Pathway to Japanese Literature

To My Elder Cousin, Mr. Hagiwara Eiji

Preface

Hagiwara-kun.

No matter what they say, I love you.
And Muroo-kun. That is—no matter what they say—a pure and tender love.
It is an everlasting love that will persist forever, always maintaining the same warmth.
Through the lives of these three, even if differences in innate talent lie between us, no matter what they say, there naturally flows a single stream of communion.
When I think of you all, I always feel the purity of water freshly welling up anew from the same spring’s depths.
With limitless intimacy and eyes filled with astonishment, I comprehend your joys and sorrows.
And through this wordless understanding, I feel the same sentiment of pity growing ever deeper among us three.
That is the sole precious thing allowing our hands to touch directly in the depths of each other’s hearts.

I know you well.
And Muroo-kun.
And I know well your poetry and how that poetry grew.
Since those early days of *Shuren*, you all have opened your hearts to me.
In the truest sense, our heart's communion remained ever fresh thereafter.
And will likely remain so hereafter.
It becomes that tranquil instant when three spinning tops—clear as crystal in their revolutions—now verge upon touching one another.
Therein lies unfathomable trembling.
Of course, those three lives had to maintain three distinct positions.
Only then did each grow perfectly clear.
A subtle kiss follows thereafter.
With matching simplicity and sincerity.
And with such crystalline purity that they could discern each other's heartbeats.
Fortunate indeed that your lives too gleam like flawless jade.

Just like Muroo-kun, you too are one of the born poets—a fact no one can deny.
I believe.
And that you are the owner of extraordinary nerves and emotions as well.
To give an example: it is a razor deeply steeped in melancholic perfume.
And yet that premonition trembles ceaselessly toward the tragedy yet to come.
But it is likely not so much used for evil itself as it is a kind of blade that becomes self-defense against evil or a blade of repentance turned upon oneself.
For your emotions possess such sharpness that in a single moment of terror, they could accurately count each and every one of your ribs.

However, it was also true that this razor was somewhat perfumed by your curious taste.
At times, you calmly used it to trim your thin beard.

Pure intensity—that is a characteristic anyone reading your poetry would recognize. However, as Muroo-kun states, this differs from the intensity of Poe or Baudelaire. You are lonely; you are honest, pure, transparent, quivering with minute vibrancy. At least their despairing darkness and the narcotic slumber of decadent hallucinations remain absent. It becomes the glint of a razor reflected in a cool mercury mirror. What that mirror reflects is truth. Therein appear glass-like elegant cityscapes and blue skies. Then terrifying murder cases abruptly manifest within it, while brilliantly clever detectives come dashing through.

Your innate nature was again like a bamboo standing at right angles to the ground.
The slender trunk gleamed vivid blue-green, its leaves delicate and quivering with minute movements.
A solitary bamboo; this bamboo intuited the heavens.
Yet all its emotions sank ever deeper into the roots.
The illumination at the tips of those nearly imperceptible branching fibers in the root's finest filaments—if that marked sentimentalism's pinnacle—then the man clinging tearfully to those fiber tips was none other than Sakutarō, the ailing one.
This too you acknowledged.

“Poetry is neither mystery nor symbol nor anything else.”
“Poetry is merely the lonely comfort of those who possess ailing souls and the solitary,” you said.
Truly, before the bamboo that was you could marvel at its own reflection upon the water’s surface as mystery and symbol, it would have keenly felt the true bamboo—the true self itself.
The pure rhythm’s sobs arose from there.
And then even to the tips of its leaves and roots, it began to shine.

Your soul, as far as I knew, had truly borne a blue face.
You seemed to spend nearly all your time in illness.
Yet this was the pain of a pearl oyster’s living flesh being scraped by a single grain of sand.
The more the pain was honed, the more that small sand became a pearl.
That this was true living flesh, that the mucus dripping from that living flesh had oozed from true suffering—your poetry proved.

Even viewed externally, you were emaciated to the extreme and sharpened.
And those limbs always moved at sharp angles—it was precisely the sensation of bamboo.
And when an electric-fluid emotion suddenly sent tremors from your head to your toenails, you hopped about.
At such times, you always seemed on the verge of tears spilling from your eyes, appearing as though you wanted to cling to something.

He was a fastidious and capricious young master (in this regard, he greatly resembled me) yet paradoxically prone to loneliness—a man who forever exposed his pale nerves, leaving them to quiver openly.
It was the ceaselessly trembling bamboo line within the glass of a bulb before the current arrived.

Your electric-fluid emotions would not cease until they condensed every liquid into solid.
The refinement inherent in this process—from moisture on bamboo leaves coalescing into a single dewdrop to spoiled alcohol’s vapor forming transparent droplets of spirits upon the cold glass of a distilling vessel—was no transient phenomenon.
Your creed of sentimentalism was precisely this strength of concentrated will that compressed the interminable span wherein charcoal becomes diamond into a single instant.
The secret of this wondrous mantra was known only to poets.

Howling at the moon—that is precisely your sorrowful heart.

When winter came, my little white dog barked ever more fiercely.
Even when a lone sparrow sang in the daytime sky, it barked.
At night, glittering frost descended all the more.
It barked, having detected even the sound of frost settling.
Those who lived truthfully upon the ground while gazing at the sky were sorrowful.

"Yip yip," it yapped; "yip yip," something yapped.
A lonely, forlorn voice that made one's body go numb just hearing it—that voice pierced through the bamboo grove again tonight.
What poured down crystallized on fresh bamboo leaves like snow, and whenever I thought of you, a pallid moon hung above them always.

Hagiwara-kun.

No matter what they say, I love you. And I love Muroo-kun. You are two years younger than I, and Muroo-kun is two years younger than you. I bless these two kindred souls—born newer and younger than myself—and grow drunk on this profoundly familial communion.

When I think of the ardent artistic love between you and Muroo-kun, tears flow. Your joy becomes Muroo-kun’s joy. And that becomes my joy too.

Seizing this occasion, I offer you further words of praise.

January 10, 1917 (Taishō 6)

At Murasakien Sousha in Katsushika

Kitahara Hakushū

Preface

The purpose of poetic expression is not merely to express emotion for emotion’s sake.
Nor is it to depict hallucination for hallucination’s sake.
Nor is it to propagate and deduce a certain ideology.
The true purpose of poetry is rather, through those very things, to gaze upon the essence of emotions quivering within the human heart and to vigorously cause those emotions to flow forth.

Poetry is that which grasps the nerves of emotion.
It is a living, active psychology.

All good lyric poetry is accompanied by a kind of aesthetic beauty that cannot be explained through logic or words.
This is what we call the essence of poetry.
(What some may call spiritual resonance or innate disposition)—this essence is the element of intoxicating mood that poetry focuses on.
Therefore, poems with this diluted essence have little value as verse; they are, so to speak, like sake lacking aroma.
I do not care for such sake.

May poetic expression be simple; may poetry’s essence remain pure and fragrant.

What I desire from readers of my poetry is not the concepts or “matters” that appear on the surface of the poems, but rather that they sense the emotions themselves—the core within.
Through the rhythm of my poetry, I express my heart’s “sadness,” “joy,” “loneliness,” “fear,” and other complex, peculiar emotions that words or prose cannot adequately convey.

But rhythm is not an explanation.
Rhythm is telepathy.
Only with those who can perceive that rhythm wordlessly can I join hands and converse.

When faced with the question “Why are you happy?”, people could easily explain the reason.
However, when faced with the question “In what manner are you happy?”, no one could easily explain the psychology behind it.

Human emotions were at once exceedingly simple and exceedingly complex.
They were at once something of extreme universality and something of extreme individualistic uniqueness.

In any situation, if a person attempts to fully express their own emotions, it is no easy task.
In such cases, words serve no purpose.
There is only music and poetry there.

I sometimes think of unfortunate hydrophobia patients.

They say humans afflicted with that disease greatly fear water.
That a glass filled with water could be terrifying enough to suffocate one—such a thing remains utterly beyond the reach of our imagination, no matter how we might try.

“Why is water terrifying?” “In what manner is water terrifying?” To us, these psychological states were nothing but utterly incomprehensible.
Yet for that patient, it was nothing less than the truest reality.
And in this situation, if that patient themselves—compelled by some necessity—were to attempt to explain this agonizing reality to bystanders (it seemed quite plausible that they would),
If bystanders lacked special knowledge about this illness, there was no telling what cruel pranks might be inflicted upon him.
When I considered such circumstances, I could not help but shudder.) What means should the patient themselves take?
No matter what kind of verbal explanation one might use, it would likely have been impossible to express this strange emotion.

However, if he had the talent of a poet, he would undoubtedly compose poetry.
Poetry explains even that which cannot be explained by human words.
Poetry is words beyond words.

The case of hydrophobia patients was an extremely peculiar one.
But at the same time, it was also an extremely common example.

Humans each possessed different bodies and different nerves.
My sorrow was not his sorrow.
His joy was not my joy.

As individuals, people are eternally—eternally—in terrible loneliness.

Since primordial times, God has fashioned hundreds of millions of human beings.
Yet He never crafted two humans with identical faces.
Every person is born a solitary unit and must perish a solitary unit forever.

That said，we were by no means solitary，disconnected units of the universe．

Our faces，our skin—each and every one of us was different．
However，in reality，each and every one of us possessed something identical within．
When this commonality is discovered among fellow humans，“morality”and“love”arise within humanity．
When we discover this commonality between humanity and plants，“morality”and“love”arise within nature．
And we were no longer eternally alone．

This body of mine and these emotions—of course, I alone in all the world possess them.
And there is only one person who fully understands them.
This is something of an exceedingly, exceedingly unique nature.
But at the same time, it must also be something common to anyone in the world.
At the focal point of these unique yet shared individual emotions exist the true "joy" and "secrecy" of poetry.
Apart from this principle, I know no meaning in creating poetry myself.

Poetry is a product of spiritual intellect in an instant.
A certain kind of emotion we ordinarily harbor discovers rhythm only when it touches something akin to an electric fluid.
This electric fluid is a miracle for the poet.
Poetry is not something that should be created through anticipation.

In the past, I considered poetry something mystical.
I imagined it as a spiritual communion between some ethereal cosmic spirit and human intellect.
Or perhaps thought of it as a key to unravel nature's inexplicable mysteries.
Yet now reflecting upon this, that was nothing but laughable superstition.

Poetry is no strange demonic entity—rather, it resembles intimate siblings or lovers.

We sometimes weep quietly in dark room corners with hearts like deformed children.
At such moments appears a maiden who presses against my shoulder,
placing gentle hands upon my trembling heart.
That nursing maiden is poetry.

When I think of poetry, I feel intense human sorrow and its corresponding joy.

Poetry is not mystery, nor symbol, nor demon.
Poetry is but the solitary solace for those bearing sick souls and the lonely.

When I think of poetry, I naturally grow tearful at the pitiful tenderness of human compassion.

The past is a painful memory for me.
The past was an ominous nightmare of anxiety, idleness, and tormented mind and flesh.

The dog that howls at the moon does so out of suspicion and fear of its own shadow.
In the heart of the diseased dog, the moon is an ominous mystery like a pale ghost.
The dog howls in the distance.

I want to nail down my own gloomy shadow upon the moonlit earth.
So that the shadow will never come chasing after me again.

Hagiwara Sakutarō

Preface to the Poetry Collection

1. From over ninety works created over the past three years, I selected fifty-five lyrical poems and two long poems to include in this collection.
The poems included in this collection were excerpted primarily from those published in *Chijō Junrei*, *Shika*, *Ars*, *Takujō Funsui*, *Prism*, *Kanjō*, and one or two regional magazines.
In addition, I added several pieces that could not be published at the time of their creation due to lack of opportunity.
In preparing the poetry manuscripts for inclusion in this collection, I revised them in general.

1. I have not strictly adhered to the precise chronological order of composition in arranging these poems.
However, as a general principle, I have structured this collection to progress from older works toward newer ones.
Specifically, "Bamboo and Its Sorrow" and "Skylark Cuisine" represent my earliest compositions, followed by "Sad Moonlit Night," while pieces such as "Rotten Clams" and "Lonely Lust" largely originate from the same creative period.
Finally, I have included *The Unfamiliar Dog* and *Two Long Poems* as relatively recent works.

1. I have decided to omit from this collection the short-song-style pieces published in *Zamboa*, *Sōsaku*, and other magazines—works from my earliest period—as well as two or three compositions published in *Itan*, *Mizukame*, *Araki*, and *Fūkei*.
This was done to preserve the collection’s unified atmosphere in relation to its poetic style.

All poems belonging to the author’s early period remain dear to him.
They will be compiled into a separate collection when circumstances permit.

1. Regarding the design of this poetry collection, I previously requested Mr. Tanaka Kyōkichi to undertake its design and imposed on his creative efforts.
However, unfortunately, Mr. Tanaka succumbed to illness before this work could be completed.
I therefore asked Mr. Onchi Takashi anew to carry on Mr. Tanaka’s intentions on my behalf.
This was because Mr. Onchi had been not only Mr. Tanaka’s closest friend in life but also his sole artistic confidant who shared the same creative convictions.
(For details regarding this collection’s illustrations, please consult the appendix “Illustration Commentary” at the volume’s end.)

1. Regarding the publication of this poetry collection, I have caused no small trouble to Mr. Onchi Takashi and Mr. Maeda Yūgure from various quarters.
I would like to express my deep gratitude for the profound kindness of my second brother.

1. A few old works included in this collection are unsatisfactory from the perspective of the author’s current artistic beliefs and philosophy.
However, as those poems too are valuable as commemorations of my past journey, I have specifically included them in this collection.

Preface to the Reprint

The first edition of this poetry collection was published in Taisho 6 (1917).
At my own expense, I had only about five hundred copies printed, and though I released roughly four hundred of them to the market, they sold out within that year.
Since then, it had remained out of print for a considerably long period up until today.
I thought of leaving it out of print as it was.
This was due to a whimsical heart desiring to find rare value in this poetry collection.

However, the enthusiasts of my poetry were far more numerous and even more passionate than I had initially expected.
The small number of poetry collections initially released to the market came to be passed from hand to hand and fought over by people.
Used bookstores were selling them to everyone at exorbitant prices.
(The market price of used books had reached five times their original price.) Countless letters from unknown people came to me.
They were letters demanding that I release a reprint no matter what.

In response to all those people’s fervent demands, I was always pained.
Before long, I came to regret my own foolish whims.
I no longer wanted to betray the earnest love shown toward me by so many people.
I resolved to reprint the collection.
Moreover, my bone-deep laziness and slothful nature made negotiations with the publisher seem exceedingly troublesome.
And due to all these reasons, this poetry collection remained out of print for a long time until today.

When I look back, the poetry world underwent rapid changes.

What a striking difference there must be between the poetry world when this collection’s first edition was initially released to the world and the poetry world of today.
Initially, I joined forces with my friend Muroo Saisei to launch the Mermaid Poetry Society, and subsequently founded the Emotion Poetry Society.
When I thought of us from that time, I couldn’t help but feel pathetic.
In the literary world of that time, “poetry” was not considered part of literature.
There were no magazines anywhere that paid to publish poetry.
Of course, this fact stemmed from poetry being an extremely specialized thing that had almost no general readership.
Why was our poetry so distant from the public?
There must have been various reasons for this.
However, the primary reason was that the era had long been led astray by the aesthetics of naturalism, causing it to reject all lyrical emotions.
Indeed, and of course, the fact that no true epochal lyric poetry emerged there was also a cause.
Our art had lost the purity of the Japanese language.
To rephrase, Japanesque emotions—the Japanesque emotions the era demanded—had their radiance tarnished by superficial Western imitations in translated poetry.
The poets of our country had lost rhythm.
Such art would belong to a peculiar pedantism.
Therein, the tastes of a class that delighted in ‘affectation’ were satisfied.
And the lives of the general public were not involved in this.

In any case, the poetry world of that time was in such an ill-fated state.
Poetry went unheeded by the public, and the literary world cast it into a dog kennel's corner.
Thus did our work demand a fundamental force.
Our work was precisely like exiles migrating to desolate lands.
We had to cultivate everything.
To elaborate, we had to overturn all existing things from their very foundations and raise up from the earth an entirely new soil.
That is to say, our initial actions were from start to finish a "rebellion against the trends of the time."
In that naturalist literary world, no word was more scorned than the very resonance of "emotion."
Therefore we deliberately adopted that "cursed word" as our poetry society's motto.
This stood as clear rebellion against prevailing currents while simultaneously serving as the first beacon howling poetry's resurgence.
Moreover, in poetic sentiment, expression, and language alike, our style differed utterly from contemporary trends.
Rather, we pierced through fashion's underbelly.
For this reason did mainstream poetry circles brand our creations heretical, while the masses showered us with every manner of ridicule and abuse.

Yet before long, the tide of the times shifted direction.
The aesthetics of naturalism that once wielded such tyrannical force were refuted by the aesthetics of new romanticism.
Now at last, all decayed emotions overflowed like a flood.
Twice now came the era of my lyric poetry.
Once neglected by the public, poetry returned even into their very lives.
Moreover, prior to this, our magazine *Emotion* had become the standard-bearer of the poetry world.
In terms of principles and content, pamphlets that took *Emotion* almost entirely as their standard were published one after another.
The publication of emotion-type magazines indeed became a trend in the poetry world.
Moreover, our poetic style became an “epochal trend” in the poetry world.
Our poetic style, which was once an anti-era and peculiar heretical form, has today become the most commonplace general style—indeed, it has even turned into a popular style that epitomizes the trends of the times.

Indeed, in these past few years here, our country’s poetry world underwent an astonishing change.
Everything was completely renewed.
And everything has been realized as “proof of my premonition.”

Therefore, my poetry collection *Howling at the Moon*—a commemorative project of the Emotion Poetry Society—must indeed have been the first dawn anticipating today’s poetry world.
Prior to this collection, there were absolutely no colloquial poems of this style, and before this collection, one could not sense the vibrant atmosphere of today’s poetry world.
All new poetic styles have originated from here.
The rhythm of all epochal lyric poetry has been born from here.
That is to say, through this poetry collection, the age has indeed created an epoch.
Truly, it was the first cockcrow at daybreak—and indeed, my greatest confidence in this collection lies here.

February 1922

Author

Bamboo and Its Sorrow

The diseased face of the earth’s depths

A face appears in the earth’s depths,

A lonely patient’s face appeared.

In the darkness of the earth’s depths,

The stems of tender grass began to sprout,

a rat’s nest began to sprout,
tangled in the nest,
countless hairs began to quiver,

Around the winter solstice,

From the desolate, sick ground,

Slender blue bamboo roots began to sprout,
They began to sprout,
they appeared truly and profoundly sorrowful,
appearing as if smoldering,
Truly, truly, they appeared profoundly sorrowful.
In the darkness of the ground’s depths,
A lonely patient’s face appeared.
grass stems

In the cold of winter,
Enveloped in slender hairs,

Behold the grass stems,

Though bluish-tinged and lonely,

Enveloped all over in thin hairs,

Behold the grass stems.

In the distant sky where snow approached,

Grass stems began to sprout.

Bamboo

Straight things grow from the ground,

Sharp blue things grew upon the ground,

Piercing through the frozen winter,

In the morning sky’s path where green leaves glistened,

Shedding tears,

Shedding tears,

From shoulders where confession now swelled forth,

The smoldering bamboo roots spread out,

Sharp blue things grew upon the ground.

Bamboo

On the shining ground, bamboo grew,

Blue bamboo grew,

Underground, bamboo roots grew,

The roots gradually thinned out,

From the tips of the roots, root hairs grew,

Faintly hazy root hairs grew,

They faintly quivered.

On the hard ground, bamboo grew,

Bamboo grew sharply on the ground,

Bamboo grew straight upward,

Frozen nodes upon nodes clinking,

Under the blue sky, bamboo grew,

Bamboo, bamboo, bamboo grew.

○

Behold, all sins had been recorded,

Yet none were within me,

Truly, what manifested before me were

Only phantoms of shadowless blue flames,

Only ghosts of sorrow fading upon snow,

Ah, what could I do with this day's desperate confession?

All was but faint blue phantoms.

Soured chrysanthemum

That chrysanthemum had soured,

That chrysanthemum dripped with pain,

Ah, alas, the frost began to form,
My platinum hand bent,
I sharpened my fingers to a point,
Rather than wish to pinch the chrysanthemum,
As if to say,“Do not pluck that chrysanthemum,”
In one corner of the shining heavens,
The chrysanthemum sickened,
The soured chrysanthemum suffered.

Turtle

A forest existed,

A marsh existed,

Azure heavens existed,

In their hand, they felt a weight.

Quietly slept the pure gold Turtle.

This shining,

Enduring nature's desolate pain,

Groping through human psyches as it sinks,

The Turtle sinks into azure sky's depths.

Flute.

If one looks up, on the high pine branch a koto hangs and resounds,

Blending crimson onto their fingers,

Strumming the blended koto,

Ah—the mournful koto’s strummed sound intertwines with flute,

The divine flute resides in heaven.

In tonight’s frost-laden sky, piercingly clear,
Illuminating the pine treetops,

In the single thought of those who grieved,
They revealed repentance’s form.

The divine flute resides in heaven.

Winter

The mark of sin and guilt appears in heaven,
It appears on the piled-up snow,
It shines forth upon the treetops,

Through midwinter it shone,
The signs of sins committed did not appear together.
Behold, those who slept—
In the dark soil, the living beings—
They began to build the house of repentance.

Celestial Hanging Death

On pine needles shining in the distant night,
Tears of repentance dripping,
The distant night sky grows pale-white—
They hang their necks on the heavenly pine.
Rather than yearning for the heavenly pine,
They are not hung in prayer-like form.

Egg

At the exceedingly high treetop,
The small eggs glow—
When one looks up, the bird’s nest glows—

Now was the time for sinners to pray.

Lark Cuisine

The new greenery of May mornings and the balmy breeze turned my life aristocratic.
Under the dripping sky-blue window, I wanted to wield the pure silver fork with the woman I loved.
In my life too, someday once, I wanted to steal and eat that plate of love from Lark Cuisine glowing in the sky.

The Sentimental Hand

My sentimental nature,
I grieved the many hands,
The hands constantly danced overhead,
And in my chest a desolate light lingered,
Gradually summer waned,
Now that swallows had already left their nests,

The barley grows cold.

Ah—forgetting the capital,
I no longer play the kokyū,
Hands turn to steel,
Gloomily I dig into the earth,
The piteous sentimental hands dig into the earth.

Mountain Dwelling

August—prayer,
Fish and birds vanish into the distance,
The color of balloon flowers wanes,
Gradually wanes,
My heart severely wanes,
Sorrow does not leave the tree shade,
In the hand, the Bible becomes silver.

Seedling

The seedling glowed against the blue sky,

The child dug into the earth.

Seeking the unsprouted seedling,

From the bright pot’s bottom,

I thrust white fingers through.

Murder Incident

In the distant sky, a pistol rang out.

Again, a pistol rang out.

Ah, my detective donned a glass raiment,
Sneaking in through the lover’s window,
The floor lay crystalline,
From between finger and finger,

Matsusao’s blood was flowing,

Over the tragic woman’s corpse,
A cold cricket was crying out.

On a morning in the early days of the Eleventh Month,
The detective wore a glass garment,

The detective turned at the town’s crossroads.

At the crossroads, autumn pervaded,

Now, the lone detective was overcome with sorrow.

Behold—the distant lonely marble pavement,

The villain slipped away from Itsusan.

Bonsai

After spring and summer passed, hands turned to amber,

Eyes moistened in the water basin,

Stones lay scattered,

Each and every one was overcome with sorrow,

Behold, in the deepening landscape,
A slender waterfall flowed,
The waterfall flowed,
Coldly, the marine life sank.

Lark Cuisine

The evening love meal we offered up,

Imbuing the candle with fish wax’s sorrow,

Longing for the beloved, I opened the green window.

Ah, alas—when I gazed upon that sky—

Early summer streams flowing from afar—

In my hands I offered up the lark’s dish—

Itoshigari-kun advanced to the left.

A Seed in the Palm

I piled soil upon my hand,

Upon the soil, I sowed seeds,
Now, with a white watering can, I poured water upon the soil,
The water streamed down steadily,
The coldness of the soil seeped into my palm.
Ah, pushing open the distant window of May,
I extended my hand to sunlight's edge,
Since I found myself within this refreshing landscape,
My skin was delicately warmed,
The seed upon my palm breathed pitifully.

Celestial Vista

Creak softly, four-wheeled carriage,

The sea glimmers faintly,

The wheat flows afar,

Creak softly, four-wheeled carriage.

The celestial vista of glittering fish and birds,

And the blue-windowed buildings,

Creak softly, four-wheeled carriage.

An anxious heart.

Frost lies on a slightly cold morning,

There walks a girl offering up a lark dish in her hands,

At that moment, leaning against the row of trees,
she peered intently through the gaps between the slender fingers of the powdered woman,
desiring to steal and eat this delectable lark dish,
she burned with impatience,
until one person burned with such impatience that they resorted to joining their hands in prayer.

Sad Moonlit Night

Sad Distant Vista

When the sad twilight came,
the entire city of Tokyo was filled with workers,
the shadows of those haggard hats
spread throughout the city streets,
in that district and in this district,
they dug up the hard ground,
and were they to dig it up and look,
there lay a soot-blackened snuff tobacco wrapper,
weighing about five momme,
a withered violet root-stump with lingering fragrance.
That too started from the distant reaches of Honjo and Fukagawa,
bit by bit spreading its influence throughout the entire city.

In the shadow of tormenting twilight,
The withered heart illuminates chatter.

Sad Moonlit Night

Thieving dogs,

They howled at the moon above the rotten wharf.

When the soul strained its ears,

In a gloomy voice,

Pale girls were singing in chorus,

They are singing in chorus,

At the dark stone wall of the wharf.

Always,

Why am I this,

Dog,

Ghastly pale, ill-fated Dog.

Death.

From the earth’s depths that stared,

Grotesquely ferocious hands emerged,

Legs emerged,

necks thrust out,

Comrades,

What in the world is this,
What a goose!
From the earth’s depths that stare,
With idiotic grins,
Hands emerge,
Legs emerge,

necks thrust out.

A Dangerous Walk

When spring came,
I attached rubber to the soles of my new shoes,
No matter how crudely made the sidewalks I walked on,
So that that disgusting sound wouldn’t occur,
Moreover, I bundled up a heap of broken things,
That was what mattered most.

Alright, I’ve slowly begun to walk,
Everyone, leave me be,

Leave me be,

I'm so worried, so worried I can't stand it,
No matter what happens,
Please don't look at my twisted gait.
I'm absolutely desperate,

I am like a sick balloonist,
Always in some exhausted quarter,
I am staggering unsteadily as I walk.

The Death of an Alcoholic

Of the alcoholic lying face-up in death,

From the ghostly white area around the belly,

A substance of unknowable nature flowed,

transparent blue plasma and,

distorted polygonal heart and,

rotten entrails and,
rheumatism-festered wrists and,
squishy entrails and,

All across that ground,
The ground glittered brightly,

The grass was sharp and pointed.

Everything glowed like radium.

Emerging within this desolate landscape,

the pallid murderer’s face

laughed fluttering like grass.

Desiccated Crime

From where did the criminal escape?

Ah, for years and years before,

There is an overturned chair there,

There is the murder weapon,

There is the corpse there,

There is blood there,

And on the pale May’s high window,

the detective’s gloomy face sunken in thought,
the lonely woman’s hair trembled.

The Death of a Frog

A frog was killed,

The children huddled in a circle and raised their hands,

Everyone together,

Adorable,

They raised their blood-stained hands,

The moon appeared,

On the hill, a person stood.
Under the hat, there was a face.

Essay on Childhood Longing

Rotten Clam

Tormenting Sensations of a Spring Night and Their Malady

The Reason Why the Person Inside Appears as a Malformed Patient

I stood in the shadow of the lace window curtain.
That was the reason my face appeared faintly dim.
I held distance glasses in my hand.
And so I gazed at a place far in the distance—
attached manufactured dogs and sheep and the like—
I watched the grove where bald-headed children were walking.
Those were the reason my eyes appeared somewhat blurred.

I ate too much of this morning’s cabbage plate,

Moreover, this window glass is very crudely made,
That is the reason my face appears so severely distorted.

To tell the truth,
I am something too healthy, so to speak,

And yet, why on earth are you staring at me there?
Why on earth are you laughing so creepily?

Oh, of course—if it's below my waist,
If you insist that part remains unclear,
Though it makes for a rather foolish question—
Of course, I mean to say along this pallid window wall,

I was standing inside the house.

Chair

Under the chair, the one who slumbers,

Are they the children of one who can build a great house?

Spring Night

Something like a short-neck clam,

Something like a clam,

Something like a water flea,

The bodies of those creatures were buried in sand,

From somewhere unseen,
countless silk-like hands grew,
their slender hairs moving in time with the waves.

Ah, this vividly warm spring night,

The tidewater flowed softly,
flowed over creatures,
the tongues of shellfish too flickering and burning with sorrow,
when I looked out toward the distant shore,

On the damp shore path,

A procession of patients without lower bodies was walking,

drifting along, drifting along.

Ah, even in those human hairs,

the haze of spring night hung deeply over all,

lapping, lapping,

This white row of waves were ripples.

The world of bacteria

Bacteria’s feet,

bacteria’s mouth,

bacteria’s ear,

bacteria’s nose,

Bacteria were swimming.

Some were in the womb of a person,

Some were in the internal organs of shellfish,

Some were in the onion's core,

Some were at the landscape's heart.

Bacteria swam.

Their hands grew crosswise left and right,

Fingertips branching like roots,

Sharp claws sprouting from there,

Capillaries spreading across every surface.

Bacteria swam.

Where bacteria live,

As if peering through a patient’s skin,

Crimson light rays filter in thinly,

Only that part appears faintly aglow,

Truly, truly, it appears unbearably sorrowful.

Bacteria are swimming.

The swimmer

The swimmer’s body stretches diagonally,

The two hands are stretched out long and aligned,

The swimmer’s heart is jellyfish-transparent,
The swimmer’s eyes listen to the bell’s reverberation while,
The swimmer’s soul gazes upon the water-surface moon.

Ariake

From the pain of a long illness,
that face became covered in spiderwebs,
from the waist down vanished like a shadow,
from the waist up a thicket grew,
hands rotted.

their entire body had become utterly chaotic,

Ah, this day too the moon has risen,

The lingering moon appeared in the sky,
In that faint light like a paper lantern,

A deformed white dog was howling.

Near dawn,

It’s a dog howling in the direction of the lonely road.

Cat

Two pitch-black cats,

On the rooftop of a distressing night,

From the tips of stiffly erect tails,

A thread-like crescent moon hung hazily.

“meow, good evening.”

“meow, good evening.”

“Meow, meow, meow.”

“Meow—the master of this house is ill.”

Shell

A cold thing was born,

Those teeth flowed into water,

Those hands flowed into water,

Things swept by the tide, their course unknown—

When I stepped into the shallows and called out,

The shell answered through distant echoes.

In a corner of the wheat field

With an utterly honest heart,
We wanted to speak—
That which cometh from faith—
All appeared as phantom forms—
The things I once saw—
I wished to make thee hear clearly—
All things of this kind—

lavishly attired,
Gleaming,

It was the half-body of a god possessing a great hiding place.

Vernal Spring

Ah, spring comes smoldering from afar,

Underneath the plumply swollen willow buds,

pressing tender lips close,

yearning to drink in a maiden’s kiss,

Spring rides in from afar on a rubber-wheeled cart.

In the midst of a hazy landscape,

though the white cart driver’s feet hurried,

as it went, the wheel spun upside down,

gradually the rudder bar began to lift from the ground,

moreover the customer’s hips swayed oddly,

this looked far too precarious—

at the most unexpected moment, spring let out a snow-white yawn.

Rotten clam

Half of its body was buried in the sand,

And there it lay, flopping its tongue out.

Above the head of this mollusk,

Gravel and seawater flowed gritty, gritty, gritty, gritty over it,

flowing,

Ah, it flowed as quietly as a dream.
From the gaps between the flowing sands,
The clam’s tongue flickered red once more,
This clam was severely emaciated.
Upon looking, its squirming innards appeared to be rotting away,
Therefore, when sorrowful evening came,

Sitting on the wan coast,
flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker—it let out its rotten breath.

The Substance of Spring

With countless bugs’ eggs,

spring swelled densely,

Indeed, gazing out over it all,

every nook and cranny was crammed tight with these kinds of eggs.

If one looked at cherry blossoms,

in the cherry blossoms too these eggs could be seen permeating every surface,

on willow branches too, of course,

for example, even creatures like moths and butterflies—

those thin wings were formed from eggs—

they were what shone so—glitter glitter glitter glitter—in that way.

Ah, unseen even to the eye,
the shape of these faint eggs was elliptical,
they pressed and crushed against each other everywhere,
spreading throughout the air,
hardening like rubber balls swollen to bursting,

Go on, press your fingertip deep—
The essence of what we call spring resides precisely here.

With the Gift

Among the ranks of soldiers,
There was one with a foul disposition;
He probably missed the target’s bullseye.
The man who was executed,
When he gasped for breath in a dream,
Lonely tears flowed across the sky.

“This is the kind of tobacco.”

Desolate Passion

Loving Compassion

With those surely cute, hard teeth,

O woman who chew the green of grass,

O woman,

With the shadowy essence of this pale blue grass,

Evenly color your face,

Stir your passion to heights,

Let us play stealthily in the thick clumps of grass,

Behold,
Here bellflowers nod their heads,
Over there, the gentian’s hands sway limply,

Ah, I firmly embrace your breasts,

You pressed down on my body with all your strength,

And in this deserted field,
Let us engage in a serpentine game,
Ah, I myself will fiercely dote upon you,
I will smear the juice of blue grass leaves onto your beautiful skin.

The One Who Loves Love

I applied rouge to my lips,
I kissed the new birch trunk,
Even if I were a handsome man,
In my chest there are no rubber ball-like breasts,
From my skin emits no scent of fine-grained face powder,
I am a withered, ill-fated man,
Ah, what a pitiable man,
In today’s fragrant early summer field,
In the glittering grove,

I slipped sky-blue gloves snugly onto my hands,
I fastened something like a corset around my waist,
I applied something like collar powder to my collar,
In this way, while quietly shaping my posture,
I, like the girls,
tilting my head slightly,
kissed the new birch trunk,
applied rose-gray rouge to my lips,
and clung to the pure white tall tree.

The Noble Prince of May

When I walked upon young grass,

My shoes left white footprints as they went,

Slender cast-off silver was polished by grass,

The gloves I rolled up and took off were dancing in midair,

Ah, completely casting off all sorrow,
I want to become a gentle sheep,
Placing my hand on your gently moist neck,
I want to breathe in the scent of fresh iris powder,

When I walked upon the young grass,

I am the noble prince of May.

White moon

From the intense pain of a cavity,

Cupping my swollen cheek,
I was digging under the jujube tree,
Intending to sow seeds of some grass,
While getting my slender fingers covered in mud,
I dug up the cold ground,

Ah, I remembered that,
In the pale chill of twilight,
Under the brand-new hole,
Wriggling, wriggling, the earthworms moved,

At that moment, from behind the low structure,
the pure white woman’s ear,
the moon rose as if sleekly stroking.

The moon rose.

Poems of Infant Longing

Portrait

That guy always had a twisted face,

He was standing rigidly by the window,

When the white cherry blossoms bloom,

He crawled out again from the ground's depths,
like quackgrass creeping upward,
muffling his footsteps in silence.
As he slipped through the window,
I snapped a photograph.
In the haze of blurred light,
when I held the whitish dry plate to examine it,
my form was faintly imprinted like some shadow.
From the neck up,
it quivered like a spider lily.

A Solitary Soul

A solitary soul summons my friend,
O my unseen friend, come quickly,
Let us sit upon this old chair here and converse quietly together,
Without grieving anything, let us live quiet, happy days together, you and I,

Let us listen to the quiet sound of a distant park’s fountain,

Quietly, quietly, let the two of us remain embracing like this,

Far from mother, father, and siblings,

Let us bind together orphan hearts unknown to both mother and father,

Amidst all possible human lives,

Let us talk about the life that belongs only to you and me,

About our meager, precarious secret life shared only by the two of us,

Ah, do those words not come scattering down like autumn leaves, rustling onto my very lap?

My chest is like that of a weak, sickly young child.

My heart trembles with fear—painful, painful—as if burning in the dampness of passion.

Ah，once again，I climbed to the top of a high mountain.
While gazing up at the steep slope，I ascended longingly like some tiny insect.

When I stood atop the mountain’s summit, the tiny insect shed lonely tears.

If I looked up, atop the mountain’s summit amidst an overgrown thicket, a large whitish cloud flowed.

Nature everywhere makes me suffer,
And human affections cast me into gloom,
Rather than endure this, I—weary from walking through bustling city parks—

I liked to find a chair in some lonely shade of trees,
I liked to watch the sky with a vacant mind,
Ah, the soot flowing sorrowfully through the distant city sky—
I also liked to watch swallows flying far away, looking so small as they passed over the roofs of those buildings.
My truly desolate self—

In a loud voice, I called out to my unseen friend—
my servile, mysterious self—
in crow-like shabbiness
trembling at the edge of a deserted winter-withered chair.

An unfamiliar dog

An unfamiliar dog

This unfamiliar dog followed behind me,

It was the shadow of a shabby, disabled dog limping on its hind leg.

Ah, I do not know where I am going,

In the direction of the road I took,
The tenement roofs flapped noisily in the wind,

By the roadside, in the gloomy vacant lot,
dried-up grass blades moved limply in slender motions.
Ah, I did not know where I was going.
A large creature-like moon floated dimly ahead,
and in the lonely street behind,
the tip of the dog’s slender long tail dragged along the ground.

Ah, on and on, on and on,

This unfamiliar dog follows behind me,
Crawling across the filthy ground,
It is the sick dog dragging its hind leg behind me,
Trembling sorrowfully as it lingers far away,
The shadow of an ill-fated dog howling pale toward the lonely moon in the distant sky.

I gazed up at blue-leaved treetops,

In poor, lonely back alleys of town,

Blue-leaved trees grew sparsely.

I am seeking love,

I am seeking a maiden whose heart lacks means to love me,

That person’s hand trembled atop the blue treetops,

In seeking my love, I trembled endlessly with gentle emotions in high places.

I begged along a distant, distant highway,

My pitifully starving heart smelled rotten onions and meat’s stench and shed tears,

With a beggar’s utterly ruined heart, I wandered perpetually through the town’s back alleys.

The heart that seeks love arrives after sorrowful loneliness’s long, long exhaustion,

That is a nostalgic emotion vast as the sea.

At the treetops of blue-leaved trees that grew in the barren ground by the roadside,
Tiny leaves fluttered and fluttered in the wind.
O frog,

O frog,

Amidst blue pampas grass and reeds growing there,

The frog appeared swollen white,

In an evening scene where rain fell in full force,

A frog croaked *gyo*, *gyo*, *gyo*, *gyo*,

Pounding the pitch-dark ground.

Tonight was a night of raging rain and wind,
On cold grass blades too,
A frog drew breath with a sigh,
Its low croaks echoing through the gloom.
O frog,
My heart had not strayed far from you,
I held a lamp in hand,

I was gazing at the dark visage of the garden,
I was gazing at foliage wilted by rain with a weary heart.

Climbed the Mountain

To a Woman from the Journey

At the mountain summit was a beautiful clump of grass,

On top of it, we were lying down.

When I raised my eyes and gazed toward the distant foothills,

It appeared to me like a vast, expansive seascape.

In the sky flowed wind.

I picked up a pebble and held it to my mouth while,
without any particular destination in mind,

I was walking across the wildly overgrown mountain summit.

I still think of you, even now.

Seawater Inn

Through the red pine grove,

The dark, large waves were shining far away,

This lonely Echigo coast,

For a moment, what did the heart pray for,

Having finished dinner alone,

He lit a lamp in the parlor of the Seawater Inn.

At Kujiranami Coast

Loneliness

At the pale roadside in the countryside,
the tired horse’s heart
gazed at the parched sunlit grass,
obliquely smoldering thin and faint—
it gazed at the trembling desolate grass.

Standing in the desolate sunlight of the countryside,
“What are you looking at,”
trembling, my lonely soul—
on the face of this dust-covered landscape,

Thin tears were flowing.

White communal benches

Along a small path through the forest,

Pure white communal benches were lined up,

In that desolate mountainous area,

The shade of green was profoundly deep,

Peering through that forest over there,

There too could be seen a lonely grove of trees,

Elegant pure-white chair legs stood aligned.

Dread of the Countryside

I dread the countryside,

Trembling in the deserted rice fields,

I dread the thin rows of stretching seedlings.

I dread the destitute crowds dwelling in dim houses.

When I sit on a country path between paddies,

The soil’s weight—like great waves—darkens my heart,

The rotten smell of the soil blackened my skin,

The desolate winter-scorched nature made my life painful.

The countryside air hung gloomy and oppressive,

The countryside’s touch grated gritty and unpleasant,

When I thought of the countryside at times,

I am tormented by the smell of coarse-grained animal skin.

I dread the countryside,

The countryside is a pallid blue dream of fever.

Two Long Poems

Lark’s Nest

With a heart heavy with sorrow, I walked along the riverbank of my hometown.

On the riverbank grew yomena asters—horsetails and their kind—water dropworts and shepherd’s purses; even violet roots sprouted wild and thick.

Behind that low sandhill flowed the Tone River.
It flowed furtively and restlessly like a thief.

I crouched motionless in the riverbed.

Before my eyes lay a clump of riverbank mugwort.

It was a clump of grass about the size of a handful.
The mugwort swayed limply in the wind like the disheveled hair of a woman.

I was brooding over a certain unpleasant matter.
It was a terribly ominous thought.

On top of that,because the maddening sun swelteringly beats down from above the hat,I am drenched in sweat.

Like a gasping person seeking water, I reached out my hand.

As if to seize my soul, I grabbed something.

I grabbed something like dried-up hair.

A lark’s nest hidden within the riverbank mugwort.

Peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep—in the sky, the parent lark was calling.

I gazed at the pitiable lark’s nest.

The nest swelled gently like a burr upon my large palm.

A sensation that fawned upon the love of something being tenderly nurtured arose distinctly in my heart.

I grew strangely lonely and distressed.

I stretched my neck like a parent bird and peered into the nest.

The inside of the nest was dim and hazy like twilight's light.

A sorrow too delicate for metaphor—like touching the frail fibers of a plant—brushed against the nerve endings like a shadow.

Illuminated by the faint light within the nest, four mouse-colored lark's eggs shone forlornly.

I extended my fingers and picked up one of the eggs.

The breath of a living, warm creature tickled the pad of my thumb.

A maddening sensation—like when seeing a dying dog—welled up from the depths of my heart.

From the tepid unpleasantness of human sensation in such moments, brutal crimes are born.
The heart that fears sin precedes the heart that begets sin.

I held the egg between my fingers up to sunlight and peered through it.

A pale red haze showed through like a clot of blood.

A sensation like cold liquid was felt,

At that moment, I felt a foul-smelling liquid oozing between my fingers.

The egg broke,

The barbaric human fingers had mercilessly crushed something delicate.

On the thin mouse-colored eggshell, the character K was faintly written in red.

The pitiful little bird's fledgling—the little bird's parent.

The nest crafted from that adorable beak—the small creature's earnest labor—a manifestation of endearing instinct.

A multitude of virtuous, noble thoughts surged fiercely from the depths of my heart.

I broke the egg.

I killed love and joy—performing work steeped in sorrow and curses.

I performed a darkly unpleasant act.

I stared fixedly at the ground with a gloomy face.

The ground glittered with pebbles, glass shards, and grass roots scattered across its surface.

Peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep—the parent lark kept calling in the sky.

There hung the foul stench of spring.

I brooded over that unpleasant matter once more.

That humans find the odor of human skin repulsive.

That humans find human genitalia repulsive.

That at times humans appear like horses.

That humans betray human love.

That humans detest humans.

Ah, misanthropic invalid.

When one reads a certain famous Russian novel—a very weighty novel—the story of a misanthropic invalid appears.

That was a splendid novel, but a dreadful one.

That the heart cannot love with the flesh what it loves—what wickedness lies in such thoughts.
What repulsive sickness this must be.

I have never once kissed a girl since the day I was born.

I have never even placed a hand on the shoulders of the little birds I love and spoken brotherly words to them.

Ah, beloved, beloved, beloved little birds.

I love humans.
But I fear humans.

I sometimes break away from everyone and become lonely.
And my heart becomes tearfully moved through loving all people.

I always liked to walk along deserted, lonely coasts while contemplating the bustle of distant cities.

I like to walk alone through my hometown’s park grounds when the distant city lights its lamps.

Ah, yesterday too—as ever yesterday—I continued seeing sad dreams.

I smelled the stench of decaying human blood.

I become distressed.

I become lonely.

Why can I not love with the body what I love with the heart?

I confess.

I confess.

I always confess when I become distressed.

I sit on the sand of the Tone River's dry riverbed and confess.

Peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep—in the sky, the parent larks were calling.

The roots of the riverbank mugwort spread out wildly.

The Tone River flowed furtively like a thief.
Over there and here too，joyful-looking farmers’ faces could be seen.
Those faces were darkened and only looked at the ground.
On the ground，spring had erupted like smallpox，swollen and bulging.
I piteously picked up the lark’s egg.

Flute.

The child wanted a flute.

At that time, the child’s father appeared to be writing something.

The child went to peek into the father’s room.

The child stood quietly in the shadow of the door.

In the shadow of the door was the scent of cherry blossoms.

At that time in the room, the adult sat sunk in thought.

The adult’s thoughts swirled in vortices, and a tangled whirlpool of ideas sent his heart into convulsions.

Looking, a snake had already tightly coiled around the forehead of the adult bent over the desk.

It was that spring-like morning’s event which had made that person’s heart sorrowful.

Instinct and conscience,

The desolate sorrow at the heart of the adult who sought to split an inseparable single heart into two—

The two shadows, wrenched apart with force, wandered near the dimly lit window, entangled like thread.

The person saw the forms of those sad ghosts passing over their own head.
The adult, holding his breath in fear, began to pray.
“O God, do not deign to make two hearts one.”

Yet for a long time, the ghosts moved in and out of the door’s shadow.
In the shadow of the door, there was the scent of cherry blossoms.

There stood his sickly child with a pale face.
The child wanted a flute.
The child opened the door and stood in a corner of the room.
The child saw the great father’s brain bent over the desk by the window.
The area around that brain was cast in severe shadow.
The child’s gaze settled on that spot like a fly.
The child’s lonely heart was drawn to something indeed.

Gradually, the child’s heart began to feel strength.

The child indeed cried out in a clear voice.

Looking, there was a flute placed there.
There was the small purple flute that the child had wanted.
The child did not tell the father anything about the flute.
Therefore, this fact was entirely a coincidental event.
It was likely some mysterious twist of fate.
But the child firmly believed in the father’s miracle.
Regarding the shadowy flute birthed by the greatest adult’s thought,

Regarding the flute placed on the desk.

City of Health

At the end of your poetry collection,

Around the end of spring in the second year of Taishō, I received a letter from an unknown friend. Regarding the ballad-like poem titled "Scenes of Strange Emotion" that I had published in the magazine Zamboa at the time, it was said to be a pure and truthful work unlike anything found in today’s poetry circles. It wrote, "I pray you will continue along this path." This marked my first experience of receiving correspondence from an unseen friend, nor had I ever before encountered criticism so acute that it missed not even a single aspect of rhythm. I intuited: this must be someone young like myself, I thought, someone whose circumstances nearly mirrored my own. Having just returned to Tokyo after a year’s wandering—friendless at the time—I thanked this companion as one starving thanks water. From then on we exchanged letters almost daily, sometimes critiquing each other’s unpublished works.

I would occasionally gaze at the Border Mountain Range as if in a dream from the temple’s tall veranda and find myself nostalgically recalling this friend’s Kōzuke Province and the Tone River embankments so often celebrated in poetry. If we were to meet, how our hearts would connect! A sensation as if I might fly there at any moment kept my eyelids burning. How I longed to meet and speak with this friend—through lengthy letters, we always conveyed these intense emotions, as though we were lovers bound by passion. We cultivated our pure sentiments toward the day we would emerge in Japan’s poetry circles, forging an extraordinary resolve that we absolutely had to exert for their sake. No matter where life took us, we pledged vows akin to those exchanged between husband and wife—to never part.

In the third year of Taishō, I moved to Tokyo.
And confronting life head-on, I quickly grew tired.
At that time, having drawn near to this friend’s hometown as well, I, still wearied, rejoiced at immediately meeting my friend.
My friend suddenly caught me wandering about at the station in his hometown.
We shook hands.
My friend was a person of somehow refined bearing, large-eyed and exactly as I had imagined, with a certain Westerner-like quality.
We took a rickshaw along the Tone River embankment to the inn built at the end of the pine tree-lined path.
Asama’s smoke trailed long to this Ueno as the cold winter day began to sink.

The inn stood facing a quiet gravel bank upstream along the Tone River, at the city's edge.
Slipping into garden clogs at once, we stepped out onto the desolate gravel expanse.
Though February, countless sprouts pushed through along south-facing ridges and cliffs.
My friend would often come visit me from this gravel bank.
We shared poems and exchanged critiques.

In Taishō 4, my friend departed Tokyo.

We met daily.
Thus began our frenzied BAR life.
On Tokyo's sweltering August streets, we sometimes clashed in fierce debates.
Scorching emotions blazed with volcanic love.
At times we composed verse in Nezu Gongen's precincts or atop BAR tables.
I myself, battling dire poverty, kept cup ever at lip.
And always I burdened this friend.

Before long, my friend returned to his hometown, and I to my own homeland. And to bind our hearts together, we published an extravagant poetry magazine called *Takujō Funsui* (Tabletop Fountain), but it folded after three issues. After this magazine ceased publication, we came to want to meet each other again. My friend was to visit me in my homeland. The scenic views of the coasts, sand dunes, and quiet northern towns I had depicted visited my homeland, treating my friend as someone journeying afar. Just as I had walked through my friend’s hometown with them three years prior, I introduced my friend to the streets and parks of my own hometown. My friend was delighted that the dim temple where I resided was just the sort of place I would be. Or he marveled at the beautiful figures in red collars moving about here and there in the pleasure quarter at dusk. Or I guided him to the coastal nunnery I sometimes visited. I crossed over the sandhills there, walked along the distant, long shore, and introduced the rough Japan Sea as well. Those things made us like children and let our days pass joyfully. During that time, I also introduced a girl I loved.

My friend soon returned.
After that, news from my friend abruptly ceased.
It was also from this time that various changes arose within my friend’s body and mind.
After that, not a single letter or communication arrived.
I felt sad.
I could not believe that such lofty friendship had suddenly vanished from my friend’s heart.
Could it be that such fierce love and fervor could no longer bind my friend and me as they once had?
I could not bring myself to think so.

The poem titled *Bamboo* was suddenly published.
The illness nesting throughout my body, like a rotten fountain, unsettled me as I savored my friend's poem.
My friend's body and soul were threatened by *Bamboo*, which had stretched up lush green on a clear day.
The force that perceived bamboo lent its weight even upon my friend's flesh.
He was assailed by bamboo-sprouting phobia—a nervous system disorder that made it seem as though bamboo grew throughout his body.
And furthermore, the various torments and ailments lurking within my friend's body made him constantly experience a prickling pain like that of a neurotically sharp needle's tip.

From the pain of long illness,
his face became covered in spiderwebs,
from the waist down had vanished like a shadow,
from the waist up grew a thicket,
hands rotted,
his entire body had become utterly chaotic,

Ah, today too the moon has risen,

The lingering moon had risen into the sky,

In the dim light like that of paper lanterns,
A deformed white dog is howling.

Near dawn,

It was a dog howling toward the lonely road.

I read this poem and thought for a long time. Could this be his poetry from when he was a ruddy-faced youth, writing of horsetails and dandelions and fragrant lyrical pieces by the banks of the Tone River? His heart and form had changed far beyond recognition. He walked through the moonlit night, tormented like a paper lantern by your deformed dog howling wildly. Perhaps it was around the end of spring. When the long illness exceeding two years had begun to slightly improve and he went out on a tepid evening, he felt as though the world had completely transformed. Even if the power of eternity were to leave his body, it would still remain thus forever in the sky and on the earth. In the direction of the road, a white dog was howling with a dreamlike, mystic resonance. And my head grew dull, like an idiot’s, from all manner of illness. Ah, the moon hath risen.

I turned the next page.

If one gazed out toward the distant shore,
On the wet shore path,
A line of patients without lower bodies walked.
They walked unsteadily, swaying.
For him, everything was distortion, terror, and phantasmagoria.
What reflected in his quiet mind were the distressing spiderwebs clinging to illness-seized face and limbs.
Even during the most settled moments of his nearly idiotic sensation, he felt silk-like threads dripping from his fingertips.
That hallucination consoled his soul.
Ah, could there have been any who remained tearless upon encountering this pale friend gazing most strangely yet most naturally at his own fingers?
The keen eyes facing me, clouded and deep, were quietly watching a truly suspicious sick dream from their depths.

When those poems emerged, works abruptly ceased altogether.
No word came to me either.
When I reached out, he would only say “Don’t write me now”—nothing more.
For nearly a year thereafter, he met with no one.
All landscapes and people had grown unbearable for him to behold.
Most of all, he feared others.
With a heart twisted sick like a dog’s—facing humanity’s deepest sins and transgressions—he loathed how his prayers were violated before he could even begin praying for himself.
To be alone, to pray alone, to suffer and ponder alone—ah, even through this solitude his illness dealt him pain upon excruciating pain.
It was as though he endured trials like Job’s.
“Why must my flesh suffer so?”—he cried aloud.

For him, that prayer-like state of mind akin to staring fixedly at a single point! This desperate urge to somehow expel this illness—if only to elevate my own power and refine the consciousness I now possessed to its utmost! The spirit of this poetry collection had indeed set forth from there.

The depth of his narrative lay in the viscera of things. Within the dim human abdomen, all manner of twisted mechanical things—sickened, decaying, verging on death—now turned toward the light. Toward the light. That alone constituted everything he sought. The uncanniness of his poetry belonged neither to Poe nor Baudelaire. It was a singular realm fathomable only to those similarly afflicted. He prayed. His prayer became both poetic form and confessional vessel.

Rather than longing for heavenly pines,

Not hung in the posture of prayer

Even looking at a chapter like *Tenjō Ishi* (Heavenly Hanging Death), one could understand how much he had suffered.
His poetry—even those innocent and deeply nostalgic pieces reminiscent of a child clinging to its mother’s large white chest—was narrated amidst the intermittent bouts of his illness.

Hagiwara-kun.

Having written this far, I felt a certain inadequacy in this narrative compared to the afterword I had sent previously. I thought this when you came with a pale face, having lost the afterword through some trivial mishap. That is not something to be written again. Even if I wrote it, I suffered knowing the passion and rhythm from when I had written it would never resurface again. Yet when I took up the pen, I wrote about ten pages in one go. But I can write no more. This alone does nothing but defile my brother’s poetry collection. One part of this is my brother’s responsibility for causing the loss of my afterword, but...

What I came to know through writing this second text was that I felt unable to critique my brother’s poetry because I loved it too deeply and knew his life too intimately.
When I reflected on it, five or six years had already passed since we became acquainted, yet my brother had always provided me with fine stimulation and encouragement.
That penetrating sensibility of the bizarre "Cat" expression was something I imitated countless times, but it never coalesced into substance.
My brother’s delicate, terrifyingly sensitive, neurotic way of seeing things was always psychologically saturated.
That was a realm I tried to enter but could not.

Brother’s health was now striving to return to his own hands.
Brother would continue to change.
Brother’s fervent love would hone his poetry to ever greater sharpness.
For Brother, his illness-filled life would clear away completely and warm his flesh.
I prayed for my brother’s well-being.
For Brother’s sake, all of humanity would grant him the healthiest and happiest of fortunes.
And were Brother to stand in the streets holding this troubling yet beautiful volume, those who read it would come to understand just how much he had suffered.
Those who truly understood these numerous poems would inevitably suffer the same torments Brother had endured.
And everyone would take Brother’s pale hand, smile warmly, and come to seek a world of health, courage, and light.
Furthermore, everyone would acknowledge both the singular world narrated by these poems and how they had employed the most novel expressions and forms to render human senses with utmost delicacy and sharpness—thereby creating an anguish akin to a toothache, a torment composed solely of nerves.

To go one step further, as far as I know, there had never been anyone who paid such attention to the shadows and depths of the Japanese language as you had. You created not through words themselves but through musical genius—through their shadows, volume, and depth. You possessed an ear attuned to rhythms no instrument could express. Even disregarding your own identity as a musician, you stood among the most advanced poets who made the *iroha* syllabary your keyboard.

Ah, may your soul be blessed.

In a loud, earth-shaking voice, I called out.
"Be healthy!"
"Oh, be healthy!"
—.

December 15, 1916, late at night

In Tabata, outskirts of Tokyo

Muroo Saisei

On the Art of the Late Mr. Tanaka Kyōkichi

Through the magazine *Tsukihae*, I first came to know Mr. Tanaka’s art about two years ago.
At that time, how I gazed with eyes wide in wonder and admiration upon that magnificent art—such a thing surely needs no elaboration.
Indeed, through Mr. Tanaka’s art, I was able to gaze even more clearly upon a part of the world of mental states I had been seeking.

At that time I was searching for someone to commission for my poetry collection’s design and illustrations when I gained this new kindred spirit – a joy made all the more profound through circumstance.
Before long through an introduction by Mr.Onchi Takashi I became correspondents with Mr.Kyōkichi exchanging letters between our hometowns.
Fortunately since Mr.Kyōkichi had long cherished my poetry our friendship swiftly deepened into something profound.
At that time gravely ill upon his sickbed when he heard of my poetry collection plans he rejoiced as though they were his own.
And for its design and illustrations he pledged every last remnant of his “life force” would be poured into them.

However, since then, all news from Mr.Kyōkichi abruptly ceased.
And according to a letter from Mr.Onchi, it was stated that "Kyōkichi’s end was finally approaching."
Then, after some time had passed, one day a registered parcel suddenly arrived from Mr.Onchi.
That was the "remaining life force" that Mr.Kyōkichi had devoted entirely for my sake.
It was a sorrowful posthumous work—a memento he had gripped until his death in the sickbed.
I received it reverently with a heavy heart.
(The gold-painted frontispiece inserted in this poetry collection and the line drawings thinly rendered in red ink on a red ground are those mementos.)
This red picture had been drawn with red ink on red square paper used to wrap poison.
It was likely an unfinished preliminary sketch.
It was something intensely strained and piercing.
The remaining several pages were selected by Mr.Onchi from Mr.Kyōkichi’s posthumous collection.)

Mr. Kyōkichi referred to his own art as the “wounded bud.” When I contemplate the unknown genius painter—who possessed a demonic talent so rare in this world yet remained tragically unrecognized in his time, his young life nearly entirely consumed by an incurable illness-bound existence before ending in lonely, premature death—I feel an agonizing pain like a nail driven into my chest.

In my contemplation, Mr. Kyōkichi’s art was itself the desperate scream of “wounded life.” Indeed, Mr. Tanaka’s art did not so much “speak” as utter a strained cry of life verging on a scream. Among all works created by Japanese hands, I have never encountered anything else that touches upon such vital, terrifying truth as his art.

Through Mr. Kyōkichi’s bedridden life, what tormented his existence were the abnormal bouts of sexual desire and the unrelenting terror of confronting death.

Above all, that sexual desire—with a kind of terrifying feverish persistence peculiar to such an illness—constantly tormented this unfortunate young man.
Anyone who encounters Mr. Tanaka’s art will notice with eerie uniformity that every single line speaks of the “lament of sexual desire.”
Those abnormal paintings are truly shudder-inducing to behold for any viewer.

“A sexual urge that cannot be contained no matter how much one suppresses and suppresses—”
That was the devil’s hand that helplessly devoured his young life.
Moreover, for a gravely ill person who could not even move—what could such bouts of sexual desire possibly achieve?
In his art, every line gave voice to the sorrow of this “sexual desire with an unattainable object.”
There was music and prayer of an uncannily profound depth.

In the face of assailing sexual urges, he would always close his eyes and sing lowly.

O heart, O heart, be still. Endure, endure, endure.

What a good-natured, utterly pure-hearted person he was.
Who could hear this pitiful voice of sentiment and not shed tears?

While cursed with such physical suffering, he was simultaneously ceaselessly assailed by the terror of directly confronting death.
One cannot comprehend how deeply he feared death.
Something like the mournful sobbing of a soul—vainly straining to reclaim “an irrecoverable life,” struggling to rise from beneath the grave—became one aspect of his mysterious art.
Therein lies a deep, deep sigh of despair and a terrifyingly profound sentimentality oozing from humanity’s innermost depths.

However, these are matters that need no introduction here through my clumsy prose.
If viewers would only look upon his art, they would intuitively grasp everything in its entirety.
For those who can perceive all art by moving beyond its form and factual concepts to directly sense the rhythm that is its innermost life, any explanation or introduction becomes utterly unnecessary.

In short, Mr. Tanaka Kyōkichi’s art is a poignant intersection between the “torment of abnormal sexual desire” and the “terror of confronting death.”

Of course, since I am a complete layman with no knowledge in painting’s domain, I could not critically evaluate Mr.Tanaka’s artistic merits and demerits from a specialized contemplative standpoint.
The reason I so profoundly revered Mr.Tanaka and mourned his premature death stemmed naturally from how extensively his attitudes thoughts and aesthetic sensibilities resonated with my own; yet what mattered even more was that his art constituted a scream rooted directly within terrifying human life itself.
And encountering such primal invaluable creations represented an exceedingly rare phenomenon within modern Japan.

Hagiwara Sakutarō