Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Ishikawa Takuboku

When I breathed,
A sound echoed within my chest.
That sound—lonelier than the winter wind!
Though I closed my eyes,
Nothing surfaced in my heart.
Lonely still—and so I opened my eyes again.
Midway, I suddenly changed my mind,
Taking leave from work, today again,
I wandered along the riverbank.
My throat dried,
I went to search for a fruit shop still open.

In the deep autumn night.
The child went out to play and hadn’t returned—
Taking it out,
I set the toy train running and watched.
"I want—want—to buy books,"

Though not meant as a barbed comment—
I tried telling my wife.
A husband's heart yearning for travel!
Scolding, crying—the hearts of wife and child!

Morning dining table!
After leaving the house—about five blocks—
As if I were someone with business—
I tried walking—
While pressing my aching tooth,
The sun, bright red,
I saw rising in the winter fog.
As though I must walk on endlessly—
Thoughts surged forth—
The late-night streets.
A nostalgic winter morning.

When I drank hot water,
Steam settled softly over my face.
Somehow,
This morning my heart seemed somewhat bright.
I cut my fingernails.
Entranced,
I gazed into the book’s illustration.
I tried blowing tobacco smoke.

Midway, when the transfer train had vanished,
I thought I might weep.
Rain kept falling.
Every other night,
Around one in the morning—I'd climbed that cut-through slope—
If only I had employment...
Dampened,
Steeped in liquor's scent,
I returned home sensing my brain's weight.
Today again—I could drink sake!

If I drank sake,
I knew this habit churned my chest—and yet.
Now I muttered something.
Thinking this,
I shut my eyes tight, savoring the drunkenness.
How refreshingly clear—this pleasant feeling of sobriety!
I woke at midnight—
ground ink,
stepped out onto the midnight bay window,
on the railing’s frost,

Cooled my fingertips, I did.

As if declaring, “Let things take their course—do as you please...”

These days of mine—

Alone, I quake.

As though my hands and feet lay scattered apart—

Mournful awakening!

Mournful awakening!

Mornings upon mornings,

I stroked and mourned,

The light numbness in the thigh of the side I'd slept facing downward.

Like a train crossing the wilderness,

This anguish,

Passed through my heart from time to time.

Spreading out the shabby hometown newspaper,

I found misprints.

This morning’s sadness.

Who would... me

I wished there were someone who would scold me to my heart’s content.

What was this feeling?

For no reason at all,

It was as though paying respects at my first lover’s grave.

I came to the outskirts.

Nostalgic—
The thought of returning home arises—
After so long, I rode the train—
To declare I believe a new tomorrow will come
To these very words of mine
Though no lie dwells within—

When I thought about it,
there seemed to be things I truly desired—yet there were none.
I polished the tobacco pipe.
Today, I suddenly longed for the mountains—
I came to the mountains.

I searched for the stone I sat on last year.
Having slept in，I had no time to read the newspaper—
Like a debt

Today too, I feel it—
Looking at soiled hands—
Exactly—
As though confronting my own heart these days.

The time I washed my soiled hands—
A faint satisfaction
That was today’s satisfaction.
The new year arrives—this heart slackens!

Entranced—

As though I’ve forgotten everything that came before.

Until yesterday, from morning till night, I was strained.
That state of mind
Though I resolve not to forget.

On the door’s surface resounded the sound of battling shuttlecocks.

Laughter rang out.

It was as though I had returned to last year’s New Year.

Somehow,

It was as though this year would bring good things.

New Year’s morning was clear and windless.

A yawn welled up from the pit of the stomach.

I let out a long, drawn-out yawn,

This year’s New Year’s Day.

Year after year,

Two or three similar poems

The friend who writes and sends them in New Year’s letters.

When the fourth day of the New Year arrived,

That person’s

The once-a-year postcard has arrived.

I think only of things impossible to achieve in this world.
My head!
Will this year too be the same?

People all—
They headed in the same direction.

The heart watched from the sidelines.

How long—

This hanging scroll I’d grown weary of seeing

Would I leave it hanging like this?

Smoldering—

Like a candle burning down,

Night deepened into New Year’s Eve.

Leaning against the blue-lacquered Seto brazier,

Closed my eyes, opened them,

I cherish time.

Somehow believing tomorrow might bring good things,
This hopeful heart
I scold into sleep.
Has the fatigue of the vanished year risen up—
Even on New Year’s Day—
To leave me drowsy?
Faintly,
The root of it all brings sorrow—
This sleepy New Year’s afternoon heart.
Sitting motionless,
Staring at tangerine-stained nails.
This restlessness!

Clapped my hands,
Until drowsiness answered—

A frustration akin to that very frustration!

I’ve forgotten an unavoidable task—
In the midst of it—put something into my mouth.

It was for Zem.
I covered myself completely with the futon,
contracted my legs,
and stuck out my tongue at no one in particular.

Before I knew it, the New Year had passed,

My life

I have fallen back into the same old rut.

I argued with God and cried—

That dream!

It was a morning some four days prior.

When it became time to return home,
I made waiting my sole purpose—
Today too I worked.

The various speculations of people
being impossible to gauge,
Today too I lived subdued.

"If I were the editor-in-chief of this newspaper,"
"I would do it"—so I thought—
So many things!

From the Sorachi District of Ishikari—
From the bride at the ranch came something sent—
Butter, perhaps.

Burying his chin in his coat collar,

He stood still in the late night and listened.
A voice so familiar, I wonder.
The code name Y—
In the old diary’s scattered pages—

Y must have been that person.

Many farmers have quit drinking, they say.

If they were in greater straits,

what would they quit next?

Mind upon waking!

Even at the article about an elderly person’s running away from home—

tears came forth.

When I try to plan things with others

it doesn’t suit me—

the waking moment of pondering my own character—

Somehow,
I was struck by how many—
People think just like I do.
To someone younger than myself,
I spent half a day venting passion,

This weary heart!

Strangely today,
While cursing Parliament—tears streamed down.
I feel glad.
Thinking I’d make them bloom overnight,
I roasted plum pots over flames,
They did not bloom.
By mistake I broke a teacup,
The pleasure found in breaking things—

This morning too I thought.

I tried pulling the cat’s ears,

When it meowed,

The child’s face, startled yet delighted.

Why have I become so wretched,

Scolding my weak heart again and again,

I go to borrow money.

Wait though I waited—
The day when the one who should have come did not come.

The reason I moved the desk here—

Old newspapers!
Ah—here was praise written about my poems,
though just two or three lines.
On moving morning at my feet—it had fallen and lay there,

A woman’s photograph!

A forgotten photograph!
Back then, I hadn’t even noticed—
the sheer number of kana errors!
Old love letters!

Eight years ago—
The bundle of letters from my current wife!
I wonder where I hid it—that thought lingers.
The sorrow of this sleepless habit!
At least a little—

When sleepiness came, I floundered into bed.

I tried to laugh—but could not—

The knife I had searched for so long—

The knife was in my hand.

These four or five years,
Not once did I look up at the sky.
Could it have come to this?
Unless it was on manuscript paper,
the fact that I didn't write characters,
The innocence of my child in whom I firmly believed!
Somehow or other, I managed to live through this month safely again,
I had no desires beyond this.

It was the last evening of the month.

Back then, I often told lies.

I told lies with such ease.

Calmly, I often told lies.

Sweat breaks out!

Old letters!

With that man too—five years ago,

how intimately we kept company!

What did they call his name?

His surname was Suzuki.

Where could he be now?

Looking at a postcard saying someone was born,
For a time,
How radiant their face had been.
See there,
That person too had had a child—
I slept with some semblance of peace.
“Ishikawa’s a wretched fellow.”
At times I said this to myself,
And tried to grieve.
Pushing open the door and taking a step out,
Through the patient’s eyes—endless—
What an endless corridor.

Like having put down a heavy load,

Such was the feeling,
when I came to this bed.
"Then you don't want life?"
When told by the doctor,
my heart fell silent.

In the middle of the night, I suddenly awoke,
I felt an urge to cry without reason,
I pulled the futon over myself.
I spoke, but there was no reply.
When I looked closely,

The neighboring patient had been crying.
He leaned against the hospital room window,
having seen a police officer for the first time in a while.
Could I even feel joy?
One of the sorrows of a clear day!
Leaning against the hospital room window,
I tasted tobacco.
Late at night—the clamor from some room.

Perhaps someone had died—
He held his breath.
The nurse’s pulse-taking hand—
there were days when it was warm,
and days when it was cold and rigid.

Even on what they called my first night in the hospital,
I fell asleep immediately, but—
I felt unsatisfied.

Somehow, I had thought of myself as a great person.
I had thought of myself as such.
A child I had been, alas.
Stroking my swollen belly,
On the hospital bed, alone,
I lay here grieving.

When I woke,
the body ached,
I couldn’t move.
Wanting to cry,
I waited for dawn.
I was drenched
in night sweats.
Dawn’s

A heaviness of sorrow not yet roused.
A vague sadness—
when night falls—
comes quietly to settle upon the sickbed.

He leaned against the hospital window,
watched all sorts of people
walking briskly.
“Having already seen clear through to your heart’s depths,”

In a dream, mother came
She left weeping.
As if my thoughts had been stolen and overheard—
the stethoscope suddenly pulled away from my chest—

From the stethoscope.

Until the nurse stayed up all night,
my illness—
though it might worsen—I secretly wished for.
Since I had come to the hospital,
I cherished wife and child.
I returned to my true self—alas.
I resolved never again to tell lies—

That was this morning—

Now I have told yet another lie, alas.

Somehow,

Thinking of myself as a solid mass of lies,

I shut my eyes.

All that has happened until now,

though I turned everything into lies,

my heart found no solace at all.

Having declared I would become a soldier,

to my parents

the old me who caused them hardship, alas.

Entranced,

myself carrying a sword, able to ride a horse—

I picture it in my mind.

Diet member Fujisawa—
thinking of him as if he were my younger brother—
I wish I had wept for him, alas.
Something—just one thing—
having committed some great wrongdoing,
this feeling of wanting to keep feigning ignorance...
“Please lie still and rest,”
as one would speak to a child—
the doctor said... alas.

From under the ice bag.
Eyes made to gleam,

On nights I couldn’t sleep, I came to hate people.

The spring snow fell chaotically—

With fevered eyes,

I sorrowfully gazed upon it.

That greatest sorrow of humanity—

Was this it?

I abruptly shut my eyes.

The doctor’s rounds—how late they were!

Placing a hand on my aching chest,

I shut my eyes tight.

Apart from having stared intently at the doctor’s complexion,

I saw nothing—

A day when the chest pain intensified.

Since I was ill, my heart must have weakened!

Various things I wanted to cry about

Gathered in my chest.

In the weight of the book I read while lying down,

Weary—
When I rest my hands, I dwell on things.
Today, for some reason—
Two times, three times—
I find myself wanting a gold watch.
Someday without fail—the book I mean to publish—
The cover and such—

I can speak to my wife.
My chest aches,
a day when spring sleet falls.
Choking on medicine,
I lie face down and shut my eyes.
The color of the new salad
with joy,
I pick up the chopsticks and look at them,
but—
Scolding the child—ah,
this heart of mine!
Only the habit of fever-ridden days—
Wife,
do not think.
When fate comes—
can I ride it?
I do not question—
In the midnight awakening beneath
the heavy futon.
Though I feel an unbearable thirst,
I stretch out my hand.

Even picking up an apple felt too heavy on days like this.

When the ice bag melted and grew warm,

My eyes opened of their own accord,
My body ached.
Now, in a dream, I heard the lesser cuckoo.
I had not forgotten the lesser cuckoo,
Ah, how sorrowful.

Five years since leaving my hometown,

Having fallen ill,

Ah, to have heard that lesser cuckoo in a dream.

Lesser cuckoo—
the woods that surrounded the mountain villa in Shibutami Village
Dawn, how dear.
the edge of the temple in my hometown
the hinoki cypress’s crown
The lesser cuckoo that came to the summit and cried!
The trembling of the pulse-taking hand—ah,

ah, how sorrowful—

The young nurse scolded by the doctor!
It lingers in memory—
the hand of the nurse called F—

the coldness and such—

I want to walk all the way to the end just once—

I had been thinking—
That hospital’s long corridor—
When I tried to get up,
the time when I immediately wanted to sleep again
The tulip I cherished with powerless eyes!
I had lost even the strength to clench tightly.
My emaciated hands—
Ah, how pitiable!
My illness—
I pondered how its roots ran deep and far.

Close my eyes and think.

Sorrowfully,

A heart that does not wish for the illness to heal exists within me.

What heart is this?

I desired a new body,
stroking the scars from surgical wounds,
stroking the scars.
Forgot to take my medicine—
in some vague way,
found joy in this long illness—ah.
The Russian name Borodin—
for no reason at all—
came to mind again and again that day.
They drew near imperceptibly,
grasped my hand,

Again, imperceptibly, they departed—these people!
Friend and wife both seemed to find sorrow—
Even in sickness, still—
I must not cease speaking of revolution—
I had thought it something somewhat distant—
The sorrowful heart of a terrorist—
There was an approaching day.
In such circumstances—
How many times had I already met this!
I now thought: Let things be as they would.

If one had thirty yen a month—in the countryside—

If I could live comfortably—

I suddenly thought—
Today again, there was pain in my chest.
If I were to die,
I thought I would go to my hometown and die there.

Before I knew it, summer had come—

To eyes recovering from sickness—something heartening

The rain’s radiance!

Four months ill—
At various times changing—
The taste of medicine became nostalgic—ah.
Four months ill—
Even through that span, still visibly,
My child growing taller—this sadness.

Soundly,

Watching my child grow taller,

What is this loneliness I feel each day?

I seated the child by my pillow,

When I stared intently at that face,

The child fled—alas.

Always regarding the child,

During the time I had come to think [it] a bothersome thing—

The child had turned five.

Even to that parent,

May you not come to resemble even your parent's parent—

This is what your father thinks, child.

The sadness—

(I too was like this.)

A heart that won’t weep even when scolded or struck—this child’s heart.

“Worker,” “revolution”—words like these
that had been learned—
a five-year-old child. Ah.

At times,
Raising their voice to its fullest,
I tried praising the child singing a song.
What was the child thinking—
Abandoning toys to sit quietly,
Having come to my side, the child sat.
Even forgetting to take sweets,
From the second floor,
The child gazed at the town’s comings and goings—ah.
The smell of new ink—
What seeped into the eye—how sorrowful!
The garden had turned green without notice.

During the time he stared at a single spot on the tatami—

That thought—

Wife—are you asking me to speak?
That year’s departing spring—
The black glasses I wore when my eyes darkened—

How hard it must have been—
Forgetting to take my medicine,
After so long,

Being scolded by Mother—I found it gladdening.
Having had the bedside shoji opened,
I had even developed the habit of gazing at the sky—
In a long illness.
Like docile livestock—
A heart becoming,
The helplessness of days when the fever ran slightly high.
Something—like this—I grew wanting to write,
I took up the pen—
The flowers in the vase—a fresh morning.
Like a woman set free,
The day my wife carried herself.
I gazed at the dahlia.
The feeling of waiting hopelessly for money—ah.
Lying down and getting up repeatedly,
Another day ended.

Everything grows loathsome.

This feeling—

Whenever I remember, I smoke tobacco.

From my time in a certain city—
A friend told me—
The sorrow of lies mingling in love’s confessions.
After so long,
Suddenly, I let out a laugh—
At the absurdity of a fly rubbing its hands—
The sorrow on days when my chest ached,
Like fragrant tobacco—
How impossible to cast aside!
I wanted to stir up some sort of commotion—
My earlier self—

I found my earlier self dear.
To the child who had turned five—for no reason at all—
I bestowed the Russian name Sonya,
and when called by that name, the child rejoiced.

＊

Unresolvable.

Positioning myself amid discord,

Today again, I am lonely and angry.

If I were to keep a cat,

That cat would again become a source of conflict,

My sad home.

"I—why not just send me off to a boarding house alone?"

Today again, barely—

I almost said it—

One day, suddenly forgetting my illness,

I tried imitating a cow’s cry—

While the wife and child were away.

How sad my father is!

Today again, I grew tired of reading the newspaper,

In the garden, I played with small ants.

The only son—
As a male child, I was raised thus.
Parents must also be sorrowful.
Even tea I had forsaken—
Mother prays for my recovery.
Mother is angry about something again today.
Today, I suddenly wanted to play with the neighborhood children—

I called, but they didn’t come.
My heart grows troubled.
My illness unhealed,
Not dying,

Day by day, only my heart grew harsher—those July and August days.

I had bought and kept

On a morning when medicine had been applied, a friend came

The sorrow of a friend’s kindness in exchange.

When I scolded the child,

the child cried, then fell asleep.

I reached out to touch the sleeping face with its slightly open mouth.

Unaccountably,

As if my lungs had shrunk—I rose with the thought—

An autumn-nearing morning.

Autumn draws near!
The warmth of the light bulb's globe—
so familiar to my fingers' skin.

At the bedside where his child napped,
he bought dolls to arrange,
finding solitary pleasure.

"If Christ were called a man,"
my sister's eyes—though sorrowful—
pity me.

Having ordered a pillow placed on the veranda,
after so long,
I grew intimate with evening skies.

A white dog passed beyond the garden.
Turning around,
he debated keeping it with his wife.