Pathway to Japanese Literature

Early Poems

Evening of a Spring Day

Tontan eats senbei

The evening of a spring day was tranquil.

Ash cast underhand turned pallid.

The evening of a spring day was quiet.

Alas!
Was there no scarecrow—no, there probably wasn’t.

Did the horse neigh?—No, it probably didn’t.

There was nothing but the moonlight glistening endlessly,

Was it the evening of a spring day that proved so obedient?

Gently in the field, the temple complex stood crimson.

The oxcart’s wheel lost its oil.

When I spoke in the historical present

Mocking, mocking went the sky and mountains

A roof tile came loose.

Henceforth the evening of a spring day

silently proceeds

into its own veins.

Moon

Tonight the moon grew ever more sorrowful,

It opened eyes wide at the stepfather's suspicion.

Momentary seconds poured silver waves into the desert.

The old man’s earlobe emitted phosphorescent light.

Ah, the forgotten canal’s embankment

The rumbling of tanks lingering in the chest

Taking tobacco from a rusted can,

The Moon indolently smoked.

Around it seven celestial maidens
continued dancing on tiptoe,
yet to the heart of this Moon steeped in defilement
they offered not a shred of solace.
O distant stars strewn afar!
The Moon awaits your tiered hands.

Circus

Many an age had come to pass,

There was a brown war.

Many an age had come to pass,

Winter came with a howling gale.

Many an age had come to pass

Tonight here, one booming spectacle

Tonight here, one booming spectacle

The circus tent's beam stood high.

There, a single swing.

A swing that wasn't quite visible.

Head inverted, hands dangling.

Beneath the soiled cotton canopy

Creak... groan... creak-groan

Near it, a white light

Exhaling like a cheap ribbon

The audience members were all sardines.

Throats clattered like oyster shells.

Creak... groan... creak-groan

Outside was pitch darkness—darkness of darkness.

Night deepened relentlessly.

The parachute man’s nostalgia and

Creak... groan... creak-groan

Spring Night

Within the smoked-silver window frame, gently—
A branch of flowers, peach-colored flowers.
Bathed in moonlight, they faint.
The garden’s earthen surface was freckled with black spots.
Ah, nothing at all, nothing at all.
Oh trees, bashfully stand and sway.
To these aimless sounds of things
There was no hope, and then again, no repentance.
Only the mountain-devout woodworkers,

The footsteps of a caravan in the realm of dreams grew dimly visible.

Inside the window—crisp clarity, hazy vagueness—

A sand-hued silk robe.

A mildewed chest's piano resonance.

Ancestors were gone, parents vanished.

Where was the dog we buried,

In saffron hues they surged forth.

Spring night—

Morning Song

Vermilion spread across the ceiling,
Light seeped through the door's gap,
A recollection of rustic military music—
With their hands they did nothing at all.
The small birds' songs went unheard.
The sky today appeared pale indigo,
Hearts of people had grown weary,
None to admonish—nothing remained.
Tormented by resin's scent—the morning,
Dreams lost—countless—
Rows of trees resounded in the wind,
Spread wide—the tranquil sky,
Along the embankment—did they vanish away?

Beauteous, manifold dreams.

Deathbed

The autumn sky hung leaden.

The black horse's eyes held light.

Water dried up; lilies fell.

Ah, hollow art thou!

Without god nor guide,

Near the window, a woman passed away.
The white sky was blind,
The white wind lay cold.
When one washed their hair by the window,

That arm was gentle.

The morning sun faded.
The sound of water dripped.
The towns were astir.
The voices of children mingled.

Be that as it may—what will become of this soul?
Grow faint and become void?

Summer Night in the City

The moon hung in the sky like a medal,

At the street corner, buildings stood like a pipe organ,

Exhausted from play, the men returned singing.

—Ikamune Karaa was bent—

Those lips were wrenched open

That heart was somehow sad.

The head became a dark clod of earth,

They just keep la-la-la-ing along.

Matters of business and ancestors and—

It’s not that they’ve forgotten,

The city's summer night deepens—

The city’s summer night deepens with dead gunpowder,

If the streetlight seeps into eyes,

They just kept la-la-la-ing along.

An Autumn Day

On such a morning, those who woke late—
By the sound of wind striking doors and wheel ruts—
Drowned in seas where sirens dwelled.
Summer night's stall conversations and
The architect's conscience were gone.
All things became ancient history and
The horizon's gaze beyond granite.
This morning everything knelt compliant under consulate flags—
I knew nothing beyond tin and plazas and celestial drums.
Without heeding mollusks' hoarse cries,
Casting purple crouched shadows in the park, an infant put sand in its mouth.

(A light blue platform and
A frolicking girl and a sneering Yankee
(No! No!))

Thrusting hands into pockets,
He passed through backstreets and emerged at dockside.

He aligned with the soul of the day

He would go search for some cloth scraps.

Dusk

Upon the stagnant dim surface of the pond,

Clustered lotus leaves swayed.

Because the lotus leaves were thick,

They made only furtive rustling sounds.

When a sound was made, my heart quivered,

Eyes chasing the dimly lit horizon…

The mountain loomed blackly, doing nothing but peer in.

――What was lost does not return.

What could be called sorrow—there’s nothing as sorrowful as this.
The smell of grass roots quietly comes to the nose.
The field’s soil, together with stones, watches me.
—After all, I have no intention of tilling!

He stood motionless and dazed in the twilight,
when the image of his father began to trouble him, he could only take a step or two.

Midnight Thoughts

This is the foaming calcium’s

drying away

Rapid—the unresisting girl-child’s wail,

The bag shop owner’s wife’s evening snot.

The dusk of the forest
Worn mother.
Where insects flit about the treetops,
The jester-child's clownish dance.
The wavy-furred hunting dog disappears,
The huntsman bears his hunched back ahead.

The meadow bordering the forest
Became a slope!
Margarete approached the black beach
While her veil was torn to tatters by the wind.
Her flesh had to plunge,

O stern Father-God Sea!

Upon her upon the cliff

Spirits traced cryptic patterns.

Her memories were the tidying of a sorrow-laden study.

She must die soon.

Winter’s Rainy Night

Enveloped in winter's black night,

A downpour was falling.

――The ghastliness of a withered daikon cast out under twilight,

That was still acceptable――
Now enveloped in the black winter night,
A downpour is falling.
Even the voices of dead girls resound

aé ao, aéao, éo, aéo éo！

Drifting through that rain,

Those milky-white vesicles that had disappeared sometime ago…

Now enveloped in the black winter night,

A downpour was falling,

My mother’s obi cord too

washed away by rainwater, crumbled,

The many instances of human kindness too

Had they ultimately become only the hue of mandarins?
...

Homecoming

Both pillars and garden were dry.

It was fine weather.

Under the eaves, spider webs

swayed forlornly.

In the mountains, even dead trees exhaled.

Ah, what fine weather today.

The roadside grass shadows
wear an innocent sorrow.
This is my hometown.

A keen wind also blows.

May you be wept for unreservedly

There also comes the low voice of a middle-aged woman.

Ah, what have you been doing all this time?...

The blowing wind speaks to me.

Violent Dusk

Whirling up, even the wind in this listless hour,

The grass bent; I saw,

The Hayato people of distant antiquity.

Silver-paper-colored bamboo spears,

They continued along the shore.

――Awaiting the hearts of small fry.

The blowing wind, uninvited, over corpses strewn upon the ground――

Corpses strewn――

The sky ascended the podium.

Households: wise vassals,

Concealed their nicotine-stained teeth.

Song of the Departing Summer

The treetops of the avenue deeply inhaled,
The sky stretched high and higher; they watched it.
The glass that had fallen on the sunlit sandy ground,

The traveler who had walked there found it in a fluster.

The mountain ridge grew clearer and clearer,

It purified the mouths of goldfish and girls.

On that approaching airplane,

Yesterday I had applied insect tears.

The wind sends ribbons into the sky,

I think of speaking about the sea that once fell—

I think I shall speak of those waves.

I think I shall speak of cavalry regiments and the movement of arms,

the red shoes of lower-ranking officials,

Along the mountain-side road goes without a rider

I think I shall speak about bicycles.

Sorrowful Morning

The sound of river shallows reached the mountain—
Spring light lay stonelike—
Bamboo-pipe water told its tale
So resembling white-haired crones—

With mica lips it sang—
Fell backward singing—
Heart parched—wrinkled—withered—
Tightrope walk on crag—

Unknown flames! Skyward!
Echoing rain! Drenches crown!

……………………………

I clapped my hands this way and that……

Song of Summer Days

The blue sky does not move,
Not a single wisp of cloud exists.
In the quiet of summer's midday,
The tar's light too becomes clear.
In the summer sky there is something,
There is something that makes one think poignantly,
Scorched, thick-stemmed sunflowers
Bloom at the rural station.

Skillfully raising children,
The train whistle sounds like a mother
When passing near the mountains.

While passing through mountain foothills,

The locomotive's whistle resonates like a mother.

The sweltering time of summer's midday.

Evening Glow

The hills, hands placed on chests,

They have drawn back.

The setting sun, the color of benevolence—
The golden color.
Fields with grass,

Folk song singing
Mountains with trees,

An aged and frugal heart.

In such moments did I exist.

Trampled by a child,

Shellfish flesh.

In such moments—unyielding integrity—

Come now—embrace this noble resignation—

Walked away while crossing arms.

Autumn in the Port City

On the rocky cliff, the morning sun shines.

The autumn sky is utterly beautiful.

The port visible across the way,
Is there even a snail's horn?
In the town, people clean tobacco pipes.

The roof tiles stretched out.
The sky split.
It was the civil servants' day off—figures in padded robes.

“Next time I’m born…”

A seafarer sings.

“Gee-kotan, let’s go down with a thud…”

The Old Woman sings.

The autumn day in the port city,

Quiet madness.

I, on that day in life,
I lost the chair.

Sigh

To Kawakami Tetsutarō

The sigh went into the swamp of night,
In the miasma, it would blink.
That blink would flow resentfully while snapping with a sound.
The trees would be like the necks of young scholar companions.

When night dawned on the horizon, a window opened.

The peasant who had pulled the cart headed toward town.

The sigh grew still deeper,

It was like the sound of an oxcart echoing against the hill.

At the edge of the field, the pine of Yamanoha protruding into the plain watched over me.

Even in its simplicity, it did not laugh—it was like an uncle.

It was as though God was catching fish at the bottom of the sky.

If the sky clouded over, the eyes of grasshoppers would peer from the sandy soil.

In the distance, the town looked like limestone.

Peter the Great’s eyes shone within the clouds.

Memories of Spring

The gathered Chinese milk vetch flowers

When the time came to return for dinner,
The wandering spring dusk haze
Slammed onto the earth—
Now once more I gazed with lingering attachment,
Casually clapping my hands

When I ran along the road,
(Oh sky where dusk lingers!)
When I entered my home,
Harmoniously blending in—

The autumn day’s sunset hill or hearth smoke—
There existed things that blurred me—
The prosperous mansions of ancient days—

Quadrille—swaying skirts
Quadrille—swaying skirts
Quadrille that insisted it would end one day!

Autumn night sky.

My, how bustling it was—

everyone saying entirely different things.

Yet this elegance remained unblended.

All the ladies would gather in time.

Though the earthly realm was called an autumn night,

the heavenly realm bustled.

On the smooth floor,

A golden lantern was lit.
Small heads, long hems,
There were no chairs.
Though the earthly realm was called an autumn night,

The brightness of the heavenly realm!
A gently bright heavenly realm
A shadow festival of distant pasts
Quiet upon quiet bustle
The heavenly realm’s nocturnal banquet.

I was watching from the earthly realm,
they had dispersed without my knowing.

Hangover

Morning—the muted sun shining,

A wind blows.

A thousand angels

play basketball.

I close my eyes,

It's a sorrowful drunkenness.

The stove no longer needed

rusts pale.

Morning—the muted sun shining,

A wind blows.

A thousand angels

They play basketball.

Boyhood

Boyhood

Boyhood

On the jet-black stone, the summer sun blazed down,

The garden ground lay slumbering in vermilion.

At the horizon’s edge, steam rose,

An omen—the world ending.

In the wheat field, the wind lashed low,

Hazy and gray it stood.

Like shadows cast by soaring clouds,

Passing over the rice field’s surface—the figure of an ancient giant—

Summer day’s mid-afternoon hour

When everyone took their afternoon nap,

I ran through the field……
I crushed hope between my lips.
I stared hollow-eyed in resignation……
Ah, I was alive—I was alive!

Blind Autumn

Ⅰ

The wind rises, the waves stir,

Arms wave before infinity.

In the intervals, small crimson flowers do appear,

Those too will eventually be crushed.

The wind rises, the waves stir,

Arms wave before infinity.

Thinking that it would never return,
How many times had I heaved these bleak white sighs...
My youth had already turned into hardened blood vessels,
Through them passed red spider lilies and the setting sun.
It was serene, radiant, filled to the brim,
Like the final laugh a departing woman gave,
Solemn, bountiful, yet desolate,
Strange, warm, shimmering—it lingered in my chest...
Ah, how it lingered in my chest...

The wind rises, the waves stir,

Arms wave before infinity.

Ⅱ

No matter how this may turn out, no matter how that may turn out,
Such things don't matter at all.
No matter what this might signify, no matter what that might signify,
Such things are even more inconsequential.
What people need is self-reliance!
All else remains as it becomes……

Self-reliance! Self-reliance! Self-reliance! Self-reliance,

That alone does not condemn human deeds.

Unperturbed, cheerful, like a sodden straw bundle,

Fill a cooking pot with morning mist—if only one could leap up!

Ⅲ

My Madonna!

Anyway, I vomited blood! ……

Since you wouldn't accept my affection,

Anyway, I have succumbed……

And this too is because I was not honest—

And this too is because I had no backbone—

Because my loving you was entirely natural,

You too loved me, but……

Ah!
My Madonna!

Though it’s beyond remedy now,

At least know this much—

Utterly naturally—but naturally—that one can love

Is no common occurrence,

And knowing this is not something permitted to just anyone.

IIII

At least at death's hour,

Would that woman lay bare her breast over me?

Not with white powder then—no,

Not with white powder then—no.

Only let her quietly bare it,

Let it radiate into my eye.

Don't ponder anything—no,

Not even if you ponder for my sake—no.

Just tenderly, tenderly holding tears,

Breathe warmly upon me.

—If those tears should fall,

You suddenly leaned over me,
So you could go ahead and kill me.
If you did, I would ascend comfortably along the winding path of the twilit earth.

My Smoking

Those two white shins of yours,
Evening, the cold evening of the port town,
You walked clomp-clomp upon the pavement.
Lights were lit in the shops, lit,
As I walked while watching that,
You were the one who called out,
"Let's go in somewhere and rest."

There I was, leaving the bridges and cargo unseen while—

I entered the restaurant—
A clamorous din going 'woof-woof,' stifling steam,

Well, this place was another world.

There I gazed upon your cheerful face, ill-timed as it was,

I sorrowfully smoked a cigarette,

Puff after puff, I exhaled…

Sister,

Night, the beautiful soul wept,

—she was the rightful one, yet—

Night, the beautiful soul wept,

"...might as well be dead now..." the beautiful soul was saying.

The black soil of the damp field, over the short grass,

The night wind blew,

"It's okay to be dead, it's okay to be dead,"

The beautiful soul was weeping.

Night—the sky lofty, the blowing wind delicate.

—I had no other means but to pray…

Cold Night's Self-Portrait

Though not resplendent,
I do not let go of this single rein

Pass through this region of gloom!
Since my resolve was clear
I did not lament winter nights
The sorrows of people’s mere exhaustion—
The humming of women swayed by longing
I felt as my trivial punishment
That which I let pierce my skin
Staggering yet maintaining composure
With somewhat ceremonial sentiment
I admonished my laziness
Walking under the cold moon
To be cheerful, composed, and not sell myself—

It was what my soul desired!

Tree Shade

The shrine torii catches the light.

Elm leaves tremble slightly.

The lush green shade of a summer noon

soothes my regrets.

Dark regret—the regret that forever clings—

my past, filled with utterly absurd derisive laughter,

eventually transforms into tear-stained gloom,

eventually became deep-rooted fatigue.

And so now from morning till night,

I have no life beyond enduring resignation,

without resentment, as though mourning,

my eyes looking up at the sky—

The shrine torii catches the light.

Elm leaves tremble slightly.

The lush green shade of summer noon

The lush green shade of summer noon soothed my regrets.

Vanished Hope

Into the dark sky they had vanished.

The hopes that burned through my youthful days—

Like the stars of a summer night—still, even now—

In the distant sky they flickered—still, even now.

Into the dark sky they had vanished.

The dreams and hopes of my youthful days—

Now here I lay prostrate

Like a beast, I harbored dark thoughts.

Those dark thoughts—what day
would they clear? I had no way to know,

From the drowned night sea
The moon in the sky—as if I had gazed upon it.

Those waves were far too deep,
The moon was too clear,
Alas, the hopes that burned through my youthful days—
Now they have vanished into the dark sky.

Summer

A weariness, a languor—like spitting blood.

Today again the sun blazed on the fields, the sun blazed on the wheat.

In sleep-like sadness, the distant sky—

A weariness as though spitting blood, a languor as though spitting blood.

The sky burned, the fields stretched on.

Clouds drifted, shining dazzlingly bright.

Today again the sun blazed, the earth slept.

In heartrending sorrow as though spitting blood.

The storm-like history of the heart

Had met its demise,

As though from there not a single thread could be drawn.

Beyond the blazing day, it slept.

I remained—a corpse—

This heartache and sorrow like spitting blood.

Mental Landscape

Ⅰ

The wind blew through the pine trees.

The sound of gravel underfoot was desolate.
A warm breeze washed over my forehead.
My thoughts drifted far away, tinged with nostalgia.
When I sat down,
the sound of waves came through clear.

Stars were absent.

The sky was dark cotton.

In the small boat that had come by,

The boatman said something to his wife.

—Those words could not be heard.

The sound of waves rang out distinctly.

Ⅱ

To all that has perished of the past

Tears well up.

The castle rampart had dried.

Where the wind blew,

The grass bowed,

Crossing hills, traversing fields,

Restless—

Why did the white angels not appear?

Alas, we desired to die,

Alas, we desired to live.

Alas, we—to all that had perished of the past—

Tears welled up.

From the direction of the heavens,

Where the wind blew.

Michiko

Michiko—

Your chest is like the sea—

Grandly does it surge up.

The distant sky, blue waves,

Even the cool wind joins in blowing,

Passing through pine treetops,

The shore glistens white and stretches on.

In that prolonged gaze—the sky's
endless reflection—
waves approaching rank upon rank, shore waves,
shifted with utmost swiftness.
Unmarked by any eye, scattered sails—
the offshore-bound boat was contemplated.
And again that brow's beauty,
startled by some sudden sound,
awakened from an afternoon nap's dream
like a bull—innocently

Lightly and demurely
It was raised up, then bowed down.
Disheveled, your neck became a rainbow
Through powerless, infant-like arms
When strings and song united in swift melody—as you danced—
The ocean turned to tear-laden gold containing sunset
While offshore shallows grew ever distant, glistening reverently quiet
To the sky—I did not gaze upon your last breath ceasing
In tainted sadness...
In tainted sadness
Today too light snow descended

In tainted sadness
today too even the wind blows relentlessly
Tainted sadness—
like a fox’s fur coat
Tainted sadness—
curls up under clinging light snow

Tainted sadness—
Hopes for nothing, desires nothing
Tainted sadness—
In weariness dreams of death
Within tainted sadness

Pitifully intimidated,
In tainted sadness,
With nothing done—the day ends……

Untitled

I

O my beloved, though you show me kindness,
I am obstinate.
Last night again, after parting with you,
I drank and lashed out at someone weak.
This morning
Waking up, and recalling your kindness,
I am lamenting my own wretchedness.
And,

Without identity I now confessed without shame,
Without dignity nor yet with honesty,
I was driven by my delusions and whirled about in madness.
Never once trying to understand others' feelings,
O my beloved though you showed me kindness,
I was obstinate and selfish like a child!
Waking up in the detestable head of a hangover,

As I sensed winter's breath beyond the door—
That cold morning air—your kindness surfaced first
Then memory's lash: that wounded soul I'd cursed
Now drowning in this senseless sorrow's roar—
At dawn's cruel light I sealed my worthless core!

Ⅱ

Her heart was upright!

She grew up wildly,

without support; even if one tried to fathom her heart,

unreceived, amidst the disorder,

she lived—but her heart

was more upright than mine and did not waver.

She was beautiful.

In the whirlpool of a foundationless world,

she lived wisely and modestly.

For the sake of a world’s whirlpool too utterly baseless,

At times her heart weakens, and she becomes feebly restless, but

And yet，she did not lose that final dignity.
She was beautiful and wise!
How her soul had once sought a gentle heart!
But now she even resigned herself.
Selfish and self-centered，immature—only beasts and children，
She had not encountered.
Moreover，she did so without realizing it，
She simply thought that all human beings were nothing but thugs.

And she is being a bit withdrawn.
She is pitiable!

III

In this world where one must live sorrowfully, an enduring heart—
Render it unyielding.
If I desire not to dwell within my own intimacy,

Enduring heart, make it obstinate.

When made obstinate, the heart gains an eye

To sever within the soul all lingering traces of language's workings.

When people were to be gentle—all are born bearing—

May I too grasp the principle of those sweet dreams.

Having completely forgotten and cast off my own heart and soul,

In the deranged haze of hangover, I hunt beauty.

Ah this wretched shape of my world!

Thoughts surging unbidden through my own heart go unheeded,

Only this heart racing to outstrip others grows frantic -

What sorrow matches fever-stricken landscapes?

IIII

I am thinking of you.

Dear one—within this serene clarity—

Day and night I am steeped,
As though I were some condemned sinner.
I love you with all my being.
Countless thoughts arise—they do arise—yet
Since these lie beyond my sway,
I resolve to cast myself away and yield wholly to you.
Moreover, beyond this surrender, I can no longer

Since I could find neither hope nor purpose,
doing so was happiness for me.
It was happiness—forgetting all the world’s troubles,
Without knowing anything at all, I
Because I could devote myself to you, it was happiness!

V Happiness

Happiness is in the stable.

On the straw.

Happiness

A calmed heart understands all at once.

A stubborn heart, unfortunate and irritated,
if only something—anything hectic—
distracts itself with numerous things.

And grows increasingly unhappy.

Happiness is resting,
and what should clearly be done
holds little by little.

Happiness is rich in understanding.

A stubborn heart lacks understanding,
not knowing what should be done, it merely runs after gain,
dispirited and quick to anger,
disliked by others, they themselves are sorrowful.

Therefore, oh people, always resolve first to submit.

Therefore, it does not mean they will be welcomed;
Let submission alone be their study—and through study,
That you may elevate your dignity and make your works abundant!

Deepening night

To Utsumi Seiichirō

Night after night—when night deepened—the nearby bathhouse’s
sound of drawing water could be heard.

The drained bathwater rose as steam,
It was an age-old, pitch-black Musashino night.

Serenely, the mist too rose and enshrouded,

Above it, the moon brightens,

And then, a dog’s distant howl sounded.

It was around that time—I before the hearth,
That I saw such fragile dreams—
Quite... though it had now been impaired,
Even then, a tender heart remained,
On such evenings when it began to murmur softly,
I listened intently, filled with gratitude,
I listened intently, filled with gratitude.

Song of the Sinner

To Abe Rokurō

My life—by clumsy gardeners

Alas, pruned too early by their hands!

From the start, the greater part of my blood—

Surges to my head, seethes, roils and foams.

Restless, impatient,

It constantly seeks the external world.

That conduct is foolish,

That thought is inextricable.

And so this pitiful tree,

Coarse hard bark exposed to sky and wind,

The heart ceaselessly sinking into thoughts of regretful longing,

Indolent and cowardly, with fragmented gestures,

Hostile toward others yet faint-hearted, inclined to flattery—and thus,

Against my will, I commit every conceivable foolish act.

Autumn

Autumn

1

The field that was burning until yesterday

Today，dazed，it continued under a clouded sky.
Autumn arrives with every rainfall，people said.
Autumn cicadas were already singing yonder，

In the grass, within a single tree.

I smoke a cigarette.
The smoke

writhing through stagnant air as it rises.

The horizon cannot be gazed upon, try as I might.

Because phantoms of heat haze rise and crouch,

――I end up crouching down.

The sky hangs overcast with dull gold―unchanging as ever―

so impossibly high that I look downward.

I live by conceptualizing weariness―

the cigarette's taste taking on three distinct flavors.

Death might no longer be far away…

2

“Well then,” he said in farewell,

With a smile holding something like brass's dull luster, that fellow
had left through that doorway, you know.
That smile somehow didn't seem like a living thing's at all, you know.
His eyes had a color like when marshwater clears up or such, you know.
While talking, he seemed to be thinking other thoughts entirely, you know.
He had this habit of speaking in short clipped phrases, you know.

“He’d remember trivial things in such minute detail, you know.”

“Yes, that’s right—he did understand about dying, didn’t he? When looking at stars, he’d laugh about how ‘the stars become me,’ O Tatta Sendatsu.”

………………………………………

“O Tatta Sendatsu, he keeps insisting ‘these geta aren’t mine at all!’”

3

“The grass didn’t sway at all,”
“butterflies were flying over it.”

“Butterflies were flying over it,”
“Wearing a yukata, he was standing on the engawa watching them.”
“I was watching what that person was doing from over here, you know.”
“He kept staring intently at the yellow butterfly.”
“The tofu vendor’s flute could be heard here and there,”
“That telegraph pole stood out sharply against the evening sky,”
“—‘I,’ he said, then turned toward me,”
“‘Yesterday he heaved up a rock weighing thirty kan,’ he told me.”

“Goodness—how? Where?”
“I asked.”
“Then he stared straight into my eyes, you know.”

“He seemed angry, you know... I was scared.”

‘Before I die’... how strange...

Elegy for Asura Street

To Sekiguchi Takakatsu

Prelude

O detestable memories,
Begone!
And of old
O compassion’s sentiment and
O rich heart,
Come back!

Today is Sunday

Sunlight fell on the engawa.

-- Once again being taken by my mother

On festival days I wanted someone to buy me a balloon,
The sky was blue, all things blazed with dazzling brilliance—
O detestable memories,
Begone!
Begone! Begone!

Ⅱ Drunken Life

My youth has passed,

――O rooster crow of this cold dawn!

My youth has passed.

I’ve lived without a glance before or after…

Was I too cheerful?

――O innocent warrior, my heart!
Even so, I hate,
those who live solely by external consciousness.
――O paradoxical life!
Now here and now utterly wounded,
――O rooster crow of this cold dawn!
O frost-penetrated rooster's crow...

Ⅲ Soliloquy

Just as water in the vessel does not ripple,

To bear the vessel becomes essential.

If such be truly so

Then greater movement proves better.

Yet to achieve this,

If there is no longer any room to devise contrivances…

O heart,
remain humble and await divine grace.

IIII

This day so wan and faint,

Rain falls in desolate showers,

With air lighter than water

The scent of the woods wafts forth.

Truly, this day of deep autumn—

Like the resonance of stone it is.

Though not even a memory remains

How much less could there be dreams?

Truly, I am like a stone

Like a shadow have I lived…

I try to call but have no words

Endless as the sky.

Oh, that sorrowful heart of mine!

Clenching a fist without cause

Who is there to blame?

The pangs of sorrow know no bounds.

Snowy Evening

The snow falling on blue velvet—

Is it that vanished hand, or a whisper? Hakushū

The snow falling on the hotel roof

Is it that vanished hand, or a whisper?

The chimney puffed out plumes of smoke,

Red sparks scattered upward.

Tonight's sky hung pitch-dark,

The snow fell from the dark sky...

That woman I had truly parted from—

What might she be doing now, I wondered.

That woman I truly parted from,

whether she would ever return now,

Slowly I drank sake,

With regret upon regret, my body grew restless.

Quietly, quietly I drank sake,

I was stirred by cherished thoughts……

The snow falling on the hotel's roof

Was it that vanished hand, or a whisper?

The chimney billowed out smoke,

Red sparks scattered upward.

Song of Coming of Age

Ⅰ

Childhood

The snow falling upon me

was like silk floss.

Boyhood

The snow falling upon me
was like sleet.

17–19

The snow falling upon me
scattered like hail.

20–22

The snow falling upon me
was thought to be hail.

The snow falling upon me was thought to be hail.

23

The snow falling upon me

appeared to be a raging blizzard.

24

The snow falling upon me

became tenderly hushed……

Ⅱ

The snow falling upon me

came falling like flower petals.

The sound of firewood burning could be heard

at the hour when the freezing sky darkened.

The snow falling upon me
was so tenderly nostalgic,
reaching out its hand as it fell.

The snow falling upon me
fell upon my fevered brow,
was like tears.
To the snow falling upon me

Deeply and sincerely grateful, I prayed to God

I prayed to live long.

The snow falling upon me

was most chaste.

Now is the time when……

Now is the time when flowers are burned as incense in censers

Baudelaire

Now is the time when flowers are burned as incense in censers,

There is an ineffable air.

Brine-drenched flowers, the sound of water,

and people hurrying homeward.

Ah, Yasuko, now is the time—

Let us be quietly together.
In the distant sky, flying birds too—
tender compassion brims full.

Ah, Yasuko, now is the time—
The darkening hedge and ultramarine
At the hour when the sky drifts calmly.

Ah, Yasuko, now is the time—
the time when your hair grows soft
Flowers are burned as incense in censers,

Song of Goats

Song of Goats

To Yasuhara Yoshihiro

I Prayer

At the time of death, may I lie face up!

May this small jaw not become even smaller!

That! For the sake of things I could not feel,

Being punished, I believe death approaches.

Ah, may I lie face up at that time!

At least at that time, may I too be one who feels all things!

II

Speculations! Thou ancient dark vapor,

Depart from within me!
I am now simplicity and quiet murmurs,
Be that as it may, I desire naught but purity.
Social intercourse! Thou gloomy allowance of corruption,

Do not rouse me anew!
I shall now endure solitude,

My arm already resembles a useless existence.

Thou eye that opens wide with doubt,
Thou eye that remains wide-open and unmoving for a time,

Ah, O heart that trusts too much in what lies beyond oneself,
That! O speculation, thou ancient dark air,

Depart from within me! Depart!
I now take no interest save in my meager dreams.

Ⅲ

My life was like a dreadful storm,

Even though sunlight too fell here and there at times.

Baudelaire

There was a nine-year-old child.
It was a girl child.
As if the world’s air were her very being,
And as if it were something to lean upon,
She tilted her head
While talking with me.
I was warming myself at the kotatsu.
She was sitting on the tatami.
A winter’s day, a morning of uncommonly fine weather.
In my room, sunlight filled every corner.
When she tilted her head,
Her earlobes were translucent in the sunlight.

Trusting me completely and feeling utterly at ease,

Her heart took on the hue of a mandarin orange—

That gentleness neither overflowed

Nor shrank back like a deer.

I forgot all obligations,

And in that moment alone, I leisurely savored time.

IIII

Nevertheless, utterly forlorn is my heart
Night after night—alone in my rented room—
Thinking unbidden thoughts—monotonous
O duet of this humble heart…
When the train whistle sounds
I recall journeys, I recall days of youth.
Swaying, swaying—I think neither of childhood days nor journeys—
Journeys that appear, things that seem like childhood days alone…
Unbidden thoughts—thinking thoughts—my heart
Shut tight—indeed resembling a handbox where fumes arise—
Parched lips, dried cheeks
Harshness—steeped in this very solitude…

Lo, this—merely through habituation do I endure,

Loneliness alone is poignant—for oneself,

Or perhaps unknowingly, in some manner, by chance—

The flowing tears are no longer those born of human longing……

Withering

Pour tout homme, il vient une époque

où l'homme languit. ―Proverbe.

Il faut d'abord avoir soif……

――Cathérine de Médicis.

I no longer awoke with goodwill

When I woke—sorrowful—ordinary thoughts

I dreamed with ill will…

(I did not settle there—but neither could I escape.) And then I would think night had come: this world was like the sea. I thought of an evening sea grown slightly rough.

There, the haggard-faced boatman,
with unsteady hands while rowing,
whether there was prey or not—
glared at the water's surface as he passed by.

He passed by, glaring at the water's surface.

Ⅱ

Long ago, I used to think—
Love poetry was such a foolish thing.
Now I compose love poems
And find them worthwhile.
Yet even now I catch myself—
Wanting to enter poetic realms beyond love poems.
I don't know if this impulse errs,
But such yearning lingers still,
Irritating me at times,
Rousing preposterous hopes.
Long ago, I used to think—
Love poetry and such were foolish things—
But now I can only dream of love.

I can do nothing but dream.

Ⅲ
Whether this constitutes my decadence or not
How could I possibly know?
The laziness that sags in my arms
Today again, the sun shines; the sky is blue.

Perhaps from long ago,
The only thing I could ever handle was this laziness.
Even earnest hopes emerged from within that laziness.
They might have been nothing more than longing.
Ah, but even so, even so—

I never thought I’d become a man who does nothing but dream!

IIII

However, the good and evil of this world—
They are not easily understood by humans.
Countless reasons beyond human understanding
Govern both that and this.
Like a mountain-shaded clear stream enduring patiently:
If one remains silent, there is only pleasure.

The mountains and grass visible from the train
The sky, the river—all of them—
Would eventually dissolve into grand harmony

I think they will rise into the sky and become a rainbow……

Ⅴ

Now what should I do to benefit myself, and so on—

How can I avoid being mocked, and so on—

In short, to make people conform to others' intentions—
Spending days, oh people of the world,
I acknowledged the reasonableness in your hearts too,
Though I strained to follow the village customs—
Today I return once more to myself.

Like stretched rubber let go
And from within this window of laziness—
Spread my index finger into a fan shape
Inhaled the blue sky; swallowed idleness
Like a frog floating in water
Night being night, I gazed at the stars
Ah, depths of the sky, depths of the sky.

Ⅵ

However, once again this state of mine continues.
Even I feel compelled to do something akin to what people do,
I feel my own existence stifling,
I find myself astonished even by department store deliverymen.
And yet logic remains ever clear—
In the depths of my feelings, cluttered beyond measure, small debris of doubt fills every crevice.
Even if that is absurd, the two of them—
They exist within me, and it is certain they will not leave me.

And yet I find myself drawn to the music reaching me,
Though I do feel somewhat invigorated,
At that moment the two die within me,

Ah, sky's song, sea's song,
I think I know beauty's core—
Still it's painful—no means to escape this laziness!

The Voice of Life

All deeds under the sun are pale, ah.

—Solomon

I have grown weary of Bach and Mozart too.

I’ve grown utterly weary even of that happy, jaunty jazz.

I live like a steel bridge beneath a sky clouded after rain.

What presses upon me is always desolation.

Yet I am not wholly stilled within that desolation.

I seek something—ceaselessly seek something.

Within a dreadfully immovable form, yet also dreadfully withered.

Already for this purpose, even appetite and sexual desire are as though they exist yet do not.

But what it is I do not know—never have I known it.

I cannot believe there are two of it; I do believe there is only one.

However, what it is I don't understand—never have I understood it.

Even the all-or-nothing path to reach it—I have never fully understood any of it.

At times, as if mocking myself, I ask myself:

Is it a woman?
Is it something sweet?
Is that glory?

Then my heart cries out: Not that! Not this! Not that, not this!

Then is it the sky's song—a song of the sky resounding in morning's heights—that I should call it?

Ⅱ
No—it cannot even be named as this or that!
Concisely—though at times I feel compelled to explain—

Explanation may well be impossible, but I believe my life is worth living.

That, reality!
Unstained bliss!
What is revealed is good precisely as it reveals itself!

All people, whether they know it or not, are hoping for that thing,
Even if one’s consciousness of victory and defeat isn’t worth knowing,

That is something everyone knows, resembling the euphoria of absent-mindedness, everyone desires—

That which everyone, as long as they exist in this world, cannot fully attain!
However, the thing called happiness is a state of selflessness as such—
If that which lies at the foundation of the wise merchant—what one might even call foolishness—then,
The world of this present life where one cannot go on living without eating,
I must declare how unfair it is.
But that is what this world is—
There we live, and that is no arbitrary unfairness—

If that is the principle by which we ourselves are constituted,
then even if there are no extremes in this world, we may as well rest assured for now.

Ⅲ

Therefore, the crux is a matter of passion.

If thou feelest anger from thy heart's depths
Rage, thou!

Come now, to feel anger—that very act—

Even if before thy final goal,
By no means neglect this word:
That passion endures but for a time and will soon extinguish—
Its social effects persist,
For they become impediments to the modulation of thy next act.

IIII

In the evening, beneath the sky, if one feels oneself as a single point, there is no complaint in all things.