Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the Beginning of the Poetry Collection

This poetry collection contains sixty poems.
With the exception of sixteen pieces, the rest are all new editions appearing for the first time in a standalone book, not found in previously published poetry collections.

This poetry collection was divided into two parts: "First Part" and "Latter Part."
The First Part collected poems excluded from selection for the second poetry collection Blue Cat, while the Latter Part was to be regarded as supplements to the first poetry collection Howling at the Moon.
That is to say, the First Part belonged to relatively new works while the Latter Part comprised the oldest pieces.

In short, this poetry collection stood as my supplementary anthology.
However, that fact did not mean its content lacked conscience or proved inferior.
The reason works had been "excluded from selection" in published collections stemmed rather from other separate causes—such as disharmony with other poetic styles, duplication arising from similarities in conception, or particularly having lost manuscripts during their compilation—.
Indeed, works such as the four pieces at the beginning of this volume—"Dreaming of Butterflies," "Bed with Arms," "Gray Road," and "Her Nape is a Fish"—were compositions that should have naturally entered Blue Cat but had been mistakenly omitted.
"(If there exist faithful readers who would cut out these several pieces and paste them into part of Blue Cat, that would be my greatest fortune.) That said, it could not be denied that mixed within were what might be called unresolved drafts—works about which I myself felt some measure of doubt."
Rather, I wished to leave such works to the general readers' appreciative evaluation.

I titled this poetry collection "Dreaming of Butterflies."
I took it from the poem of the same title found at the beginning of this volume.

1923 by The Author

Dreaming of Butterflies Poetry Collection: First Part

The poems collected in this chapter are works from after Howling at the Moon up to recent times and constitute the portion excluded from selection for Blue Cat.
However, eight pieces within are reprinted from Blue Cat.

Dreaming of Butterflies

Inside the tatami room，it spreads large thick wings.
The butterfly’s small，ugly face and its long tentacles.
Spreads like paper—the weight of thick wings.

I am awake in my white bed.

Quietly I try to trace the memory of the dream.

The dream is a poignantly desolate tale of an autumn evening.

A sinking sunset by the water's edge and

A sad story concerning an old vacant house naturally rotting away.

While dreaming, I was crying like a young child.

The helpless soul of a young child

In the clump of grass growing in the vacant house’s garden, it was crying like a damp toad.

The most heartrending emotion of a young child

It seemed to yearn for the pale glimmer at the distant water’s edge.

For a long, long time, it seems I was dreaming and crying.

In the new tatami room, the butterfly spreads its wings.

White, thick, paper-like wings are trembling.

Bed with Arms

A bed decorated with beautiful velvet

A plump, warm bed

Ah, longing—yearning—how many times have I even dreamed of this bed.

The one and only bed I sought

When I lie on this bed, it is plump and warm.

This bed embraces me with two velvet arms.

There, joyful words of love dwell.

Upon that large chest bearing all life's joys

I cast my utterly exhausted body

Ah, what must the joy be of lying down on this bed for the first time.

That joy is a secret joy unknown to anyone.
It is the joy of life expanding with vigorous, powerful force.
Behold: a soul sobbed upon it.
A soul came to press its hands in prayer upon it.
Ah where does such a grand bed of compassion exist
Through it, those who suffer are comforted, those who seek are granted.
All their hearts sleep as peacefully as a child.
Ah, this single bed—the one bed longed for, sought after, and dreamt of.

Ah, where does this phantom bed exist?

He flies into the blue sky.

He hungers for emotion.
He is like a boat setting sail into the wind.
Do not chase him.
Do not approach him with coquetry.

Make him run to where distant white waves crash.
Ah, where he returns to lies health.
There exists a pure white, large bed of happiness.

When he lives apart from me,
What troubles could he possibly have!
I will remain here as myself.
Like a poor girl, I will go out to the coast and gather shells.
I will gaze at the gnarled trunks of pine trees.
And then, sitting on the gray sand dunes,
I shed tears for my small happiness.

Ah, let him return far, far away over the distant white waves.

He has his own happiness.

Ah, thus does a single bird fly away into the blue sky.

I sense the winter sea’s light.

A day when winter sea-light shimmers afar.
The desolate roar of great waves brings tearful hearts.
Who steers today through Naruto's roaring straits?
Waves tilt upon blackened helmsmen arms.
Alone gazing at frozen spray,
gazing at pines on sandy shores,
even vermin crawling toward sunlight—
their crude yearnings—
A lonely day climbs sandhill shadows seeking pathos.

A day when I sense the winter sea's light afar.
Ah, this ceaseless day of my sorrow.
Listen to the resounding roar of that great wave.
Turn toward the flow of that great wave
Ring the pure silver bell of cherished loneliness.
My aching flesh and heart.

Turmoil

Flapping heavy, large wings

Ah, how feeble-hearted I am!

On a moonlit night bright as gaslight

Behold the pale-flowing swarm of creatures.

Behold the tranquil quarter.
Behold the one earnest emotion this creature possesses.
On a moonlit night bright as gaslight,
Ah, what a sorrowful, poignantly endearing disturbance of butterflies!

I walked seeking within the crowd.

I always seek the metropolis.

I seek to be amidst the bustling crowd of the metropolis.

The crowd is like a single wave imbued with great emotion.

A collective of vigorous will flowing anywhere and carnal desire.

Ah, melancholy spring twilight time.

I seek the shadows between buildings crowded together in the metropolis.

How joyful it is to be jostled and move through the large crowd.

Behold the sight of this crowd flowing away.

One wave overlaps upon another wave.

Waves created countless shadows of light; the shadows swayed as they spread and advanced.

The sorrows and griefs each person held all vanished into those shadows of light without a trace.

Ah, with what a tranquil heart do I walk this very path.

Ah, this great love and the carefree joy of sunlit shadows.

The feeling of being led beyond the joyous waves seemed to verge on tears.

The melancholy twilight of a spring day.

This crowd of people swims through building eaves.

Where and how do they try to flow away?

A single great earthly shadow enveloping my sorrowful melancholy.

The drifting flow of mindless waves.

Ah endlessly, endlessly—I want to be churned within this crowd's waves.

Moonlight into the Interior

Shadows where melancholy thrives

In the interior of this dark house

Stealthily sneaks in

Stealthily gropes along the wall

Who is it that touches the organ’s keyboard by hand?

There，religion could be heard.
Quiet emotions seemed to overflow within the room.
Extinguish the lamp.
Extinguish the lamp.
The interior of the dark gloomy room
Let us fill it with the flow of quiet meditation.

Take the book and place it on the shelf.

Let us be buoyed on the overflowing torrent of sentiment.

Extinguish the lamp.
Extinguish the lamp.
Now hung heavy melancholy,
the shadow of black velvet curtain
wandered lonely and soundless.
What is this faint illusion?
The rustle of silk was soft.
Who steals here tonight?
Ah—moonlight piercing inward,
flowing through stairways,
Overpass

Let's cross the overpass
Like a black swirling sewer
Treading the tangled overpass of tracks,
Let us go out to the distant village at sunset.
Yonder, high—
Like a bird soaring through the celestial path
Let us leap over a single viaduct.
Gray Road

The Path Walked at Dusk

Alone, I walked with my head hung low

A road lying under a sky too desolate and gray

Alas, the poor maiden in recent dreams

With a heart that loved the maiden's form, I walked.

That maiden, wrapped in a pale yellow long shawl,

Her shoulders appeared slender and worn, pitiful to behold.

Ah, beneath this desolate gray sky

Our hearts spoke meagerly, drenched in the dew of grass flowers, heavily drew near.

Beloved,

Do you hear the thunder rumbling in that far-off sky?

Do you deign to lend your ear to the sound of waves surging in yonder sky?

Beloved,

Standing on this dim winter day's roadside,

In my hand lingers the sickly scent of chrysanthemums.

There is a scent of desolate, sickly melancholy.

O my unbearably miserable past!

O long, long shadow of solitude,

Now beyond this tree-lined avenue of a winter day,

I gazed at the distant graveyard in broad daylight.

Scenting the faint remnants of last night’s dream,

I gazed at the desolate mountain ridge at dawn.

Beloved, beloved.

Beloved,

O poor wordless maiden within dreams,

Always pressed tightly together as two,
While sensing your strange musk scent,
Shall we go seek graves deep in mist-filled valleys?
That hand is confection.
How utterly endearing—what of its plump fullness?

How about its plumpness, round like a confection?

As for the fingers—how truly slender and well-proportioned they are.

Exactly like tiny blue fish.

The sight of their gentle, rustling movement proves unbearable.

Ah, I want to kiss that hand.

I want to press it whole against my mouth and devour it.

What a clean roundness graces these fingertips!

What of the charm of this strange flower blooming in the valley between fingers?

Its scent resembles musk, appearing as a faintly dewy peach blossom.

Fingers of a woman so exquisitely polished to beauty
Sleek pure white slender fingers.

Fingers striking piano keys
Fingers stitching silk with needle
While leaning against love-seeking shoulders
Especially upon sensitive skin
Lightly grazing with fingertips
Lightly clawing with nails
The fingers' motion pressing lightly yet firmly
Love's joy trembling and shuddering
Violently cunning tickling fingers
The prim yet wicked index finger
The cowardly-cheerful little finger's mischief
The thumb's plump beauty and its savage brutality

Ah, to press that single sleekly polished finger against my lips

I want to hold it fully in my mouth and suck. Want to suck forever and ever.

The back of that hand with its rounded swell.

The fingers of that hand are cold rock sugar's appetite.

Ah, this appetite.

An appetite ignorant and stubbornly mean-spirited like a child's.

That nape is a fish.

Like a fish swimming up from a deep valley,

The long nape is always damp and bluish-pale.

Smoothly polished like a marble column,

Straight and pure white,

And yet a bashful nape.

The indecent curve of this limp, bashful nape.

A splendid architecture always plastered with white makeup.

The clammy stickiness of white makeup clinging to skin—a fish-like sensation.

And how about the sight of it swimming within that fish-like collar?

Ah, this alluring straight line's mysterious temptation.

I cannot endure this slimy piscine music.

Ah, to make my body one with seaweed

I want to cling fast to the pillar of this bizarre architecture.

Quickly, quickly, I must surrender myself to this inscrutable dream's Nymph.

Spring’s Sprouting

I bid farewell to my corroded body.

And from the newly formed torso,

new limb buds had grown.

They were truly minuscule,

sprout-children so small their very existence seemed uncertain.

They had become such radiant spring days,
peeping throughout my body—
these adorable limb sprouts—
"Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye," they kept saying.

Oh my beloved sprouts,

O bursting cells,

Now I bid farewell to all things of the past

I became quite cheerful,

On the sun-glittering lawn,
Upon raw-new human skin,
It was time for each to dance spring’s distant horizon.

Black bat

My melancholy flapped its wings while

Fluttering，it flew about the room．

Ah，what a hallucination this is．

An aimless，lazy day shed lonely tears．

The ship of memories left port.
The tender lover's curls crisply dried away.
In the meadow, insects' antennae trembled.
The seasons passed by like ghosts, faintly white.

Ah, I see nothing.

At least, O daughters of unrequited love

From the mist-hazed graveyard sky, sing me the evening breeze's tender song.

Carnation and Blue Cat

In the shadow of green carnation flowers slept a phantom corpse.

The black hair flowed across the floor.

Limbs lay thrown out powerlessly,
supine upon the bed.

In this secret room's curtained shadows,

stealthily approached—
a single pallid strange passion
tormented by steaming musk,

knowing pain's limit,
shame's depth,
allurement's extremity.

Ah, now near the spring night’s lamplight shadow—
he delightedly sniffed and toyed with the corpse-wax body,
anointed gentle lips with oil—toyed with smooth white limbs.

That is a lonely Blue Cat.

You who tremble before nightmares, do not reproach this melancholy dalliance.

Seabird

In the distant sky of a late night,
The lamplight seeped pale white.
Growing sorrowful, I wandered around houses' drying areas,
Or wandered along coasts,
And listened through darkness to night waves' calling echoes.

Soaked in the softly falling rain,
the desolate heart opened its mouth.

Ah, where has that seabird gone?

It flew through fate's dark moonlit night.
It pecked at rotten meat soiled by night waves and cried.
Ah, it flew far away never to return.

View

As a memento of the journey, to Muroo Saisei

It was a vast plateau.

“Friend, let us stand upon this height and gaze out.”

The act of contemplating our lives—

We had long since learned the sorrows of transformation.

Here there was refreshing nature.

The wind flowed through the entire panorama.

When one opened their eyes,

the eyes seemed to grow damp, steeped in the luxurious emotions of reminiscence.

“Friend, come here.”

Here, plateau plants grew and
In the sunlight, the thought of comfort was warmed.

Ah, you...

It had been so long since I felt such passionate joy.

Toad.

In the rain-drenched scene,

a toad swelled faintly.

In the midst of a strangely vast dream
Your thought smoldered white.
In the rain-drenched scene
A soul faintly drew breath
In a strangely liminal universe
One moment was obliterated,
One space expanded.
Livestock
A resplendent moon had risen into the sky.
Truly bright was the earth.
O small white sheep,
Enter beneath the house's roof—
Quietly, tearfully treading with animal steps.

Dream

Sitting in the bright folding screen's shadow,
I listened to your quiet breathing.
Like sorrowful smoke from an incense burner,

I wandered through indistinct shadows.
I sensed a woman’s tender fragrance.
Beside long-haired you,

I listened to sleep's natural words.

You fall into deep sleep.
I contemplate your dream.

This mysterious sentiment

Where does this shadowless, profound emotion go?

Like the faintly white sorrow of dusk

You gazed at a faintly distant lake

Following along the far and lonely foothill,

At the pass of the unseen distant-view mountain,

You wander alone on the path. Wander on the path.

Ah—for what do you yearn and seek—

Where do you intend to go?

Where, where do you intend to go?

Your sentimentality is steeped in nightmares.

Like decayed white chrysanthemum flowers,

they faintly waft a mysterious fragrance.

Song of the Parasitic Crab

The brine flowed coldly.

The shell's teeth decayed with pain and dissolved like vinegar.

Ah, here there were no longer any friends or love.

I looked at specter-like grass soaked by the shore.

The roots of that grass grew faintly white within the mist,

It was like the lukewarm sigh of a lover on a spring night.

From the dimly visible direction of the open sea,
the sailors sang strange voyage songs, the sound of oars growing louder in rhythm.

Strangely, here at this shore’s edge they gathered,
They seethed and swelled into towering mounds, then crawled about like shadows.
It was a cloud-like mental image—the lonely ghost of a parasitic crab.

Field Mice

Where could our happiness be?

The more we dig into the muddy sand,

Doesn't sadness only well up ever deeper?

Spring swayed faintly beneath the heavy curtain’s shadow.

Far away, jostled by the rickshaw’s motion, they vanished into the distance.

Where could our lovers be?
Even if I stand in the desolate field and try whistling,
The maidens of fantasy will never come again.

I wear tear-stained melton work pants

I walked like a day laborer.

Ah, hope was gone, honor was gone, future was gone.

And nothing but irreversible regrets—

I ran off like a field mouse.

Refined Appetite

Walking through the pine grove,
I saw a coffee shop with a bright mood.

In a place far removed from the city,

where not even a single soul came visiting,

there stood a coffee shop hidden amidst the pines—a reminiscence within a dream.

The maiden harbored lingering shame

in an arrangement that brought specially made plates as refreshing as dawn.

I leisurely took the wrapping cloth and ate things like omelettes and fried dishes. White clouds drifted across the sky—it was an appetite of utmost refinement.

In the carriage

In the carriage

I fell soundly asleep.

O beautiful lady

Do not shake me awake.

I ran through bright street-lit avenues.

I passed through the cool green shade of the countryside.

Before I knew it, the scent of the sea swayed gently near ahead.

Ah, the hoofbeats clattered on.

I pursue reality through reality itself.

O beautiful lady
The carriage at the inn’s flower-laden eaves,
Do not shake me awake.

Country Scene

At the tip of the bow-bent pole,

A small fish was flapping and splashing.

The old man was puffed up with pride and ecstatic, but

Unfortunately, the world had fallen completely silent.

In the distant pasture,
The cow gazed aloofly.

Flight from Despair

We are fugitives of despair.

We are prison-breakers.

Breaking through that gloomy fence,

When we all at once charged into the street,
the area was drenched in the blood of rebellion.

The guard was trembling like a leaf.

Ever since then,

We have come fleeing.

In that distant aurora region, under the frost-bitten sky,

Everyone crawled about like squirrels.
Always in the places we went—

There was weather of sullen gloom - a leaden-clouded sky that made one want to howl.

By the path of flight,

We saw manifold nature.

Wilderness, seas, lakes, mountain ranges, cities, hamlets, factories, military barracks, hospitals, copper mines—

We have been fleeing—

We saw bleak nature everywhere.
Everywhere we encountered detestable sights.
We flee.
We're just desperate prison-breakers after all.

The rules will bind us.
We are honest outlaws.
We don’t even believe in gods—what could we possibly believe in?
Conscience too—exactly so.

We are fugitives of despair.

We flee.

We flee

From that desolate region,
From the city,
From the factory

From life—
We flee even from fate.
That's right!
It's flight from fate.

The day was already drawing to a close.
The cordon was set up.
We are powerless rebels,
knowing only the blasphemy of misanthropy，squalid feebleness，and nihilism.
Ah，there is nowhere to flee.

We are fugitives of despair.

Our boss
With a resolute and keen-witted gaze
He, naturally fearless, gave the signal.
“Hey, you underlings!”
There the underlings dashed off and kept watch in all directions
They realized each of their assigned tasks
They stormed into the trading house in broad daylight
They abducted women passing through the street

Their enterprise was like a miracle.

It even appeared to conform to decorum.

Because it was a quiet, lightning-like, annihilating crime—a veritable dream of violence.

In the city, automobiles ran nonchalantly.

No peace could be found anywhere.

Naturally fearless and bold, they—

From a flawless plan

From bravery, from vitality, from irrepressible desire—

Were like birds cutting freely through the sky.

Look! Look! The gang's assault.

Illuminated by will and reason,

The yakuza’s secrets were stripped away.

Idols were smashed everywhere.

With resolute, keen-witted eyes,

Our boss gave the signal.

We were cowardly and shabby scoundrels without purpose in life—yet

When we believe in our boss,

Our life pulses with intensity.

Even those utterly despised by their comrades—

Plunging in with a single thrust, tearing through—

Are thrust straight into the roped-off battleground of sworn enemies—the heart of the fray.

Our boss is a man of freedom,

A hawk soaring through blue skies.

Naturally bold and fearless,

He planned, executed, prophesied, thought, and created.

He created life.

“Boss!”

Nirvana
Under the bodhi tree in full bloom
In the deep-shadowed depths of the jungle
There floats in that person's contemplation—

They contemplated the most beautiful mystery of reason, of fantasy, of emotion.

Nirvana paled at fever's dawn.

Like pallid moonlight.

Melancholic, melancholic

of the all too melancholic misanthropic philosophy

The quiet moonlight drifted in the shade of trees of denial, despair, and anguish.

A silk tree flower appeared amidst clouds of sorrow.

Nirvana bloomed at tropical dawn.

Was it a huge, beautiful lotus flower?

Was it a mysterious blend of fantasy and feverish heat?

I feared the secrets of religion.

Ah, that single mysterious image—the temptation toward "beautiful death."

Nirvana stirs even within the aphrodisiac's dream.

It resembles the strange convulsions of carnal desire.

Those coquettish sentiments of salvation

Are like a flute heard on a spring night.

Under the bodhi tree in full bloom,

In the jungle's depth of shadow,

There floats within that person's contemplation—

The contemplation of reason's, fantasy's, emotion's most beautiful mystery.

Faith once existed on earth.

Deus was in the field of Hesuraheru.

He subdued the evil great tengu and small tengu.

“People cannot live on wheat cakes alone, you know.”

When the Tengu of the First Move appeared

These were the words spoken by Doro-usu Nyorai:

"With this, esteemed everyone,

the soul is what matters for people.

Wash away the sins of your soul"

“Make thorough preparations for Ascension.”

The sermons of this world shall end today.

Tomorrow we shall meet at the kurusu.

Namu Virgin Maria Holy Heaven Paoro Daishi

Santamariya Santamariya.

People of deep faith
They felt tears welling in Iruma's eyes.
They felt the shadow of strange emotions—both joy and sorrow.
The people looked up at the sky.

In the high heavens, they gazed upon the image of their true god.

Santamariya Santamariya.

A single strange image—

Makes my thoughts desolate.

Faith once existed on earth.

Under the cosmos' infinite, tranquil sky

In the distance, gazing upon the miracle of eternal life—there was a fervent crowd of people.

Ah, where has the crowd gone now?

Where have their fantasies scattered?

The desolate mental image of reminiscence is like a cloud floating in the azure sky.

Commerce.

Commerce is like a flag.

O ships coming from distant foreign lands across the sea of trade,
Or perhaps loaded with cotton and agate,

O foreign ships that wander drowsily around the islands of the South Seas and Asia.

The flag of commerce flutters across the countries of the Earth.

It is blown across every corner of the territories of freedom.

O merchants,

Your cargo was loaded at the port.

And then destiny sounded the departure whistle.

O shipper

O pilot

Do you not see the clouds swelling ominously before the terrible storm now?
Do you not see the frenzied forms of demons running wild?
Suddenly the mast was split asunder.
The whistle was sounded sharply.
And then they see the bluish-white dead fish floating up from the ship's hull.
Ah, the sun sinks away.
What song does the ominous seagull wandering sadly offshore sing?

O merchants,
Return again to the port where palm leaves flourish,
Reload your new cotton and agate,
Come wandering through Asia’s mysterious ports
On the flag of commerce fluttering high in the blue sky.

Ah, they behold that desolate ghost ship afloat.

O merchants!
You are people of adventure and freedom.

You, like white clouds, know this inexplicably strange sorrow.

Commerce is like a flag.

A Meager Prospect

Went to a meager countryside.

They piled dried horse fodder.

Weeds grew on the road.

Flies swarmed on the road.

They sensed the distressing smell of dust.

Having grown weary all day long, they sat at the ridge.

You with the tip of a flimsy Western-style umbrella

Pointed at the dead frog on the ridge.

Truly, today's thoughts were dark with distress.

That lay heavy - thirsting in the marshland - and painful.

Where can emptiness be found?
Cast away playthings on the windless country path.
Our life has vanished.

Farmers

O sea-cow-like farmers

On the roofs of country houses, grass grew, and the faintly white smoke of evening meals drifted through the sky.

Have you forgotten cultivation, O plump farmers?

Famine approached the countryside; the rough walls of winter farmhouses had frozen.

And in the dim light of the kerosene lamp, in the shadow of the altar,

The ancestral spirits trembled chillingly.

Like this pitiful beast,

Those possessed by the terror of a mysterious fate,

Their stomachs filled with vegetables; a haze settling over clouded nerves.

In winter-scoured impoverished countryside,

O dull-witted farmers—like sea cows.

Wharf smoke

Field mice hid in the fields.

The cornflowers scattered to the winds.

Song, wine, love, the moon—none belonged to this season anymore.

I, like an aged and withered crow,

Tottering, I shall set out on a journey to distant lands.
Beggars loiter.
At some distant port wharf.

I'll gaze at the smoke from burning seagrass in the sky.

Ah, with no phantom maiden,

her fate has become like a withered bouquet.

Covered in sandy ground,
she would weep in a low voice, scraping like a hermit crab.

Glittering on Pine Needles Latter Part of the Poetry Collection

The poems collected in this chapter belong to the same period as works like "Heavenly Hanging" and "Bamboo and Grief" found in the first half of *Howling at the Moon*, and in terms of my poetic style, they belong to my very earliest period.
All should be regarded as exhibiting the earlier tendencies of *Howling at the Moon*.
However, the inner eight pieces were reprinted from the same poetry collection.

*Wolf*

Behold

Comes.

From afar speeds a silver wolf,

Lightning rooted in its pelt,

Fangs whetted to piercing points,

Rushing ever nearer.

Ah! At this lupine approach

I quake with dread and sorrow,

Terrified of dusk's transformation -
Where flesh rends and turns to steel.

Hark! Senso-ji's bell tolls without cease,

While I recoil from bestial limbs.

Because fear lies perpetually concealed,
No one sees bare feet.
Thus in the capital they know not the path I have taken,
Even in this day's diminished visage,
The wolf comes starving, sharpening its fangs.

Ah, I am gripped by fear and sorrow.

Truly, here in the clamorous capital,

the dreadful metal of

I fear the footfall of the speeding wolf.

Glittering on pine needles

Flare up.

Flare up.

Something born in arumi flares up.

Flare up in a snow-falling pot.

Glittering on pine needles.

The hanged corpse flares up.

A dreadful flame flares up.

Radiant Hands

From Okutsuki's sand

Kechien's wrists glitter.

Glittering white la momie’s corpse-wax hands

Rotting fingers yet,

Glimmering softly, shining and grieving.

Ah, were I in my hometown, my life would turn ashen.

In the hands, the incense flowers of autumn grasses fade.

Bluish limbs dotted with fireflies

All day long, I was acutely aware of the pain at the gravestone.

Behold—in Okutsuki, silver gloves.

Glittering fingers are opened.
The rotten quartz
In my intense sentiment,

Kechien’s la momie’s hands glitter.

Soured Chrysanthemum

That chrysanthemum has soured.

That chrysanthemum drips with decay.

Alas, the Frost Month begins.

My platinum hands bend.

Sharpening fingers to points.

Rather than wishing to pluck the chrysanthemum

As if declaring: Do not pluck that chrysanthemum

In one glittering part of the sky

The chrysanthemum ails.

That soured chrysanthemum has decayed.

sad moonlit night

thieving dogs

They were howling at the rotten pier's moon.

When the soul strained its ears,

with gloomy voices,

Yellow girls were singing in chorus.

They were singing in chorus.
At the dark stone wall of the pier.
Always.

Why am I this?

Dog,

O pale unfortunate dog.

Melancholy dusk.

When melancholy dusk fell,

Tokyo was filled with workers.

The weary shadows of those hats

They spread out across the whole of the city,
in that district and in this district,
digging up and overturning the hard ground.

If they were to dig it up and look,
Soot-blackened silver paper of snuff tobacco.
A weight of about five monme (approx. 18.75 grams).
The scent of violets—a dried-up root stump.
They begin from the distant parts of Honjo-Fukagawa
Gradually spreading throughout the entire city.

In distressing twilight's gloom
A withered heart makes its chatter gleam.

Celestial Pilgrimage

I think
From my long history
What have I done?
What have I pursued in study?
What have I seen?
All of it is a secret.
But what pale-faced bastards they are!
Hanging from my arm—
They were entwined like snakes, those bastards.

I will never forget
From my long history
They are
They are a secret more terrifying than death.

I thought
At that moment—as if their eyes
had been clinging to my wrist—
On my torso
they'd installed peephole glasses, those bastards.
They struck me.
My strength
struck like carriage horses.
And gradually
I traversed the celestial path.

Strange as it may sound,

I was, in reality, a bachelor.

Turtle

A forest exists.

Marsh exists.
Azure heavens exist.
A weight settles in a person's hand.
Quietly sleeps the pure gold turtle.

This shining
endures desolate nature’s suffering
probes and sinks into a person’s psyche

The turtle sinks into the depths of the azure heavens.

White Night

Night frost crept near,

In the cold sky stealing footsteps,

The sensation of a faint glimmer’s wisp passing through—

Those concealing themselves,

Circled around the distant willow and emerged,
With a lapping sound emerged,

Behold! In the hand, the silver weapon gleams coldly—
Gleaming coldly in the darkness
Clearly and emphatically unadorned
It is not adorned upon the forehead of the thing itself.
Nest
The bamboo joints grow slender and extend
The bamboo roots grow slender and extend.
The bamboo's fibrous hairs extend underground.
Becomes like an awl and extends.
Like silk thread, they thin and fade away.
They vanish like smoke.

Ah, hair wildly disheveled,

In dark soil, the sinner

Indeed began building a nest of confession.

Confession

On Arumini Umu's thin paper sheet

All words were inscribed.

Beyond the snow-clouded sky, a single sinner

Gnashed teeth ceaselessly.

Now verily life was about to freeze!

Midwinter—on the shining pine branches

The figure of a penitent person exists.

Night Bar

The night bar's

On the dark green wall

There was a hole.
The sorrowful Madonna's forehead—
Behind the forehead,
There was a hole.
Tiny,
Golden beetle-like,
Secret—
It was a magic button.
An eye pressed against.

An eye peers through from there.

The distant uncanny world.

Strange though it was,

No one knew.

Even supposing

Even if one got drunk,

The pale ghostly wine cup,
It does not speak of "the unknown".
On the wall of the night bar
There is a hole.

Moonlit Night

On a bizarre moonlit night

Distorted architectural dream and

A drunken cylinder hat.

Invisible bandit
In both hands, a lethal weapon

Masked bandit.
He sprawled back across the thoroughfare,
like a leaf,
the one trembling.
He stared with all his might,
staring at something—
But pitifully,

The bastard doesn't notice what's behind,
Behind lies an unknown crime.

A billowing black plank fence.

Glimmering even at night.

The bastard clad in silver clothing.

This grotesque

And yet,

An unseen one-eyed bandit.

Harmful Animals

Things like dogs, by barking,
Things like geese, by being monstrosities,
Things like foxes, by emitting light during the night,
Things like turtles, by crystallizing,
Things like wolves, by running swiftly, even more so—
All such things are harmful to human health.

Solitary Personality

A solitary personality called my friend.
O my unseen friend, come quickly.
Let us sit on this old chair here and talk quietly together.

Let us spend quiet, happy days together, you and I, without grieving over anything.
Let us listen to the quiet sound of the distant park's fountain.
Quietly, quietly, let the two of us embrace like this.
Separated far from mother, father, and siblings,
Let us bind together the hearts of orphans unknown even to mother and father.
Amidst all conceivable human lives

Let us speak of our life together—just you and I.

Of our destitute, unsupported secret life belonging solely to us two.

Ah, do those words not scatter like autumn leaves—rustling down onto my lap?

My chest resembles that of a frail, sickly young child.

My heart blazes as if within the dampness of a trembling, anguished passion born from fear.

Ah, once I climbed up to the top of a high mountain.

While gazing up at the steep slope, I climbed yearningly like a bug.

When I stood on the mountain summit, the bug shed lonely tears.

When I looked up, at the summit covered in lush grass, a large whitish cloud was flowing.

Nature everywhere makes me suffer.
And human emotions make me gloomy.
Rather than that,I grow weary from walking through bustling city parks.
I like finding certain lonely chairs beneath shaded trees.
I like gazing at skies with my drifting mind.
Ah,the smoke flowing sorrowfully through distant urban skies!

I also liked watching the small swallows flying far beyond those city roofs.

My profoundly lonely personality

is calling out in a great voice to an unseen friend.

My servile and mysterious personality

With a shabby appearance like a crow’s,

trembled in the corner of an unpeopled, winter-withered chair.

A Person Who Loves Love

I applied rouge to lips

I kissed the trunk of a new white birch.

Even if I were a handsome man,

In my chest were no breasts like rubber balls.
From my skin did not emanate the scent of fine-grained white face powder.
I was a withered, ill-fated man.
Ah, what a pitiable man I was.
In that day's fragrant early summer field,
amidst the glittering grove,
I tried putting sky-blue gloves snugly on my hands.
Around my waist I tried putting on something like a corset.
On my collar I applied something like collar powder.
While quietly composing myself like this,

I did as girls do
I slightly tilted my neck.

I kissed the trunk of a new white birch.

I applied rose-colored rouge to my lips.

I clung to the pure white tall tree.

Attached to the Gift

Among the ranks of those soldiers,

Because there was an ill-natured one among them,
he likely missed the target's center.
The man executed by firing squad—
when he exhaled in his dream,

In the sky, lonely tears were flowing.

“This is that type of cigarette.”

Swimming

As if emerging afloat

The swimmers are vividly blue
Facing south,
Waves upon waves, the current runs.
Upon the waters encircling the cape
All swimmers form lines and advance.
The swimmers form lines and advance upon the water.

Facing south,

Though they are out in the open sea in their entirety,

They cut through the waves as if praying.

The pupiled seaside

Upon the earth, saints are made to walk in reverence.

Under the scorching sun, when the saint comes to the seaside, waves upon waves draw near.

Over the sand ground away by waves upon waves

The saints doth walk with splashing steps.

Their feet they wet white.

As they could not endure the violent anger,

Footsore, they alone were made to walk the seaside.

Behold! Upon the hill of scorching sun, burning pupils blaze.

Though there are fish in thy hands, thou dost not let them swim.

The saints shed tears copiously.

The saints trod upon the endless path of gold dust.

Shone in the sky

My days of fierce sorrow

When I sharply extracted the decayed tooth,

This decayed tooth ascended to heaven,

suddenly emerged above the plateau

Throughout the day, it shone with anger.

In Miyokumoribi’s sky it doth exist.

Aching in my eyes,

A golden ephemeral insect

It swirled radiantly in mid-air.

Green Shade Club

The metropolis's green aches in the eyes.

The Green Shade Club's outing

Silver is made to course through the streets.

The early dawn at the beginning of May

Lined up under the street trees

The line of our comrades

From the magical intoxication of Hamaki tobacco

They embrace the girls with pure napes.

the Green Shade Club's outing

The frock coats were uniformly pale blue.

Behold, the people of the metropolis—
In each hand they held up white plates.
They quietly yet swiftly came and went between far and near.
the president of the Green Shade Club

When he passed through the distant gallery.

Haruna Fuji

Illumine its summit

Illumine the tapering pines

Days when powder snow drifts upon the peak

Make flowering birds alight upon the pines

The mountains of my hometown far in the distance

On days that freeze as though darkening

Surpassing even the celestial view,

Make it shine upon the Tone River.
Make it shine as though praying.

――Local Scenery Poetry――

Rotten clam.

Half of its body was buried in the sand.

And yet it stuck out its tongue, limp and lolling.

On the head of this mollusk

Gravel and seawater flowed rasping, rasping, rasping.

Flowing.

Oh, how quietly they flowed, like a dream.

From the gaps between flowing sands,

the clam once more flickered its tongue, glowing red.

This clam was extremely emaciated.

When one looked, its writhing heart appeared to be beginning to rot.

Thus, when melancholy evenings came,

sitting on the pale coast,

flicker flicker flicker flicker, it breathed decayed breath, you see.

Prose Poems: Four Works

*Howling at the Moon*
*First Part Works*

Howling Dog

On a moonlit night, a dog prowled the cemetery.

This distant dog that barked toward the center of the Earth.

The dog perceived the vault deeply hidden in impenetrable underground depths.

Due to perceiving that the vault was filled with jade and noctilucent stones.

The howling dog was clearly white-heated in its soul, and from its heart projected something like the emission of fluorescent rays.

This pale dog fretted, trying to dig through the hard ground with its front paws.

By sensing quivering things in the distant, distant underground world.

The howling dog grieved, howled madly, and—seeking to unearth what it clearly perceived—agonized in the sorrowful moonlit cemetery.

The howling dog was a person.

You—faithful, sensitive—yet utterly lonely dog.

Until by your howling you were shot with a gun by the neighbor who had a sick child.

The howling dog was a person in the pale moonlit night.

Willow

Make arson, murder, theft, night prowling, adultery, and all manner of villainy go beneath the willow tree.
In the night, under the glowing willow tree.

In the first place, among our ancestors was one who first discovered that willows are good conductors of electricity.

There was a villain who held a deadly weapon in hand and attempted to electrocute the internal organs of humans and livestock.

The brandished weapon was placed upon that living-warm heart, a pistol that ignited and flashed with the raw night’s breath.

Behold, this black-clad villain too had reason to stand rigid beneath the white night willow tree.

Omega’s Pupil

Try dying, pray—from your fingertips glowing with corpse wax, your spirit staggers and ascends.
At that moment, you could truly see Omega’s pale pupils.
That was your true personality.

People looked like cats.

Aurora

Behind the penitent lay a beautiful aurora.