Pathway to Japanese Literature

III

Vagueness

Because of vague anxiety,
I became desperate.

Fields were; mountains were; villages were; seas were,
Cities were; villages were; skies were,
Underground passages were;

I dwelt atop all things,
I dwelt within all things,
And anxiety existed everywhere,
And I tried to fill that anxiety with my own power—

Could I do that?
I did not know.

My clear and simple answer—hurray—
Now I was in the midst of work.

I suddenly and impulsively leaped up one meter.

This uncanny emotion—
What on earth—my brain’s

Which numbered drawer had this one belonged to?
I was now investigating it.

On my drawer I had affixed a label—
—Scent: Romantic,—
—Nature: Proletariat,—

That’s good, that’s good.

My mental prescription:

It’s fine for me to be like a mere cleaner.

From right to left,

I transferred the spirit,

Foul-smelling, filthy things,

Clamorous things, unnatural things,

Miscellaneous natures and characterlessness,

A sky-grasping leap and an earth-scouring plummet.

At my single trumpet blast,

All materials, fly forth,

And form perfect ranks!

—Fate is harsh,

—Destiny refuses belief,

Even dwelling on this alone—

Two hours already slip away,

Rejoice in that,

To rejoice is a good thing.
My mastery of despair,
I lament the poverty of spirit,
That I have no connection to a lofty spirit,
I ponder deeply,
Even in foolish mental labor,
What is this abnormal emotion I feel?
At that moment, I feel a reason to live.
At that moment, the vague anxiety departed,

From my friend’s pitiable factory OF THE MIND
Thickly rose THE SMOKE OF ANXIETY,

I saw it rising—
Ah, that smoke appeared gray by day,
By night was beautifully reflected red in the sky.
The friend did not know,

That beauty,
Only I saw it.
The beauty that is mine—I do not know it,

But as my friend watches that for me,

“Friend, let us believe in each other,
that we were born together in this fearful era—
The blank spaces of history
with sighs and our excrement,
with the detritus of words and blood,
let us fill them through vain labor and small rebellions,
all is meaning-laden,”

That suffices,

I want to be more reckless than anyone.

I will be the very first to shout “Banzai!” for our victory,

I will take on the role of a great fool,

Water vapor was thick fog,

Within that, our will lay anchored,

Anxiety was fog; it was turbidity,

In this expanse of desolation,

"You mustn't waste time on makeup—

Only for your siren,

For your throat,

Let them howl their throats raw!"

Frost approaches.

Wander my soul
Reach from spring to winter

I am a migrant of seasons

Hair lay disheveled like a woman’s,

The heart too became disordered in that way,

And among men, the fact of being born a man—
Is it a blessing—
Whether it is misfortune—I do not know,

If a good world were to come,
those of us with feminine qualities

There would be no need for them at all—
But now, even all men—
Even women—

Even women must still more male-like rage against life.
One must rage against life.
To make the soul erupt into anger—

Since even one more person was better,
time and again from spring to winter
I wandered
for the sake of pampered men.

Punishment comes all at once,

We must dread it,

We must draw forth the correct answer from within life itself,

We must draw forth,

Frost approaches soon,

The leaves freeze,

A dashing cloak lies beautiful.

But the wrapped body trembled violently,

For the Volga River

Volga River,

Volga River, my friend.

Flow,
I have never seen you,
Nor have I ever heard the resonance of your flow.
Only that you, a tranquil mass of water,

Unceasingly,
from some unseen source pressed downstream,
I knew that you pressed onward,
moreover, you existed under the same star where we dwelt,
stars—those twinkling things—numbered in hundreds of millions,
the resonance of your flow too was infinite,

O Volga,
Spring washed away a single petal here,
The shore gathered that flower to itself,
And again pulled it away from the shore—
Water and petals traveled together as they pleased,
They would likely journey together thus.
And on the boats gliding across your surface,
There were visibly simple and sturdy boatmen
Who stared fixedly at the water’s surface for all time:
At times they would defy you,
At times be obedient to you—
The surging emotions of the Volga.

Those who could answer its surging emotions—
Here stood a man of ordinary appearance,
thrusting his pole into the great river.
I imagined the plunging motion—
Ah, Volga River,
you must have split countless times before,
you must have risen up through rage and pent-up fury—
you must have risen up—

At that time, the guns sank,
Even now they stand deeply thrust into the riverbed mud.
The choking smell of gunpowder
Upon your current
Drifted like a heat haze,
Chasing the peasants fleeing with bowed heads.
A troop of cavalrymen mounted on fat horses

On Volga’s banks—the peasants—
they must have utterly annihilated them all.

At that time, Volga,
You witnessed all those things,
You were angry,
as a river that flows through history,
Having correctly reflected various facts,

Now, Volga River,

as a steadfast river
We could present our joy to you,
The peasants who lay fallen on the bank
were Russian peasants,
and yet they were by no means Russian peasants—
As peasants of the world—
they lay eternally with the Volga River as their pillow.
Already, the moon

The moon adorned you as illumination,
the wildflowers blooming along your coast—
how every last one must have been a wreath for your sake,

O Volga who calmly observed all,

Composed river, O Volga,

You were now piercing through the nation spanning history

You were piercing through,

You could be called the river of justice, I supposed—
Yield to maudlin drunkenness!
Now was the time to scream with all your might,
Now was the moment—from your body, from this sack of flesh—
To squeeze out every last drop of sorrow,
To wring yourself utterly dry—
At whom do you hesitate to direct this grief?
At whom do you falter—?
Are you restraining yourself before the enemy,
Or holding back against your allies?

“Ah, how absurd that is—
things like holding back—
Those who once fiercely rallied allies—
Where are the great ones who once inspired us,”

What are they doing?

Why—like that time—
why did they not come forth upon the theatrical path—
The masses were waiting for it—.
Or were they shunning tragedy,
seeking only to take up comedy?

“O comrade,”

O actors of class,

“You must not be picky about the stage in that way—”

For the sake of a drama with no intermissions, no breaks—

Eternally.

“Friends, do not leave the stage!”

"You! Vent your joys, angers, sorrows, and delights—
Our destiny—that,"

That which is scrutinized by both ally and enemy

Let those who love pathos bellow their pathos,

Stand tall within the era’s smoke

Choke more on the smoke,

Grieving over today’s truth was
preparation for tomorrow’s reckoning,

The week of sorrow, soon to end,

At that time, those who guarded silence
would become sin—

At that very time, all people—

will not sing of sorrow,

But for now, it’s fine to grieve with all your might—

In order to sing heroically tomorrow—

I grieve,

today’s truth—

I approach

with a rallying cry

how many times I had promised victory

how many failures there must have been—

that’s just fine

for that very reason—

In the very dizzying rapidity of these victories and defeats—
I feel an attachment to persisting through life,
For the sake of that repetition—,
Brandishing ornate words,
Resoundingly, I cry out
Of the foolishness that was today’s entire day,
I spit out saliva for the sake of living,
I celebrate for the days that were honest and wise,

Many roses are blooming—
But I have no time to smell their fragrance—
I am that resentment—
But how can I ever hate roses?
To even unscented flowers, I bring my nose—

I am active,

I want to stay on the offensive,
I love these attitudes,
All things probably will not draw near—
It is we who will advance,

All undiscovered,
Left behind—
Overly hesitant—
To those who flee away—
I approach; I should pursue.

I charge,

I brandish words
These ugly things, beautiful things,
Both allies and enemies,
To seize everything would bring satisfaction,
There is no regret over victory or defeat there,
Before I lay a hand,
What would it be if petals scatter,
I feel not the slightest regret,

At times, I advanced as though crossing an uninhabited wilderness,

I was in action—

I only felt a fierce attachment,

Raw-faced friend,

“Persist,”

Your expectation

“Don’t wait for them to come rushing into your place—”

Beloved black bird,

Pretentious, arrogant,

Of the people who dwelt in the commonsensical world

They thrust their faces against the window

The ugly black bird spewed abuse,
This bird’s friendship was not understood,
――That sufficed,
With that, the bird
spat out its final venomous remark and flew away,

Beloved black bird,
Where have you flown off to?

I too will go to your world.

All human words—

To forget them—I will follow you,

There, all fierce and righteous—

a place where overt assertions are permitted

How magnificent!

I have understood your realm’s own language.

I will sing like you,

With words never before used in the human world—

To sing through original speech

I shall return to mankind’s domain,

There, my song—

To go receive criticism that says there’s no content—
And like you,

I'll peer into every last window of the people,
Black as lacquer,
Just that alone suffices for me,
To flaunt lustrous feathers alone suffices,

“Bird,”

“Those guys were like you and me—
a breed without luster,”
wore gray overcoats,
wore gray hats,
went out to play in the gray town,
engaged in gray debates,
slipped into gray beds,

They lacked even the instinct to dream in color,
They lacked even strength,
They were gradually—
into the world of spiritual idiocy—
sinking deeper and deeper.

“Bird,”

You and I are simple yet ominous—
uttering cries that go unheeded,
Celebrate their demise,
Sing,
O great flapping wings of my spirit! O heart!

“You ugly bird,”
“O lustrous singer,”
You and I are prophets of fate.
We are not ashamed to be bystanders.

Two Happinesses of the Universe

The Earth was a mother,
O mother's bosom,
You intelligentsia—

“But you do not know true mother’s love,”
“Singing yourself lullabies,”
“Sleeping soundly all alone,”
“You self-sufficient ones—”

“You intelligentsia,
ah, have you had some bad dream—
what are you sniveling about?”

Workers at the workplace,

They delivered a single blow to iron.

At that moment, petty sadness flew away,

Endless and inexhaustible,

To the pained voices of the intelligentsia,

The workers were mere bitterness and

and likely felt a faint jealousy,

--"Truly, you are such happy creatures,"

"In the universe now remained only two kinds of happiness--

Only happiness has remained."

“One is your ‘hours of weeping’ and—

from outside the Earth

the star that spectated on the struggle between two classes,

And then the intelligentsia—

with eyes glistening from tears, they gazed up at the stars

they would probably sing in Baudelaire’s style

—One evening, I spoke to the star:
"You appear devoid of happiness," I proclaimed.

Having denied and cast off all things,
the suffering of that rebound—
carry it on your back and cry if you must,

As long as humans lived,
dreams persisted—so
until dreams were severed,
it was fine to weep from happiness.
“Catch cold in your heart!
Spread your arms and stand!
Aren’t you
the Holy Cross made flesh?”

Reeking of fatalism,
they wallowed in brooding—
while the working class marched ten meters,
the intelligentsia crept one toward realization.
This vegetative resignation of youth
was Oriental youth itself—

I possess animalistic vitality—
devour! play! labor! love!
and fight!
You too shall love ardently—this I implore—
the heart swells fierce!

They walked down the path with heads held high.

Cultivate your habits, I pray,

In urban combat, the enemies were also in high windows,

With Balzacian grandeur, square your shoulders proudly,
Play with gunpowder like Byron,
Lift women lightly like Rodin—
All animalistic—
For the sake of excess, Friend, let us toast!

In the steam of Turkish baths—
Bourgeoisie,
By blast furnaces—
Proletariat.
To drive one's body
to animalistic extremes
like workers—
If such an intelligentsia exists, they are admirable,

These intellectuals too existed rarely,
But most—toward workers—
They ended their lives with coy glances.
They died contentedly on their own terms,

Fearful!
Contemptible!
O rationalization of class conscience,
Truly as labor,
For the actualization of knowledge

Be the most consummate intellectuals,

Wrapped in cotton wool,

Let your heart grow cold,

Bite detonators with your teeth,

And explode your ideas—

Politics and Literature

I simply accept my obedience

If the ideal era that grants were to arrive,

I to all things

Even if I yielded, I probably wouldn’t regret it,

But now, it cannot be so,

Foolish political tendencies—
How rampant they were in society—
And this—

The simplicity and naivety of writers
It noisily devoured obedience,
And wiping its mouth, it declared—
—This work didn’t turn out so well after all—

Moreover, the mouse that was eaten
faced death for a long time—
it was cruelly made into toys for the cat.
My obedience

My obedience will never be carelessly handed over to politics,

All things now—not a single one,

Not a single thing remained unarmed politically,

Being loved—

That is by no means flattery,

Concerning Politics and Literature

We must repel each other more fiercely.

Let us discover the true reason,

——Literature Doted On by Politics——

Preposterous nonsense—

Scrutiny of a Work’s Sociality

First—accomplish that by yourself alone,

That was precisely a silent alignment with political tendencies—

That would do.
Mere politics was still filthier than my poetry.
Politics and literature—
now they festered in one barrel.
Two putrid things.

The dry cleaner

The dry cleaner had only been in business for a year.

To Those Who Desert Poetry

Deserters from poetry composition

Today, from poetry—to criticism,
From poetry—fleeing into composing popular songs,
The wise ones remain silent
And depart humbly.

The foolish ones said:

"—At thirty—still writing poetry—
'I'd love to see his face,'

Behold how thickly it rises—"

The denunciation of poetry by deserters from poetry,

the fact that they once wrote poetry—

That was a whim of youth,

While his genitals were still vigorous,

His poetry once stood somewhat erect,

But look now—

They were struggling to handle their own wares,

And he began to lose hope in poetry.

When commonplace trivialities began to rain down upon his life,

He got his forelegs caught in prose,
The hind legs remained in poetry,
And eventually, for him, the chaotic ditch

He crossed over with exaggerated gestures,
When leaping over, he kicked up sand with his hind legs—
He flung it at our faces,
And the deserter spoke as if by prior agreement,
stated the reason for desertion:
“Poetry doesn’t put food on the table,”

Why couldn't they just say it more honestly,
—Poetry was the mistake of youth,
Command tongues to labor,
Standing bathed in direct sunlight,

In the morning，they sang songs，
At noon，they ate meals.
Ah，the night slept—nay，slumbered deeply.
Of the proletariat—
Where was their rose lost？

Do you know—
Was it bitten into and carried off by a small bird?
Was it stolen by someone?
All answers hold true—
The awe toward labor had been lost.

Your flower withered because of that,

Reclaim it!
The proletariat must
all roses,

beautiful things—
Discover from within labor,
Ah, I bare my teeth
I am a breed that chatters of things.
Who would know its beauty,

To those refined ladies and gentlemen who keep their mouths shut—
My honesty disgusts you.
The detonating labor of the mouth!
Swiftness of tongue!
To think is to chatter—
To chatter is, of course—
To think.
I adopt that method.

My poetry snagged on a steeple
It is not precarious like the moon.

Night deepened—when the moon revolved,
The steeple spun round and round,
And by morning they had drifted apart.
My poetry swept the sky:
A broom of storms?
My saliva-greased tongue

I labor like machine-oiled wheels gliding.

Spring surges from within the youth's body
Carry the songs eternally
With our songs,

Relay from night to dawn

From those who die—to those who live

Hand over the baton.

Do not be silent—use eloquence!

Overwhelm the enemy!

Bloom as beautifully as a peony,

Scatter beautifully.

Enough with political defeat—
this writhing in defeat’s grip—
Dedicate it all to the Intelligentsia!

The past is naught but the past—

As for pain:
We possess a great spirit of forgetting,
“O youth,”

To err with composure—
To transgress is youth’s right,
We do not take errors as our mark,
But fear them,
And you achieve nothing—
Seize again the burning thing,

Spring surges from within the youth’s body—
Do not let yourselves be confined within ice
Clamorously—the season’s

Do not wait for it to come,
With the spring of the spirit,
Strike against the spring of seasons,
Forever you—

Concerning the problem of politics and literature—
They canoodle like patrons in a teahouse,
They who forever lost their mother—

Do not sulk like a child.

You, in your own head,

form an organizing committee,

O Destiny of the Proletariat,

when we cling fiercely to you,

we can love you like a lover,

but when we view you from afar,

you are miserable,

Ah, for the passion of youth

We, our destiny—
We cannot let go of,
Let us forge like sparks

“Friend—prove whether I’m a fool or a wise man,”

I don’t know—
I know nothing—
I am beginning to be hated

I raise a cheer, but—

No one raises cheers,

I saw victory,
But you say you see victory nowhere,

Does that mean I was dreaming a dream,

In the time when you were witnessing the reality of defeat

“Are you saying that I was seeing dreams of victory, you—”

“And you with your hoe of hatred—”

“You came to smash my bricks.”

Is my violent love not love?

Passion never wearies,

And I generated like fire

It was not empty clamor—

The pent-up things

The pent-up things vomited upon the opponent’s face—
rage’s fervor
in every instance filled hollow visages—
the last drop of talent’s
dripping endured its own agony.

Forgotten words,

They were summoned all at once.

Rage – press forth your reasons,

You who rage freely:

They became excellent standard-bearers,

They became skilled combatants,

You – the prey –

When the spider captures,

Imagine that passion,

With such artful turns of phrase –

We must seize the enemy,

A hedgehog that erects no quills,

A rattlesnake that stays silent,

These cohabitants –

Drive them from struggle’s apartment,

Those who take no offensive action:

They stand as useless burdens.

Not empty clamor—

We must make this passion sing,

We must make it sing,

Today my head had become empty.

However, I believe in talent.

I never despair,
For within my measure,
I find fitting targets for my rage.

"You who are weak,
You too, discover noble rage,"

Then you would all at once
experience how beautiful an angry man can be—
experience how splendid it is—
That stands truly magnificent!

Try directing it toward the one you love—
Vent your rage as befits the moment,

You would likely be all the more adored by her—
Rage!

To the metallic clock

My heart fiercely opposes.
And I willfully impose upon my heart
I mark time’s graduations.

Not twenty-four hours.

The immeasurable markers of time,

We exist

We want to remain stubborn while enriching our time,

Scattering sparks of foolishness as I—

Acting doggedly

Is what I like doing most,

"You turned your eyes away from that,"
"But I could no longer endure it and began to hate—"
"I may be a blind believer in victory—"

You may consider me a degenerate.

Be irreverent.

When I begin trembling with fierce rage—

When trembling seizes me—

It was “all freedoms”—
It was when we had embarked on the campaign to claim them—
At that time—I must be irreverent—
Immoral too—
And I must also be greedy—

I welcome bad criticism.
The servants sought to uphold their master’s discipline.
They cherished past harmony and morality.
“Are not all evils that humanity can commit already openly recorded in the Bible?” —Blake
All of them are already openly recorded in the Bible.

“And is that not all?”—Blake

I want to devour the Bible too.

The evils I commit
Because they are not written in the Bible,

The Bible is not my mother.

He cannot embrace me,

History will commit great evils not yet written in the Bible.

It will commit great evils that cannot be written.

Moreover, those evils—
thoroughly original and
they must be ours.

They must be ours.

Before the public—
Emotions and flesh—
Mobilize everything—
The piano screams fiercely.

Before the public—
When hands strike keys
The foot presses pedals,

And the head kept time,

In that way,

You—both spirit and body—

Mobilized everything in perfect rhythm—

Do not fear—
No matter how fiercely you shout
At the public,
Even if your guts
Were to spill out—
There’s no such risk—
Keeping your mouth shut
Isn’t necessarily willful intent.
Don’t mistake this—
Silence and endurance—
To seal your lips—
That’s only when enduring pain
Too feeble to make you speak—
Small pains? Congratulations—
I wield words
As pursuit guns—artillery of language.

You too—take up some weapon!
Be it machine guns,
howitzers,
field artillery—
keep that gun barrel gaping wide,
ceaselessly feed it ammunition!
We are not iron!
We are living human beings!
Let us scream however we will—
our barrels will never burn from firing!

Let us sing in march-style!
Shelve your technical immaturity!
No-good poets—
They curse Japanese—
If he were reborn in the Soviet—

Did he truly manage to write an impressive poem?
I cannot guarantee.
He will declare:
“Russian simply lacks metrical rigor—”

That luxury-loving bastard—

It makes no difference where he’s born—

Those without passion have no song.

I’ll teach you

how Japanese births rhythm—

Only those who’ve found the enemy

feel emotions welling from hatred.

You despaired over Japanese meter.

And to the reality that words carry within them—
you insist on writing poetry by relying on it—

Indeed, indeed—
Words bearing rhythm—
You only welcome them when they come visiting you.
A chicken carrying leeks on its back—

If it jumps into the pot,
How delighted you must be.
But nothing ever goes so conveniently arranged.

"You with your new words, new forms—
Go search with bells and drums,
We have no time for such things.
We, concerning today’s problems—
We shall sing with today’s words!
Young proletarian poets,
We are like them.
Do not be fatalists toward words—
Let them stay mired for eons,"

We
Make good rhythmic flowers bloom in Japanese!
We all
Sing in march style!

Nightingale’s Song

Wait for that—the night of resentment being flung wide open.
Through songs of young nightingales,
life becomes adorned.
Time and again, time and again,

The moment of dawn was repeated.

Hohokekyo, hohokekyo,

But not even once was there a dawn quite like that.

“That’s right, Nightingale—do not cover your eyes to life’s darkness.”

From there, drag out a coherent

Drag out the song of joy

From night until daybreak

Hohokekyo, hohokekyo,

To forge a new type of life,

Hop from branch to branch.

And from the most strategically chosen vantage—
where resonance amplifies—
Hohokekyo, hohokekyo,
carry your song valley to valley!

Already hunger’s ballads grow stale—
from distances unthinkable
we marched here famished.

The songs of sorrow have ended.
What remains are nothing but songs of joy.
Graduate from kindergarten.

Carry on with my song of victory,
Your song,

To your song, my song is passed on

And today we—our Banzai—

Do not hesitate to shout in unison,

“Oh, Friend! With me—
let’s scream bravo!
To guard your purity and ours,
we wield truly splendid cunning.
This cunning—
when we brandish it,
all enemies rise as worthy opponents,”

Enemies emerge through their own cunning;
against old cunning—
when we answer them back with new cunning—
our smiles too
must look as terrifying as demons to their eyes.

Furthermore, we

This smile gradually—
When we transformed into expressions of hatred,
Their cunning
Exposed itself as mere petty cleverness even as—
They challenged us to the final decisive battle!
The enemy’s thousand expressions and
Myriad types of emotions—
We must make ours!
What they call mere innocence—
To how utterly foolish it was—
The moment of realization—
We began—
It was when we joined the ranks of tacticians!

Hurry—we must seize these.
Graduate from kindergarten:
Cunning, vice, hatred, boldness, arrogance, obstinacy—
All these enemies' traits—
Make them ours! Make them assets!
Against them we
Must close in with our very bodies,
And kiss them—
The moment we do, bite through their tongues—
Never forget to bite through.
Never yield to loneliness.
I believe in imagination's power—
The most intense fantasy—
"Is your ideology sound?
Then you—"

Jump down from high towers.
Wield even suicide's terrible might.
Slice straight across lakes.
Cross through yacht-swift fury.

You must also possess the drive to act,

Acts commonly termed supernatural—
the acts labeled as supernatural—
you must carry them out,

Dream!
Forget the distinction between dreams and reality,

Forget—
Man is consecrated to class,
Our heads upon the spears—

Moreover, since you possess the power to glare down the enemy—
Even at the end—
With the utmost consolidation of spirit—
Strike the enemy—
All the more must we—
The power of living flesh—
Never dare underestimate—
To every farthest limit—

Launch the spirit of battle,
Drive your bodies to the limit,

And do not regret,

The song of battle—

Even if no human hears it, do not despair,

Even if only wrens listen,

Never succumb to loneliness.

My work

Trying to discern black from white,
my eyes tremble violently—
I quake.

Because the situation was urgent,

I rapidly—

I had to define my position,

But such a thing proved impossible,

I would simply swim through life,

Patiently,

Taking a long time,

I would explain my own class.

Ah—through sheer resolve—

Though life was weary,

At least weariness itself

I had managed to drive away.

That had been a splendid undertaking,

Though the work had only just begun.

As for presumptuous delusions

I harbor no presumptuous delusions,
Toward the workers,
When speaking to them,
I become most timidly meticulous,
And he is completely opposite to me,
He faces toward the workers
Without fully explaining his own position
He tries to imposingly argue class matters,
People with disjointed ideologies
invariably make one shoulder tower,
invariably make it tower,
For me,

From beyond the plains
Storm-like happiness and confidence

I was not waiting for what came assailing—
The thing that came assailing—

That storm-like—

It was fierce self-reflection.

I sang like a child.

I will sing as selfishly as possible,

Since everyone wants to be selfish,

I will compile that specimen book,

Let critics stew in jealousy over my selfishness—
Let them burn with envy—

When I blundered,

When I fell into ruin,

Orchestra, play all at once,
I—from cannibals—
As if I leapt in one bound into the proletariat,
I will utilize every instinctual element,
I am said to be simple and unphilosophical,

My philosophy—

My philosophy was devoured by dogs—

If my philosophy...

“O critics! If you wish to uncover it—”
“To where they shit—”
“Just trail after the dog’s ass!”

We of the simple and direct path

lying in wait with a tiger’s gaze

As one of the masses lying in wait
I wear a glorious mark upon my chest—
Ah, Kun Medal! O Mark!
O you upon my chest—
I am proud of it like a child!

O day,

The crisp freshness of morning and—
O beauty of the sunset,

Violin and—
Cello, grapple with me!
With emotion, my day throbbed.
I sang in chorus to you all—
Selfishness and freedom—

For us, let them be synonymous,

My specimen book of selfishness

It is still thin.

O lovely despair,

O Despair,
When you come attacking,
Truly beautiful, lovely as the sunset,
Red like the colors in Mariyapin’s paintings,

Because you come with upheaval, you are beautiful,

Because you are intense, you are beautiful,

Because I could immediately think of death, I was glad,

And because the Earth was vast,

I thrashed about for Despair’s sake,

Even if you suffered, I likely wouldn’t be a hindrance,

O Despair, you came in many guises,

Come visit my place daily if you wish,

I would welcome you,

Each time you visited me,

Thinking of death, thinking of life,

And I—these two things—

Having sung them from the heart, I have no regrets,

When you come, I grow angry,

And see clearly the true nature of what we call the enemy,

The enemy within me,

I within the enemy,
From within the tangled mass of enemies and allies
Like tearing silk cloth with a sharp rip
I could tear away the enemy's portions,

I am a person who dotes tremendously on despair,
Dragon, you and I shall fight,

Who is it,

Between me and the Dragon,

When half-hearted humans attempted to mediate,

I, like Shakespeare’s King Lear,

—Do not step between the Dragon and rage—

And to my fighting instinct,

I would curse those who interfered,

What lay between the enemy and me was O Despair,

How violently you made me tremble,

My anger was like salt

I wanted to melt the slug away,

I raged and ranted like King Lear,
Like painter Goya with hair standing on end,
I wanted to work with foam flying from my mouth,

O Despair,
You are a dear one—when I squeeze you tight,
When I clutch you close,

My heart bounces like a rubber ball,

Misfortune agitates me like this,
I inhale when I should exhale,
I exhale when I should inhale,
O irregular heartbeat,

O my song of the tumultuous world,
when will it be that in a better environment
I might be permitted to sing a hymn of joy?

IV

Loneliness Express

Do not touch me,

Do not meddle with me,

Keep quiet,

To this world's most frail

vessel called I,

I need no criticism,

No kind assistance,

No gentle advice,

No rousing agitation,

I need none of it.

Inescapable

When night arrived

Because I must sleep,
Do not reach so far
To soil my dream,

“Friend,

Ah, what affectionate people

While living in this world,

You and I both likely yearn to clash,

Never to pierce through eternity,

In the midst of conflict,

Of love and hatred

In the chaos,

I spit and spit

The journey of life is

We are bitter fellow travelers,

That living is

so poor

I never imagined it could be this hectic

The pit of my stomach,”

I never imagined it.

“Friend,

Having been born and seen, this is how it is—

Just the unshorn down of the spirit

Neither I nor you have yet shed,

Like a child

possesses a justice worthy of love,

The spirit shouts ‘Be pure!’

Life shouts ‘Be impure!’

I grow ever more entangled,

I emit a red spark of emotion,

class struggle’s

Your idle days’

I want to see the diary,

My idle days are

Driven by the blaze of impatience and struggle,

The loneliness ultra-express,

Unable to return,

It rides on a single track.”

fragile earthenware

The boiler is about to burst.

Bathing in the moonlight,

When I thought myself sad,
The moon rose,
Nature being mine and humankind's,
What an exquisitely arranged coincidence,
And my mood completely recovered,

While walking with long strides

And I thought,

In any case, we

needed to be hated by the enemy,

Only for that necessity alone,

Open precious mouths,

Put forth crucial feet,

Audacious acts were permitted,

—Audacity was impermissible,

If such a thing existed, it was an enemy, not an ally,

A tedious moonlit night

"It feels good to live in tears,"

But that, in such an era as this,

It must be utterly wasteful,

For us,
what we call our most liberating night
is composing songs that vex our foes,
plotting stratagems—

Every day sad,

Every day happy,

Inside my heart, they intermingled—
just like stains.
I was now washing my own heart
in the Western style,
not languishing in suffering all day long—
in the Eastern style—
all day long, sluggishly, without end,
both sadness and suffering,

I endure steadfastly.

Every week,

I set them firmly and scrub vigorously all at once,

Oh, this beautiful

For the moonlit night, we

Can we remain calm,

Our time of liberation—

First with my own hands,

From my surroundings,

Because I must create from within—
As the moon gave light and shadow to me standing—
That guy, in his head,
was constantly praising workers
or else fawning over workers.

He, in his head,
thought the moon was beautiful.
Otherwise, he was just groveling before nature.
In his heart, though he found both moon and workers beautiful,
you who lack the power to sing beautifully,

Oh, you’re right to suffer for that—
To forge our new aesthetics,
Suffering’s good.
But your suffering

After all, it gets passed on to boredom,
As life's mongrel,
After all, I am colonial-born.
I am a half-breed.

“If it offends you,”
“My apologies,”
“If you can’t understand,”
“Do whatever the hell you want,”
I—life’s mongrel—
have no principles:
all men’s and all women’s

In the belly,
I will sow my seed,
so that my lovely children may multiply—
I will scatter my ideology.

My rude personality

It is not my fault.

“Comrades,

blame my father,

I drink sake and Western liquor—
I drink them mixed together,
A cosmopolitan,
Which nationality’s liquor belongs to
Which nationality’s liquor made me drunk?
Even doctors probably wouldn’t understand,
Japanese reality
Soviet reality also
For me, there is no distinction,
What truly galls me
The reality where my feet stand
that reality imposed poverty on me,
For that reason alone,

I am simply enraged,
Even though I'm drunk and my head spins,
That bastard savors moral composure
[He] relishes it pensively.
What a cushy lot!
In this sea-encircled island nation,

For thirty-five years,

I have not reconciled with reality.
I can no longer cease taking up arms now.

The tongue isn’t merely attached for eating.
[It] is also there to bite off—
The sun wandered the sky;
on earth,
Japan’s asphalt-paved roads

Staggering right and left,
I soiled the vertical and horizontal of thought with vomit—
with vomit—

I do nothing but utterly soil [them].

Regarding Natural Objects

Because I looked with distrustful eyes,
a flower bloomed white in the twilight—
of astonishing size.
Even at the white evening-face flower, I was not surprised.
When I looked upon this flower with composure,
my eyes were idiotic.
Regarding all things,

Regarding the class-based perspective—this thing called—
Because I had convinced myself that one must never remain simple,

I was always cynical,
All beautiful things
I had tentatively doubted them all.
That is by no means my fault,
I had observed nature and humans with such meticulous care,

I had been tentatively,

I had likely been observing nature and humans with excessive reserve—
Now everything was resolved.
Nature, to me—
[It] demanded no sacrificial offering
When I understood it held no such right—

I, like a horse,

I voraciously devour natural flowers.

I have become able to,

O tree, O flower, O mountain,
O all natural objects,
At first glance appearing imposing,

You humble beings,

O you who exist beside human life,

Right at this moment, the sunset fell upon you,

What splendor!

O my possessions,
O natural objects,
I take you as a beautiful fact—
I must sing you to exhaustion.
When I sing,
the proletariat inhales your ozone.
O mountain, to you—skepticism’s
When I attached a towline and pulled, I lost.
I plunged into your trees

When I screamed rebellion with all my might,
All sounds of nature harmonized with me,
Nature, you are like us—
You possess an innocent heart.
Nature, if I ever even slightly—
For having viewed you through utilitarian eyes—
Please forgive me, do not rebuke me,
Your beauty to our instinctive eyes
Still answers as something beautiful,

More than the enemy—

When we are moved by your beauty,
At that moment, you receive our goodwill,
You become our ally.
I gaze upon you as one would a lover,
To your ever-changing
To the intense emotions of
We will remain ever vigilant,
And to protect you
In order to love you
I will fight my lovesworn foes and my enemies—

I will fight to the bitter end.

Mermaid

When I tried to sleep
Below the cliff, the sound of waves resounded,

And I fell into sleep—

Time passed.

When I abruptly awoke,

Below the cliff, still—

The sound of waves was resounding,
However, those waves must have been new waves,

Reality—O, you who wash me—

O assailant,

You are always—

You are ever new like that,

The waves tried to seize everything with their eagle’s grip—

trying to clutch everything in their talons,

They also looked like deep blue large hands,

I stood on the shore, looked at the sea, and said,

—O waves,

Why can my poet—

They well up ceaselessly from the depths

—Why can’t we sing your new song in chorus?—

Then the waves bellowed,
“Look at Andersen’s merman!”
At that moment,the Merman appeared from within thesea,

Illuminated by the moon—
She overlooked the reality within the sea,
She calmly ascended onto land,

What she desired was—
an unknown world—
the longed-for land.
In those marine depths—
flowers beyond sight’s reach—
trees unseeable—
birds invisible—
humans unimaginable—
she hungered to grasp their forms—

The Mermaid walked on land.

But the land—

It was not nearly as beautiful as she had imagined,
Moreover, it was utterly impossible to endure—
It was painful,
With each step, the soles of her feet—
It hurt as if stepping on thorns or needles,
I too, like the mermaid,
I will tread upon life’s pain,
I will yearn for the unknown world,

That unknown world—
Not in the sea—
I will seek on land—
O waves, drench me,

Because of your salt,
Because my body will be pulled taut—
I—like a mermaid—,

O land—

O reality,

I will tread upon your new needles.

I will be fiercely loved by you.

I will fiercely love you in return.

Class professor

How inadequate is my self-loathing—

How insufficient am I,

As long as I cannot do that,

My life is
My art—
They are nothing but crime—

Oh, humanity—
To think we’ve grown so accustomed to telling such lies—
Have we grown too accustomed?

That guy's novel—
How utterly incomprehensible it was,
Why to us—
Why wouldn't he kindly explain about fate—
Why wouldn't he give us an explanation—
What pretentious phrasing—
Had they grown so accustomed to prosecutors' closing arguments—
What utter, utter absurdity—
The fact that oil could be extracted from rapeseed flowers
Had they forgotten that oil could be extracted from rapeseed flowers?
He, for the sake of earthy people—
Did he ever utter even a single word for them?
Stories from inside prisons were more than enough—
How long must we endure these partisan stories?

Dnieperstroi’s
The echo of excavators had ceased,
The current had long since—

has poured into the sea,

But the spirit of our country's people
remained unpenetrated,
Truth
through rocks of lies
barely flowed like a meager stream—
Pitiful
scant truths—
Oh, I suffered splendidly for individualism
I suffered splendidly,

The authority to incite others

From whom was it granted?
He does not know.

That was a terrifying thing—
Who had appointed you professor of class?
Who had been delivering those appointment letters all along?
You merely stood on the lectern of your own accord—
Scorn yourselves—
Yourselves—
Reflect on whether you had qualifications to teach—
You who had never graduated from individualism—
You were the Academy—
First suffer—grieve over that—
Getting drunk and singing—

The kind of resentment that makes one clench their teeth around the clock—

There was no such resentment—
such resentment kept me from writing poetry,

Are the masses truly perpetually unfortunate,
Among the masses,

I saw much misfortune.
But I also saw much happiness:
getting drunk and singing songs,
watching movies and fighting,

taking walks, doting on women,

All these things are what humans do,
We must not forget,
We are mere Puritanical proletarians

Things that must not exist—
From within the lives of the masses
The Puritans,
The habit of excessive seriousness with furrowed brows—
I wanted to remove them,
With joyful songs I from Hashagu
The masses increasingly
Fought through life
With audacity—
“Chorus with my song!”

My indignation—
It was the moment I discovered a worthy opponent.
I could crush twenty-four hours of indignation
and pulverize it in just one hour.
All remaining time
I used for the people's joy—
a happy singer,
such an impulsive poet was I.
I would also smash twenty-four hours of happiness
and forge it within an hour into a song of suffering—
such an unfortunate Marxist,
such a passionate poet was I.
From now on, the masses will likely grow more carefree,

And voices of conversation will surge ever louder—
swell ever louder still.
Men—of course—
women will harden beyond expectation,
men’s bluntness ripening raw,
as they lavish care upon women all the more.

Poetic actor—
Ah, let me—
Cast me down from this ecstasy,
I am a poetic actor!
My performance is wretched—laugh, I beseech you!
I will now put on airs,
I select half-collars like a woman,
I in my own room—
With suffering insufficient,

I shambled all the way up onto the stage to groan.

For this disgrace—

“Who will applaud me,”
“Whom can I attract?”
“You are splendid,”

“You are manly, my friend,”

"You are beautiful,
You are womanly, my lover—
For this actor of mine,
What multitudes of spectators surge!
For those who roar their applause—"

"I am on the verge of madness.

Let me swallow a heated iron rod,

O Masses, my charioteers,

Use me until I’m knocked down flat—

Use me!"

My group

The preparations had fallen into place.
He was the curtain-puller.

With cautious demeanor

At the very moment I shed genuine tears, he will draw the curtain for me.

At the very moment I shed tears, he would draw the curtain for me.
Someone struck the gong—
What a passionately frenzied beating!
Some were the costume handlers,
dressing me in gauze undergarments.

They dressed me in iron armor, bustling about.

For the raging audience,

They brought galloping horses onto the stage,

For the bloodthirsty audience,

I must truly shed blood and show them,

“O audience,”
“Are you truly telling me to die?”

“That guy’s some freak of nature,
A useless cheap actor,”

“Hurry up and bleed already!”
“Are you saying that?”
“Wait!”

“My friend, O people,”

“Let my poet live a little longer now,”
“Let him live on,”

“Let me spew lines of flame—
Let me spew from the stage—.”

Now was my duel hour.
Let there be leisure unbound—
Let there be war’s measured cadence.
Now was my meal hour.

It was a restaurant on the stage,
The beer was the real thing,
It was the stuff with fizzing bubbles rising,
I grabbed this one forcefully and
I grew somewhat drunk,
To absurd croquettes,
I poured sullen sauce over them and ate.

the details of my performance
“Just appreciate the details.”
As a direct descendant of the Ural wolf

――To the Free Verse Denialists――

“You poets,”

Regarding your own talent,

"You arrogant lot!

O genius supremacists,

O torso swollen with a bellyful of excrement and urine,

Your poems are too polished.

'Oh, excellence is writing clumsy poems,'

As for me—when it comes to something like talent—

Because I do not blindly believe like you all,

I do not write poems with your splendid clumsiness.

In the act of speaking truth—

To think that skill is required—

What a way they've gone and hanged themselves—"

It must be a constrained sadness worthy of their plight—
the splendid thing lately
is that human beings have somehow
begun to sing of the tangible reality of suffering and joy—
the devil is doubled over laughing—
Japanese poets too have somehow

[they] have somehow acquired the qualification to plunge into hell—
Bravo, bravo, Japanese poets,
The one who first exposed disgrace
A poet’s triumph.
I expose disgrace
I was the first to lay bare [it] and triumphed,
Poseurs, liars, and blusterers,
From the headless and tailless prose poem form
They’d stick out a foot a little,
They’d stick out a hand a little,
Their squirming postures
Exactly like amoebas.

Fundamentally, these
agonies of antlion-like poetic forms
began with the rigid constraints imposed on prose.
Like me—pushed to an extreme—
with my foolish head,
those who simply appealed to pain
would never find favor
with those of complex intellect.

“O, all you talented poets,”

disgrace and error—
than a god who fears eternal transgression—
O ones more splendid than kings,

Everything these people said was splendid—well arranged, well positioned. What truly astonished me was how, amid the whirlpool of turmoil and upheaval, they scorned free verse and proceeded to create their so-called new metrical patterns and new rhythmic forms—

they declare they will create,
I am not like you all—

I am not a hybrid of poetry and prose,
I am the purebred of free verse.
In other words, the direct lineage of the Ural wolf.

The order of poetic forms and the repetition of rhyme

“For now, I’ll leave it to you,”