears at the sound.
For you who dwell in defeat, everything around
harmonized with your being—
that eternity
you might claim for one fleeting moment
to keep singing your dirges of loss—
But toward your brazen persistence in weeping,

I merely pay my respects,
But I, with you—
I do not sing songs of defeat

"You know
the discovery of even a victory as slight as a pinprick—
the discovery of even small victories—
Pitying you who remained unaware of this,
to make use of my time
I stepped out from your delusional hut
and walked the road.
I moved my right leg and left leg
alternating between them in simple repetition—
the foolishness of my departure"

While being despised by you, I walked on—
That suited me just fine.
In various places when night fell, I slept,
Dreaming various dreams
And casting an overwhelming, intense light
Upon my surroundings as the sun
Rose—then I left my bed.
I became the sun and wheat's fragrance,
The pomegranate's red and young horses—
Because I knew no words of condemnation
Because I lacked the language to hammer these things
Into songs of defeat like you—
Because I possessed no words to pound them in—
Just as you affirmed your own defeat,

I affirm these things' vitality—
Through your eyes I must ever
Know no pain's counterfeit measure
To you I stand comically witless
Singing sky-blue and cloud-white
The sky persists utterly azure

The clouds remain utterly white,

For us,

As far as our eyes could reach, the sky stretched out,

It wasn't a line from Hamlet—
the whale-shaped cloud
morphed into a camel before my eyes.
I—this ever-shifting cloud—
possessed no divine power to recall it,
yet my gaze
could chase that cloud
endlessly onward.

Now in the world

How many people are looking up at you, I wonder?

"O clouds,
Do you know that—I wonder—."

All classes

From every corner, they must be gazing at the sky,

O happy things,

O sky, O clouds,

“You must move ceaselessly for our sake,”

Their blueness and whiteness—
For clarity’s sake—
We always
You on clear days—

We look up at you as if you were a curtain of victory,

To the forgotten evening primrose

O poet of mine who desires happiness,

How excruciating misfortune—

How bitter it is—

Misfortune—I’ve had enough of such things,

But others, without overexerting themselves—

It would be good if they could become happy in due order,

Still insufficient in their way of suffering

The intelligentsia—

Writhe in agony and suffer your anguish

When one friend voices their pain,

Another says things like “You mustn’t suffer.”

I have no such right,
As for me—the right to criticize others' suffering—

No one had granted me—
Those who suffered—
Rather became my closest friends.
Under moonlit skies an evening primrose
bloomed white in solitary splendor,
yet no eyes beheld it.
Only I stood quiet by the flower
chattering ceaselessly—
to all who suffer, all forgotten
lonely souls
and beings beyond humankind alike—

To become a good friend

My work was 'discovery' alone,
Living humans
raised their greatest voice
When they voiced their anguish—
Before I gently tapped their shoulder to comfort them,
Covering mouths with large hands,
Could I possibly do such things?

To respond to the depth of a friend’s pain,

I will not succumb to a friend’s pain—

I will strive to sing hymns of joy,

I am not a hero,

I am not the people’s leader,

I detest becoming a teacher of all things,

I do not grow conceited,

I struggle against what must be hated,

I believe only in this measure of strength,

“Friends,”

Suffer—you are my

intimate chorus,

rage incarnate,

Stupid—

as if devoid of any assertion,

“Bite through your lips!”

Silence is terrifying.
Forgetfulness is terror itself.
When I sigh,
to the extent that the body decays.

For a long, long time,
The throat sounded a steam whistle.
I, as an incarnation of rage,
Every day, every day, continued writing new testaments.
Rage was truly a joy.
The people were in the pickling tub,
Pressed down by weights.

fermenting splendidly,
my heart too, like an eggplant,
is splendidly pickled—
I sing songs of rich flavor.

Accompaniment

In the still night
I was never frivolous,
I wasn't suddenly born,
I hold no special pedigree—
I am proletarian,
For them I—
What they call ordinary
A life pressed upon me all this while,
I've endured this long,
But now it's no common class—
Something singular—
When we stopped convulsing
They began to convulse.
That shudder of terror—
We watch this.

We do not love cruelty,

But now we must love it.

This act is sanctioned,

“O our opponents,

Swallow a thousand needles and writhe,

Wind hemp ropes round your neck a thousandfold,

The razors meant for shaving beards

have already been whetted for your throats!

Workers must manifest their singular character

to the utmost degree,

The intelligentsia’s whimpers

make splendid battle hymns,

At least as fervently as they believe in gods,

Through faith in our deeds

We must become class egoists—

Make our lives extraordinary,

Let us make it something alluring,
In our composure there always lies a design,

For them,

They cannot perceive

It lies deep within.

Seeking Harmony

The thing I most seek and cherish—
That is harmony—
All harmony—
I seek it,
I agonize because it remains unattained—
A solitary tree in the fierce storm
majestically battling the wind—
It feels good to watch it quiver.

But in the shadow of a large rock

To discover a small violet flower

To discover [it] is immeasurably sorrowful,

Beside the colossal machine

The thick-bodied laborer

When I see [him] standing upright,

What splendid harmony this must be,

While drooling,
I would always envy,

Splendid physiques, strong wills, and characters—
For me, they are fine subjects for envy.
I, in my own way, seek the most perfectly suited
action—but
all too often, the events surrounding me—
great disharmony—
I have plunged into contradictions,
and being shoved this way and that—
merely making threatening gestures—
expending my own power
before the enemy—
For me, this is excruciating—
A life of bluster and moss-pushing—
What a detestable thing this must be!

What a detestable thing this is,
the thing called astonishing power—
it always manifests in the most perfectly harmonized,

It appears in perfected form,

But—I
Like a fragile violet beside a mighty rock,
With the beauty of contradiction,
With the beauty of the weak,

I am still trying to move others,

These two things are never in harmony,

With all possible strength,
I will begin resolving from small contradictions.
And these things—
the new era’s—
to guide them into a highly harmonious world,
I am suffering.
Harmonious things, disharmonious things—
having simultaneously swallowed these two swords,
like an acrobat,
within my throat and heart,
the conflict between these two never ceases.
One blade cuts against the other,
and what suffers is my flesh.