Pathway to Japanese Literature

*A Handful of Sand*

Ikuei Miyazaki Daishirō of Hakodate

Kamei Kindaichi Kyōsuke, friend and literary scholar of the same country

I dedicate this collection to both of you.
It was as though I had already bared my entire self before you both.
Therefore I believed you two would know most about every song contained here.

I take another copy and offer it to my deceased child Shin'ichi.
I had given the manuscript of this collection to the publisher on the morning you were born.
The manuscript fees from this collection became your medicine.
And when I examined the proof copy of this collection, it was the night of your cremation.

Author

From over one thousand poems composed after the summer of Meiji 41 (1908), I selected five hundred and fifty-one to include in this collection.
The five chapters in this collection were tentatively divided by grouping poems whose inspirational origins lay close together.
“The Comfort of Autumn Wind” was a commemoration of the autumn of Meiji 41.

Songs of Self-Love

On the white sand
of a small island's rocky shore
in the eastern sea

I weep until soaked,
playing with crabs

What streams down my cheek -
not tears at all -

I never forget
the one who showed me
a handful of sand

Facing the great sea alone
Seven or eight days
I left home intending to weep
A pistol, badly rusted, emerged
The sand dune's

As I dug into the sand with my fingers,

a storm came in one night and built

this sand dune -

what grave could this be?

Prone on the sand dune's grit,

first love's

pain remembered from afar.

At the dune's base lies driftwood -

scanning the surroundings,

I try to speak.

The sorrow of lifeless sand!

Dryly sifting,

it falls through clasped fingers.

Damply,

tear-drinking grains -

how heavy tears grow.

I wrote a hundred 'large' characters

in sand,

then abandoned death and returned.

The habit of the child who wakes yet still does not rise—
A sorrowful habit indeed!
Mother, do not reproach me—
That time I drooled upon a clod of earth
And shaped my weeping mother's likeness—
How sorrowful it was!
In this lampless room I dwell.

Father and Mother

From within the wall, he emerged leaning on a cane.

In play, I carried mother on my back.

I wept at how light she was,

And did not take three steps.

I would leave home airily,

The habit of returning airily!

Though friends laugh,

Each time my father in my hometown coughs like this—

When the cough arises—

How sorrowful to fall ill

If girls should hear my weeping

A sick dog's howl

They say resembles baying at the moon

Wherever it might be—this faint insect-like chirping

This sense of desolation

Today too remembers

Profoundly dark—

Thinking my heart was being sucked into a hole

Exhausted, I sleep.

Willingly

May there be work for me to do.

Having accomplished that, I intend to die.

In the corner of the crowded streetcar

I huddle

Evening after evening, the dearness of myself

In the bustle of Asakusa’s night
I blended in
A lonely heart emerged from the mingling
I cut off my beloved dog’s ear
Alas, this too—
Could it be this heart wearied by all things?

Took up the mirror.
Tried making every possible face I could.

When I had cried my fill.

Tears tears.

How strange!
When I washed it with that, my heart grew wanton.
At my dismayed mother’s words,

When I realized,
I had been tapping a bowl with chopsticks.
Lying on the grass,
no thoughts arose.

A bird shat on my brow and soared through the sky.

My beard’s

The downward-facing habit of my beard provokes ire.

Lately, since I resemble a detestable man,

From the depths of the forest, a gunshot was heard.

Alas, alas.

The apt sound of dying by one's own hand.

Pressed my ear to the trunk of a great tree—

nearly half a day—

peeling away its hard bark.

“To die over such trifles?”

“To live over such trifles?”

Enough, enough of this debate.

Rarely does it occur
in this flat heart—
the clock’s chime holds interest when I listen—
then sudden terror awakens
and I sit rigid.

Eventually, I quietly fumbled with my navel.

I climbed to the summit of a high mountain.
For some reason, I waved my hat.
Did I come down?
Somewhere, many people were quarreling.

Like casting lots.

I too want to draw.

When Angry

I will surely break one bowl

Having broken nine hundred and ninety-nine, I would die.

The small man in the streetcar I always meet—

Angular eyes

Lately, it preoccupies me.

I came before a mirror shop.

I was suddenly startled.

How shabbily I walk!

I somehow just wanted to ride a train.

I got off the train

Nowhere to go.

I entered a vacant house.

There was a time when he smoked tobacco.

Ah, simply because I wanted to be alone,

For some reason,

When loneliness strikes, I turn into a man who walks about

March had come.

In softly heaped snow

As if burying burning cheeks

I want to fall in love

What is sorrow?
The single-minded resolve of insatiable egoism—

There was a man at his wit’s end.

Both hands and feet

He threw them throughout the room.

Eventually, he quietly turned over.

As if awakening from a hundred-year slumber,
he groaned.
I had nothing to think of.

Crossing my arms

Lately I’ve been thinking—

Great enemy, leap forth before these eyes!

Hands white—

And they were large.

When I met a man said to be an extraordinary person—

With heartfelt ease

I came to want to praise others.

The loneliness of growing weary from egoism's heart

When rain falls,

Everyone in my household—each and every one—wears a sunken face.

May the rain clear up.

With a heart like one leaping from heights

This life—

Is there no way to end this life?

These days

A regret has secretly dwelled in my chest.

They did not make me laugh.

When I hear flattery,

My heart grows angry—

The sorrow of knowing myself too well.

I knock to rouse a stranger's household;

The fleeing back was amusing.

Longing for the past,

He conducted himself like an extraordinary person.

The loneliness afterward—

To what shall I compare this?

His great body—

He was detestable.

When he went before that and spoke,

"A poet useless in practical matters,"

To the one who sees me

I have borrowed money.

From afar, the sound of a flute is heard.

Perhaps because I hang my head.

Tears flow—

"That too is good, this too is good"—so says a certain person's...

their lightheartedness...

I have come to want
Dying—
I feel as if taking my regular medicine.

When my heart aches,

By the roadside, a dog let out a long, drawn-out groan.

I too have imitated it.

Out of envy,

I grew earnest and struck the dog with bamboo.

The child's face—

I have deemed it good.

Of the Dynamo

The comforting weight of that deep hum!

Ah, would that I could speak thus of things!

The death face of my friend who was by nature jovial—

Blue weariness

Even now, it remains before my eyes.

Serving a capricious person,

profoundly—

my world has grown detestable!

Like a dragon, I leap into the empty void.

Vanishing smoke
When gazed upon—never sating
What good weariness this is!

Without even catching my breath,

This weariness after working—

Feigning sleep, involuntary groans... such things.

Why do I do this?

To keep others from perceiving my thoughts,

Stopped my chopsticks and suddenly thought—

Gradually,

How I have grown accustomed to the ways of the world.

Early morning—

My sister, past her marriageable age—

I read what seemed to be a love letter.

Damply,

the sponge that had absorbed water—

A sensation resembling heaviness comes over me.

Berating myself—"Die! Die!"—

Writhered.

The dark emptiness in the depths of my heart

A beast-like face existed; it snapped its mouth open.

I merely kept watching.

People speaking—

Parent and child,

With hearts apart, they face each other quietly.

What is this awkwardness?

That ship's
I was one among those voyagers
Struggling against death—
The sweets dish before these eyes
I burned to crush between my teeth

How vexing!

Of a young man who often laughs

If I were to die,

May this world grow just a little lonelier.

For some reason,

I found myself wanting to run until my breath gave out.

Open fields and such...

Wearing a new suit and such...

I shall journey

And thus this year too I have overthought.

I deliberately extinguished the lamp.

I had been thinking so vividly—

For no reason at all.

Atop Asakusa's Ryōunkaku
The day I stood arms crossed
What an endless diary.
Could this be mere playacting?
Clutching a knife - death's charade
That face... that face.

The whispered conversation gradually grew louder.
A pistol rang out.
Life ends.

At times,
I play like a child—
How strange—those in love refrain from such acts!
When I left the house this way,
Sunlight’s warmth lingered.
I breathe deep—
The tired cow’s drool
Dripping endlessly,
As though ten million years could not exhaust it.
On the cut stone by the roadside,

Arms crossed,

There was a man looking up at the sky.

What could it be?

With an unsettled gaze,

he watched the group swinging pickaxes.

From the depths of my heart, today has fled.

Like a sick beast

Discontent fled.

A modest heart came.

Even when walking,

As though strength pools in my gut.

In my longing to weep alone,

I came and lay down.

Ah, the comfort of the inn’s bedding!

Ah, friends—
Despise not the baseness of beggars.
In times of hunger, I too was thus.
The scent of new ink
When I pull the cork,
How sorrowful—the way it seeps into my starving stomach!

What is sorrowful:
Enduring a parched throat
While huddling in night-cold bedding -
Those who ever made me bow my head -
Let all people die.

Having prayed—
O two friends who resemble me,
One has died;
One was released from prison and now lies ill—
Holding abundant talent,
For his wife...
I grieved for a friend troubled by thoughts.

Having opened up and spoken,
Thinking I had suffered some loss,
I did not part with a friend.

Gloomily,
As I watched the clouded sky,
I have come to want to kill someone—ah, the sorrow of it!

No more than ordinary talent—

My friend's

How pitiable—this profound discontent!

A man whom none could find merit in came—

He strutted off.

How sorrowful it is!

Though I work,

Though I work, still my life never eases.

I stare at my hands.

Everything seems like the affairs of a future’s end.

This sorrow—

Even though I couldn't wipe it away

On a certain day

Like one who wants to drink sake so much he can’t bear it—
Today I earnestly desired money.
I delighted in playing with a crystal ball.

This heart of mine

What is this feeling?

Without incident

yet grows plump contentedly over time

How unfulfilled I feel these days.

A great crystal ball

One thing desired.

Facing that, I would ponder things—
To my self-infatuated friend—
They struck wooden mallets
In a heart that acted as if bestowing charity
At dawn’s waking from a sorrowful dream
It entered the nose:
The scent of simmering miso!
The clink-clink of stone being chiseled in vacant lot
Had not yet reached my ears.

Until I entered the house,
somehow,
in my head there was a cliff,
day by day the soil crumbled.
Like the ringing of a telephone in the distance.
Today too, my ears ring.

Ah, sorrowful day!
O grime-stained collar of lined garment!
How sorrowful.
The scent of roasting hometown walnuts.

There are times when I desperately want to die.

Reluctantly avoiding others' eyes,

I make a frightening face.

Having seen off a troop of soldiers,
I felt sorrow.
Why do they appear so free from sorrow?

The faces of my countrymen appear unbearably base.

A day when such sights meet my eyes.

I shall seclude myself at home.

On this coming day off, I shall try sleeping all day

I have thought it through completely.

For three years now

My heart from a certain time

Freshly baked

How it resembled bread, I realized.

Drip-drop drip-drop

Raindrops

The sadness resonating in an aching head.

One day,

Replaced the shoji screens in my room.
That day found peace through this act.
How I couldn't remain like this—
Stood there,

Until a horse neighed outside,
listlessly I stood in the corridor.
When I thrust the door open,
it gave way at once,
and I stood motionless.

Absorbing black and red ink,
I look at the sponge drying stiff.
Whoever might see it -
something that makes me nostalgic -
this evening I want to write a long letter

Pale green...

"If I drink it, they say my body becomes clear as water."

Is there no medicine?

I grew weary of the lamp I always glared at.

Three days or so

How I’ve grown close to the candle’s flame.

Words unused by humans

By some chance...

A day that seems known only to me

Seeking a new spirit

A name unknown,

Today again I wandered the streets and came back.

A day when all my friends appear greater than I—

I bought flowers and came.

I grew close with my wife.

What must I do—

Do I exist here?

At times like this, startled, I gazed around the room.

There was a person who spat saliva inside the streetcar.

And yet,

I resolved to wound my heart.

I want a place where I can play away the hours until dawn.

When I think of home,

The heart turns cold.

This grief that all people have homes—

Like entering a grave

I returned and slept.
I would show some wonder
In the moment when everyone was astonished,

I think I will vanish

In the hearts of those we call people,
A prisoner dwells in each—
This sorrow that groans.

I was scolded

A child’s heart that bursts into sudden tears

How I wish I could become that heart as well.

I can no longer even consider stealing wrong.

My heart is sorrowful.

No refuge exists.

The sorrow like a cast-off woman

Of a feeble man

A day made for feeling.

On the garden stone
I suddenly threw away the clock.
How dear now was the anger of my former self.

My face flushed red—the fact that I raged

The next day,

How I pine for what isn’t even so much!

Fretting heart, you are sorrowful.

Come now!
Let me groan a little.
A woman exists.
I broke my heart determined not to betray my command.
To look upon it—how sorrowful!
Feeble—
the women of my Land of the Rising Sun—
On an autumn rain night, how I cursed.

Born a man and mingling with men,
I have been defeated.
Is it because I am light that autumn seeps into my body?
All the thoughts I embrace—
it is as if due to lack of money.

The autumn wind blows.

To write a trivial novel and find joy in it—

How pitiable I am

Early autumn wind

Autumn wind

From today onward—to that bloated man—

I resolve not to speak

No end in sight

As if walking through a straight street

Today I have gained a heart—ah!

Not thinking of anything

Busily.

I resolve not to forget the day I lived.

Everything’s money, money—I laugh.

A little time passed—

Once more, suddenly—discontent swelled up again.

"Who comes to me—"

"Let them shoot me with a pistol then."

"Let me die like Ito and show them."

Just Yato—

I dreamed that Prime Minister Katsura took my hand and woke.

Two o'clock in an autumn night

Smoke

One

Like an illness

A day when homesickness wells up in the heart

To my eyes—the smoke against blue sky, how sorrowful!

Faintly calling my own name

I shed tears

There is no way to return to spring when I was fourteen

Smoke vanishing into blue sky

Lonely vanishing smoke

Does it resemble me?

The conductor of that journey's train

Suddenly,
He was indeed my middle school friend.
The gush of pump water—
Oh, what comfort!

For a time, I viewed things with a youthful heart.

Teacher and friends came blaming without knowing why.

Resembles a riddle.

The cause of my academic neglect

Escaping from the classroom window

All alone

To that castle ruin I went to lie down—ah.

Lying on the grass of Korakukan Castle

Absorbed into the sky

Fifteen-year-old heart

If I must call it something—sorrow.

The Taste of Things

What I tasted came too soon.

Whenever I looked up at the clear sky

I wanted to whistle

I whistled and played.

Even lying awake at night, I whistled.

The whistle—
There was my song at fifteen.
There was a teacher who often scolded me.

I nicknamed him goat for his beard's resemblance.
I mimicked their voices too.
With me—
I played by throwing stones at small birds

There was indeed the child of a Reserve Captain.

Castle ruins'

Sitting on a stone
The act of savoring forbidden fruit alone.

And then there was the friend who abandoned me
In those days we read books together
We played together
The autumn grass behind the school library
Yellow flowers bloomed
Still nameless even now
When the flowers scattered
First among people I donned white clothes and ran away from home
It was I who did this
With the younger brother of my now-deceased sister's lover
Though we had gotten along well—

I found it sorrowful.

Summer vacation had ended just like that.

They never returned.

There was also a young English teacher.

Even when recalling the strike—

Now my blood no longer surged.

Secretly lonely,

Morioka Middle School's

veranda—

Let me lean against this railing one last time

The friend who insisted "Gods exist"—

I had argued him down.

Beneath that roadside chestnut tree

In the west wind,

Uchimaru Avenue's cherry leaves

I played by trampling rustling fallen leaves.

O beloved books of old—

Most of them—

They've fallen out of fashion now.

A single stone
as if descending a slope

I reached this day.

I envied the eyes of a sorrowful youth.

The small bird flying

The small bird flying and singing—

Dissected

The earthworm's life too was pitiful

Under the wooden fence of that schoolyard

Eyes burning with endless desire for knowledge—
My sister withered.
"Do I long for others?" I wondered.
The friend who first recommended Sohō's works to me—
I left school
because of poverty.
How charming those playful gestures were—
I alone kept laughing always.
The erudite teacher—
the one who strayed through reliance on their own talent—
he made me listen.
There had also been a teacher!
The school's foremost slacker of those days—

Now in earnest
I keep working,
wearing this traveler’s rustic guise—
three days laid bare in the capital,
ah, a friend returns.

Along the pine-lined avenue of Ibara Island
The girl who walked with me
I relied on talent.

When my eyes were failing and I wore black lenses -

Ah, those days—

I remembered crying alone.

My heart

Today too I intend to weep silently.

All friends walk their own paths.

Preceding others in love's sweetness and—

I am the one who knew sadness.

I age before my time.

When inspiration arises

Friends shed tears and waved their hands

They spoke like drunkards.

They made their way through the crowd.

My friend’s

An old-fashioned thick staff, indeed.

A person writing showy New Year’s letters and—

I had thought too much.

Three years or so—

I wake from a dream and abruptly feel sad.

My slumber

How uneasy it remains, as in those days—

When the name of prodigy once stood renowned,

A friend sits in prison.

The autumn wind blows.

Through myopic eyes,

I wrote jesting verses—

Shigeo’s love too knew sorrow.

My wife’s former aspiration:

She had given herself to music.

Now she sings no longer.

All friends have scattered one day to the winds.

After that, eight years—
I have made no name.
My love—
The night when I first confided in a friend and such matters
Days of Remembrance

Like a paper kite whose string has snapped
The heart of youth, lightly and—
Has flown away.

II

The dialect of my hometown—how nostalgic.

In the crowd at the train station
I went to listen to it.

Like a beast afflicted with illness,

My heart
When I hear of my hometown, I grow quiet.
I suddenly thought—
In my hometown, I listened daily to the sparrows' singing—
Three years since I last heard them.

The deceased teacher of old
Had bestowed—
I took out geography books and looked

In days of old

The ball I threw at the elementary school's straight-grained roof

What became of it?

Hometown’s
O roadside discarded stone—
this year too you must lie buried in grass.
When we parted—my beloved sister—
red cords

A child who clamored for geta and such things—
Two days ago I saw a painting of mountains;
With this morning’s light
Suddenly I long for my hometown’s peaks.
Hearing the candy seller’s flute,
I’ve lost—
As if unfolding a child’s heart again.

Lately,

Mother too sometimes brought up things about our hometown.

As autumn set in

Subtly,

She began speaking of hometown matters and such

The scent of mochi roasting on an autumn night.

In every way, Shibutami Village fills me with longing.

Mountains of memory

River of memory

They sold both rice paddies and fields only to drink sake.

To the people of the perishing hometown

Days of yearning

Ah, those I taught—

The children too,

They will eventually abandon their hometown and leave.

The children who left the hometown

Meeting again—

There is no sorrow greater than joy.

As if driven out with stones

The sorrow of having left my hometown

Never fades

Softly green, the willows turn

The banks of the Kitakami appear before my eyes

As if urging to weep

Hometown's
the village doctor's wife's modest coiled hairstyle
How nostalgic!
When I came to that village's registry office
there was a man suffering from lung disease

There was also a man who soon died.

The friend who once vied with me for top honors in elementary school

runs

a firewood inn.

Chiyoji and the others grew up, and I long for them.

Childless

As I did on my journey

At the Bon festival of a certain year
"I'll lend you a robe—dance," she said
Thinking of that woman
My slow-witted older brother and
Santaro—with his disabled father—how sorrowful
I read books even at night
Together with me
I made the chestnut foal run
The thieving habit of a motherless child—how sorrowful
The large red floral pattern on the ceremonial cloak
It still appears before my eyes
Love at age six
At the time when even that name was forgotten
He came nonchalantly to his hometown
The man who coughed
Even that mean carpenter’s child was pitiable
He who went off to war—
Never returned alive
Afflicted with lung disease
The eldest son of a gangster-landowner

On the day of taking a bride—spring thunder.

To Sōjirō

Okane weeps and pleads.

Daikon flowers white in the evening dusk.

the timid town hall clerk’s

Rumored to have gone mad

Hometown autumn

My cousin

After growing weary of hunting in fields and mountains

A drunkard sold his house, fell ill, and died—how sorrowful.

I went and took the hand—

They wept and fell silent.

The friend from those days who drank and raged

When drinking sake

There was also a teacher who drew his sword and drove his wife away.

The village was driven out.

Year by year, lung disease patients increase.

Welcomed into the village

A young doctor, ah.

Firefly Hunt

Me who says "Let us go to the river"

There was one who urged me along mountain paths.

Upon the pale purple flowers of potato plants falls
I think of the rain.
In the city rain
Alas, my Nostalgia—
Like gold
Shines in the heart; purely permeates
No friends to play with as companions.
Even the mean policeman’s children
How pitiable they were!
Cuckoo
On days when it sings, they say it awakens.
What became of my friend’s illness?
My thoughts
In most ways, it was right.

The morning the correspondence from home arrives

Now that I hear today—
that widow Sachi Usuki—
they say she drowns herself in sullied love.

For my sake,
Quiet the tormented soul—
There was one who sang hymns—ah!
Alas, O soul akin to that man's—

Where now?

What does he think—

The white azaleas in my garden

On a pale moonlit night

Never forget what has come to pass.

In my village

For the first time preached the way of Jesus Christ

A young woman, ah.

Deep fog over Kōma Plateau’s

The train station's

The morning insects alone are heedless!

Train window

When far to the north the mountains of home came into view
Though I straightened my collar

When I trod upon my hometown's soil

For some reason, I felt lighter.

My heart grew heavy.

Upon entering my hometown, first my heart was wounded—ah.

The road had widened.

The bridge too was new.

A female teacher I neither knew nor recognized

Of that bygone era—

I stood at my schoolhouse window—ah,

That house—that very window—

The spring night

With Hideko, I listened to the frogs.

The name of that bygone era’s child prodigy—

O sorrow—

Coming to my hometown—the reason I cried was that.

The train station road of my hometown—

By the riverside

Under the walnut tree, I gathered pebbles.

Facing my hometown mountains—
No words—
How dear these mountains of home—ah.

In the comfort of autumn wind

How distant my hometown's sky!

I climb alone to a high house—

Descend steeped in sorrow

Even petty men deceiving the gleaming jewel—

At the utterance "autumn comes"—

I ponder matters

What sorrow lies—

Ah! This autumn wind!

Tears once scarce now stream unceasing

Azure pierces through

I pillowed my head on sorrow's gem

I listened to the sound of pines throughout the night.
The cedars of seven god-deserted mountains—
Dyed like fire, the sun has set.
How still it is—ah.

If I read that,
The writings said to know sorrow were burned.
The hearts of people of old—how admirable!
All things seem ephemeral—
Dusk had deepened.
The days of gathered sorrow
Rainwater puddles
The darkening sky and crimson cords do not float.
After the autumn rain
The coming of autumn does resemble water.

Washed clean,

All thoughts become new—

Sorrow comes.

When I climbed the hill,

A nameless bird pecked at red bramble berries.

Autumn crossroads

The wind blowing from the four-branched road toward three paths

Leaves no trace—ah!

The voice of autumn first reaches my ears

I who bear such nature

Ought to grieve

Though mountains familiar to my eyes remain

When autumn comes

"Do gods dwell here?" I gaze in reverence

All I could do in this world had been exhausted,

Long days—

Did I ponder such sorrowful matters to this extent?

Pattering, the rain fell down.

I watched the garden’s surface grow wet.

Tears remain unforgotten.

In the sacred corridor of my hometown’s temple

I trod upon

Ah, I dreamt of Okushi's butterfly.

Tentatively,

I became the me of innocent days

I thought there was someone with whom I could try speaking.

The millet leaves rustled noisily.

The dear eaves of my hometown

When autumn winds blow

Through gaps between jostling shoulders

Even what I glimpsed on the twentieth—

It lingers in my diary.

Men of refinement exist now as ever before.

Like evanescent snow

In nights when jeweled hands turn back time, I grow old.

Might I casually forget and gaze...

Stone pavement

Buried as if in spring-sprouted grass.

Once sleeping in a cradle

That person seen countless times in dreams—could it be?

This piercing nostalgia.

October:

Iwate's mountains—

I remembered that morning when first snow grazed our brows.

Drought-breaking rain patters down.

In the garden

Bush clover lies slightly disordered.

The autumn sky stretches vast and desolate, shadowless.

Too desolate.

Crows, fly!

The moon after rain—

The roof tiles properly moistened,

Their glistening here and there—such sadness.

On a day I starved,

Swaying its slender tail,

The starving dog that looked at me had a kindly face.

Unbeknownst,

The act of crying—I had forgotten.

There is probably no one who makes me cry.

Brimming over—

Ah, the sorrow of sake has come to me.

I will rise and dance

A razor clam cries out

Squatting on the stone beside it.

Laughing and crying, I spoke alone.

Since those days when I lay ill and weak,

With mouth slightly opened in sleep,

It had become a habit.

With matters amounting to nothing more than gaining a single person

Deemed a grand aspiration,

Youthful Mistake.

Lamenting things,

That soft upward glance—

Why feign indifference to love?

Tears this hot—

There was a time even on the day of first love,

No days left to cry.

To a friend long, long forgotten
As if meeting
With joy, I listen to the sound of water.
The autumn night’s
In the vast sky the color of steel
I imagine volcanoes spewing fire.
Mount Iwate
Autumn at the base in three directions—
How do I hear the insects that fill the fields?
Autumn is dignified like a father.
Autumn is nostalgic like a mother.
To the child without a home
When autumn comes
How ceaselessly my longing heart yearns!
Even at night, reluctant to sleep, I hear many wild geese.
The Ninth Month has reached its midpoint.

How long?

That it remains so tenderly unformed—

Of one who never speaks what they call thoughts—

That which was sent forth—

The forget-me-nots too stood out vividly.

Like a bow bending backward easily in autumn rain

Lately,

That you do not grow close—ah,

The wind through pines resounded night and day.

Of the mountain shrine where none visit

In the stone horse's ear

A faint scent of decayed wood

In the scent of mushrooms within it,
autumn deepened slightly.
With a sound like a passing shower,

It passed through the trees.

The forest monkeys that closely resembled humans

Depths of the forest.

A distant echo resounded.

In a tree hollow where mortar was ground—had I come to the land of dwarfs?

The world's beginning

First came forests primeval—
Did half-divine ones tend their fiery vigil?
Unending sands stretch through time—
While gods make home in Gobi's wastes...

Perhaps the autumn god.

In heaven and earth—

My sorrow and the moonlight

Ah, the autumn night becomes all-encompassing.

Sorrowful.

The sounds of night things seep through,
I wander as if gathering,
The wanderer’s child

Coming home only to sleep—
How truly quiet winter's coming was.

Unforgettable People

I

The tide-scented northern shore’s

O beach rose of that sand hill,

Will you bloom again this year?

Having reckoned the youth I relied upon,

I stared at fingers

My journey had grown unbearable.

Three times or so,

Even the names of towns gazed upon from train windows

They had become dear.

The barber’s apprentice in Hakodate

I remember now.

Having ears shaved felt comforting.

They followed my path and came

No one knows.

Mother and wife who lived in that distant land—

Growing gentle from seasickness on ship

Sister’s eyes appear

When I think of Tsugaru’s sea

I closed my eyes.
I had recited poems of heartbreak—
the friend’s letter with its jest-laced sorrow—

In childhood

I smeared feces on the bridge railing.

Even in stories, my friend had grieved.

Probably resolved never to take a wife in his lifetime—

O friend who laughed,

He still has not taken a wife.

Ah, how poignant—

The rims of glasses were made to gleam lonesomely

O female teacher,

A friend gave me rice.

That friend I betrayed—

The sadness of human nature

Hakodate’s Aoyagi-cho—how poignant it was!

A Friend’s Love Song

Cornflowers

Hometown’s

Nostalgic for wheat’s fragrance

I was drawn to a woman’s eyebrows.

The paper of new Western books

Catching their scent,

I had single-mindedly desired money,

White waves come crashing and roar,

At Hakodate's Ōmori Beach

The things I thought of

Every morning

I started singing Shina folk songs

I cherished the bedside clock—such sorrow,

Failed to give form to the sorrows of wandering.

The characters of the manuscript

The characters’ illegibility—ah,

How many times I resolved to die—

Yet did not die—

The path I have walked—poignantly sad.

Hakodate's Mount Gagyū halfway up its slope—
The Chinese poem on the monument—
Half-remembered.
Muffled,
In my mouth I muttered of thorns.
Beggars too existed.
As though declaring him an insignificant man,

I entered the mountains.

A god-like friend

I held a rolled cigarette in my mouth.

Rough waves,

O woman who stood in the night mist on the shore—

During drills' intermissions—going out of his way,

Having boarded the train,

The sake I drink with the friend who came to visit—ah,

Every time I look upon Ōkawa’s water’s surface

Ikuu—

I think of your troubles.

Wisdom and its deep compassion—

Hesitating.

With nothing to do, the friend played.

Those unable to attain their aspirations

The place where they gather to drink sake

It was my home—ah.

When sorrow came, I laughed loudly

With liquor in hand

the older friend said to relieve anguish

Young, and

Friends who had become fathers to several

When drunk, they sang as if childless.

Nonchalant lofty laughter—

Alongside sake

It must have seeped into my bowels—ah.
Gritting teeth, groaning.
Parted at the night train's window—
This parting now leaves me wanting, I wonder.

On the rain-soaked window of the night train—
Reflected—
The color of the mountain town's lights—
The night train in the heavily falling rain—
Ceaseless droplets flowing—
Windowpane—ah—
Midnight's—
Alighted at Kutchan Station—
The old scar on the woman's temples—
Sapporo—

In that autumn I carried along—
And the sorrow I still hold now
In the poplars of Akashiya’s tree-lined avenue,

Autumn wind.

That it blows with sorrow—I have recorded in my diary.

The hushed breadth of the street—
Autumn night’s—
The scent of roasting corn—

In the quarrel between the older sister and younger sister at my lodging—

The early night passed—
Sapporo rain
Of the train station called Beikoku in Ishikari—
Had been dried on the fence

A red cloth fragment—ah.

Sorrowful is Otaru’s town—ah.

Of people who do not sing

The roughness of voices!

Shaking their heads as though weeping,

Said “Show me your palm lines”—

There was also a fortune teller.

I borrowed a small sum and departed.

My friend’s
Snow on the retreating figure’s shoulders—ah.
Clumsiness in worldly affairs—

Secretly—
Am I not he who secretly took pride?
Your emaciated body entire—
"A mass of rebellious spirit"—
Having been told thus—
That year's that newspaper's

The one who wrote the first snow article—
It was I—ah.
He took a stance to strike me with a chair.
That friend’s drunkenness too—
He has likely sobered by now.
The defeat too was mine.
That the cause of the conflict too was I—

Now I have come to realize—
Though he said he would strike,
I pressed forward, demanding to be struck.
How pitiable the me of old—ah.
You—three times
To this throat—they pointed a sword,
He had spoken in his farewell speech—
Having quarreled—
Having bitterly hated and parted—
The day I fondly think of friends has yet to come.
Ah, that youth with splendid brows—oh.
When I called him "brother"
He faintly smiled—
There was a friend who had my wife sew a kimono.

Winter comes early

A colonial land—ah.

With an open hand—
Wiping faces drenched by blizzards,
My friends adopted communism as their creed.
When they drank, they turned ashen like demons.
O great face,
O sorrowful face,
Having entered Karafuto—
He vowed to found a new religion.

It was a friend—ah.

In the uneventfulness of a well-ordered world—

The time when I said 'I've grown weary'—

How sorrowful it was—ah.

The opening of a cooperative pharmacy

There was a friend who aimed to profit.

There was a friend said to have committed fraud.

With tears glistening on pale cheeks,

Spoke of death—

Young merchant

Carrying a child on her back,

At the train station where snow blows in

The brows of the wife I saw off—ah.

With a friend I hated as an enemy,

I held his hand a little longer.

At the moment of saying farewell,

From the window of the train as it began to depart,

Before others pulled back their faces

So as not to lose.

Sleet falls—
On the Ishikari Plain train I read
Turgenev's story—ah—
The rumors after I depart—

To imagine the journey's departure—how ephemeral.

Like one departing to death—

Having parted—when I suddenly close my eyes—

Abruptly—

The chill seeps into a cheek.

I recall the cigarette I had forgotten.

Go though I go, go though I go

Mountains still distant—the train in snowy fields.

Pale red flowing over the snow

Sunset light

Illuminates the wilderness train's window.

My stomach began to ache slightly,

Enduring it,

A cigarette smoked on the long train journey—ah.

The artillery officer in the shared compartment’s
sword scabbard

At the clatter, my thoughts were shattered.

A land known only by name, with neither ties nor connections—

The inn was cheap.

Like my home
The diet member who traveled with companions—
His mouth agape in pallid sleep—
I found it sorrowful.

Tonight, I resolved to weep to my heart's content.

The inn where I stayed—

The tepidness of the tea—ah.

Water vapor
Frost flowers staining the train window
Dawn's hue
After the wintry wind's roar
Dry snow swirling upward

The snow envelops the forest.

Sorachi River buried in snow
Not a bird in sight.
By the forested shore, there was a single person
making loneliness both enemy and friend

In the snow

There are those who live long lives

Though utterly exhausted by the train,

In fragments I thought of—

It was my own preciousness.

As if singing, they called out the station’s names.

gentle

Nor did I forget the young station worker’s eyes.

In the snow

Roofs visible here and there

Chimney smoke, thin yet wandering in the sky.

From afar

The train sounded its whistle long and clear.

The train now entered a certain forest.

Without thinking of anything

Day by day

He did not yield his heart to the train's reverberation.

He alighted at the station at civilization's edge.
Snowlight.
He walked into the desolate town.
The ice glistened bone-white.
Plovers cry—
The winter moon over Kushiro's sea.
The frozen ink jar.

Held to the fire

Tears do not flow under the lamp.

Face and voice

That alone remained unchanged from the past - he met friends.

At the edge of the land

Ah, at the edge of that land

I drank sake.

As if sipping the dregs of sorrow,

When I drink sake, sorrow wells up all at once.

Though I slept, I did not dream.
I called it joy.
A woman’s sudden laugh
Cut deep into me.

Midnight in the kitchen—sake freezing

Tormenting my heart in drunkenness

There was a woman who did not sing—what has become of her? The woman called Konushi's soft earlobes remained unforgettable. Drawing near, she stands in midnight snow; the warmth of her right hand, ah. When asked "Do you not wish to die?", 'Look at this'—the woman showed the scar on her throat. Both her artistic skills and face surpassed his. A woman disparaged me—so they say. When told "Dance", she rose and danced. Naturally, until collapsing in rotgut's drunkenness—waiting for my drunkenness as if to die.

Various

The person who whispered sad things

When asked, “What should we have done?”
The pale hungover
I forced a smile upon my face.
The sorrow—
On arms white as flawless jade remained
Kiss marks, ah.
When drunk, even as I bow my head—
Thirsting for water—even when opening my eyes—

The name I was called—
Like a moth drawn to flame,
In the bright house of lamplight,
I had grown accustomed to visiting—
When I stepped in the cold, the floorboards creaked.

The corridor of return
A sudden kiss
Even pillowing my head on that lap—
my heart—
all I dwelled upon were my own affairs.

Sifting softly, the ice fragments—
Waves resound
On the moonlit shore, the snow comes and goes—ah.
Of late I’ve heard he died—
A rival in love
He was a man of overabundant talent—
the Chinese poem said to have been composed ten years prior
When drunk, he would recite
A friend aged by travels
Each breath,
My nose freezes solid.
I have come to crave cold air’s bite.

In the February bay without waves,

White-painted—

Foreign ships float low.

The shamisen strings that snapped:

There was a child who clamored like fire.

In the night of heavy snow,

Like a deity,

Manifests its form in the distance.

The snowy dawn of Mount Akan

In the hometown—
it is said there was one who threw themselves into the water.

An evening when songs were sung to the accompaniment of a woman’s shamisen—
Grape-colored—
What remained in an old notebook—

Ah—the time and place of that gathering.

The time of putting on soiled *tabi* socks—

It resembled an eerie feeling.

Memories too exist—

In my room—a woman wept.
As if it were something from a novel—
The Day of Remembering

浪淘沙

For so long I made my voice tremble,

A journey as if singing—ah.

II

When was it, I wonder?
In a dream I suddenly heard it and was glad—
That voice too—alas—I did not listen to for long
Cold cheeks

As one who wanders on vagrant roads

I spoke only something as trivial as asking directions.

The words that were casually said

You too must have listened casually.

That was all.

Upon the cool and pure marble

The spring day that quietly shines—

Must this be such thoughts?

Like one who drinks in only the world's brightness—

Eyes of black—

Still now in the eyes—

The words I failed to say at that time—

The treasured words even now—

Though they rise in my chest,

The pure white lamp shade's
flaw-like stain—
How hard it is to erase these wandering memories—
The night I left those charred ruins of Hakodate—
regrets lingering—
still cling to me—
People speak—
the loveliness of disheveled hair at the temples—
While writing, I saw you—
the season when potato flowers bloom—
Ah, how it has come to this—
You too must have loved this flower—
The mountain child’s
gaze fixed on distant peaks—
In sorrowful times, I think of you—
If I forget—
the slightest thing becomes another seed of memory—
Though I try to forget—
hearing someone was ill
hearing they’d recovered—

Within four hundred ri, I was not in the waking world.

When I saw a figure resembling you in the town—
My heart leapt—
Ah, how sorrowful
If I could hear that voice one last time—
Clearly—
This morning too I thought my heart might clear—
In the midst of a busy life—
These intermittent contemplations
For whose sake?
Profoundly

May there be a friend with whom to speak of things.
May I begin to speak of you—
Before I die, would that I might meet once—
Were I to speak—
Might you too nod faintly?

At times,

When I think of you,

The sorrow of a heart once tranquil now suddenly churning

Years have piled since I parted and came here.

With each passing year, you grow dearer.

Ah, it is you who remain—

Outside Ishikari’s city—

your house
Have the apple blossoms scattered?
A long letter
Within three years, I did not come three times.
What I wrote might amount to four times.
When removing gloves
The hand removing gloves suddenly paused—
What could it be?
A memory grazed the heart.
Unawares
I came to know the deception of emotions.
I had grown a beard around that time.
The morning bath—

I rested my nape on the bath's edge
and breathed gently through contemplation.
When summer came—
the gargle medicine's bitterness
brought morning pleasure as pain had seeped into my ailing tooth.
I gazed intently at my hands
but recalled nothing.
A woman skilled at kissing—
this loneliness—
because my eyes remained unaccustomed to color,
I had someone buy crimson flowers.
The midnight hour when I bought a new book and read it—
that pleasure too
would long remain unforgotten

Seven Days of Travel

When I returned,

The red ink stain on my window too felt dear.

In old documents I found

soiled

How dear blotting paper feels.

Snow tried in my hand as it melts

pleasantly

seeps into my sleep-sated heart.

The fading shadow on shoji paper

Gazing at that,

My heart unawares grows dark.

A chill.

Night carries the scent of medicine.

A house where a doctor once lived—

Window glass.

On the window glass clouded by dust and rain

Sorrow exists.

For about six years, day after day, I wore

The old hat too—

I just can’t bring myself to discard it.

Pleasantly

Greedily indulging in spring’s sleep

Soft to the eye, the garden grass.

The high wall of red brick continuing far—

Appearing purple—

The spring day lingers.

Spring Snow

In the three-story brick building behind Ginza
Softly falls
On the soiled brick wall
Falls and melts, falls again and melts again
Spring snow—ah.

Eyes grown sore
A young woman leaning against
At the window, spring rain falls softly

The scent of new wood and such
Drifting.

Shinkaimachi’s spring tranquility
Spring Streets

An ostentatiously written woman’s name
Reading nameplates while wandering—

Somewhere indistinct—
The scent lingers like burning mandarin peels
Evening has fallen.
The clamorous gathering of young women—
Having grown weary of their voices,
I became lonely.
Somewhere—
There exists an anguish like a young woman dying.

Spring sleet falls.

The aftermath of cognac's drunkenness—

Soft—

How aimless this sorrow!

White plate.

Wiping them each time and stacking them on the shelf.

The sorrowful woman in the corner of the bar

The dried winter avenue’s

Where might it be?

The scent of carbolic acid lingers faintly.

Crimson, the setting sun reflects

The riverside bar’s window

A pale face—ah.

The new sarado plate’s

The scent of vinegar

An evening that seeps sorrow into my heart

From the sky-blue jug
They poured goat milk—
The trembling hands seemed pitiful.

A figure glimpsed—
Erased by breath's haze.

The sorrow in those drink-swollen eyes...
A hush fell.

Evening's edge—
Ham scent lingering in the kitchen—ah—
Before shelves lined with chill jugs,

The woman brushing her teeth—
How sorrowful she looked.

After sharing a lingering kiss, they parted—
Late-night streets—
A distant fire—ah—

Through the hospital window at dusk—
In that faintly pale face lingering there—
A dim recollection.

When was it—
On that Great River's excursion boat—

I recalled the woman who danced.

Having written long, purposeless letters and such,
Suddenly I longed for someone.

I headed out into the street.

When I smoked a damp cigarette,

Roughly,

The things I dwelled upon had become light.

Sharply,

While feeling summer approach,

I smelled the scent of the small garden's soil after the rain.

Coolly adorned

In front of the glass shop, I gazed.

Summer night’s moon

Hearing you would come, I rose at dawn

White shirt—

A day when I minded the stain on my sleeve—ah.

The restlessness of my younger brother

Lately,

The moisture in my eyes felt sorrowful.

The sound of stakes being driven somewhere came.

The sound of a large barrel being rolled.

Snow had begun to fall.

In the office on a night devoid of people,

Deafeningly,

The telephone bell rang and ceased.

Eyes opening—
After a moment—
Voices crept in through midnight's depth—ah.
When I looked, the clock had stopped its hands.
As if being drawn into some vortex—
My heart turned once more toward loneliness' shore.

Each morning's ritual:
The gargle's medicinal brew—
Its jar now autumn-chilled vessel.

Wheatfields greening without warning
At the hill's foot—
On the path lay a small red comb forgotten
In back-mountain cedars' gloom
Where dappled sunlight crawls.

Mottled sunlight crawled in.

Autumn’s late afternoon.

Port Town

A kite, droning as it circled, was pressed down.

Tide’s haze—ah

Reflected in late autumn’s clouded glass—

Seeing a bird’s shadow

Aimlessly I think

As if swimming alongside people

The eaves of houses high and low

Winter days dance.

Kyōbashi’s Takiyama-chō—

Newspaper office.

The hustle when lights were lit—ah.

My father, who was a man quick to anger—

I do not usually get angry.

I think: Be angry.

The morning wind blew into the streetcar.

A willow's single leaf
I took it in hand and looked
For no reason, I longed to see the sea
I came to the sea
On days when my heart ached unbearably
Grew weary of the calm sea
Having turned away—
A red sash blinding the eyes—ah
The woman I met in town today—
Each and every one—
A day like returning defeated in love
Train Journey

At a certain train station in the midst of fields

The scent of summer grass was nostalgic.

Early dawn.

The train of early autumn’s departure journey, barely caught in time—

Ah, the hard bread.

At the window of the night train from that journey

I pondered

How sorrowful my path ahead has been—ah.

When I suddenly noticed,

The clock at a certain forest station had stopped.

Rainy night train

Having parted and come—

I toyed with the dimly lit night train window.

O green apple!

I always come

to this tavern's sorrow!

The crimson evening sun shone through the wine,

as if blooming in a white lotus marsh.

Sadness—

floated clear through drunken haze.

Beyond the wall—

I heard a young woman weeping.

Ah, the autumn mosquito net at a traveler's inn.

The lined kimono from last year I took out—

its nostalgic scent seeped into flesh.

Early autumn morning

The left knee pain I'd been nursing—
Had healed without my noticing—
The autumn wind blew.

Sold and sold—
Only a German dictionary, untouched by hand grime, remained.
The end of summer—ah.
With a friend I hated for no reason—
Before I knew it, we had grown close,
Autumn deepened.
The red-paper cover, worn by hands,
nation-banned—
The day I searched for books at the bottom of the trunk—
The selling had been prohibited—
To the book’s author—

On the road where I met—an autumn morning, ah.
From today onward—

From the days when I too thought to gulp down sake—

The autumn wind blew.

The great sea’s

In that corner, islands lined up, and upon them—

The autumn wind blew.

Moistened eyes and

Only the mole beneath the eyes

Ah, my friend's wife always caught my eye.

Whenever I looked,

Rolling a ball of wool yarn,

A woman knitting socks

Grape-colored

A faintly white cat sleeping on the sofa

Autumn evening.

Sparsely,

Here and there insects chirped.

I came to the daytime field to read a letter—ah.

Late at night, when I slid open the door,

A white thing dashed through the garden.

Could it be a dog?

The window glass at two in the night,

Faintly crimson—

Dyed it the color of a soundless fire—ah.

Ah, what a pitiful love this is,

Muttering to myself,

I added charcoal to the midnight brazier.

On the snow-white lamp shade

Placing my hand—

Ah, these thoughts on a cold night.

Like water—

I immersed my body in sorrow—

An evening mingled with the scent of green onions—

At times—

I laughed by imitating a cat.

Ah, my thirty-year-old friend living alone.

Like a timid scout

Fearing as I went,

Through the late-night streets, I took a solitary walk.
My skin became all ears.
The hushed and sleeping city’s
Heavy footsteps.
Late at night entering the train station,
Rising, sitting.

Eventually, a hatless man departed.
When I noticed,
the night fog had settled damply.
How long I had wandered through the streets—ah.
If only there were someone—"A cigarette, if you please?"—
they approached.

In the deep night, I conversed with a person who left no trace.
As if returning from the wilderness,
They did not return.
I walked alone through Tokyo’s night,
Beneath the bank window,
Spilled on the frost of paving stones—
Ah, blue ink—

Tap-tap.

In a certain small thicket, I gazed at buntings at play.

Snow-covered field path.

In October's morning air
Freshly
A baby who had drawn breath existed.

October’s maternity hospital’s
dampness—
the long corridor’s comings and goings—ah.

Purple sleeves hanging down—

There was a Chinese man gazing up at the sky.

Afternoon in the Park

Like the touch of an infant’s hand,

A thought lingered.

When I came to the park and walked alone,

Coming to the park after so long,

I met a friend,

We gripped hands tightly and spoke rapidly.

Among the trees in the park
Small birds at play,

Gazing at them, I rested awhile—ah.
I came to the park on a clear day.
I walked on.

I know my recent decline.

That kiss from memories—or so I thought—

I was startled.

The plane tree leaves scattered and brushed against—

At a bench in the corner of the park

A man I had seen about twice

He had not been seen of late.

The sorrow of the park!

Since you married,
Not once in these seven months have you come.
In the shade of a certain tree in the park, on a discarded chair

Overwhelmed by emotion—

He leaned close.

A face I could not forget—ah.

In the town today,

A man led by constables smiled—
When the town chafed,
the brightness of about two feet—
A white moth passed through the midst.
Closing my eyes
I tried to whistle faintly.
Leaning against the window on a sleepless night

My friend—
Today again, carrying a motherless child on my back—
Ah, wandering through those castle ruins—

late at night
I returned from work
now holding my child who had died—ah
two or three voices
at death’s threshold now—though they say someone wept faintly—
tears are drawn out
the season when snow-white radish roots grow plump
born—
a child born only to soon die
the late autumn air
a space about three feet square
I breathed in, and my child passed away—ah
my deceased child’s
they pierce the injection needle into his chest
the hearts gathered at the doctor’s hands
as if facing a bottomless enigma
upon my deceased child’s skin—
again I reach out my hand
my sorrow does not reach its full intensity

Loneliness!

my child’s body cooling continuously—and yet
how sorrowful—
it would not last until dawn broke
the breathless child’s skin warmth