Pathway to Japanese Literature

The universe is a manifestation of will, and the essence of will is anguish.

Schopenhauer

Author's Preface

The first edition of The Blue Cat was published in the spring of 1923, approximately ten years ago now.
After that, it remained out of print, and the book had long been absent from the market.
Fundamentally, poetry collections derive their value from being made permanently out of print after the first edition; if one were to reprint and expand them, they would lose their worth as rare books cherished by collectors.
Moreover, today there are various reasons why I, the author, have dared to make this reprint into the Definitive Edition.

The first reason was that both the content and editing of the first edition of *The Blue Cat* proved deeply unsatisfactory to me, leaving much to be desired.
When proofreading for this poetry collection concluded and the book began circulating in the market, I had already been composing numerous additional poems.
All these poetic works constituted continuations of the same artistic realm manifested in *The Blue Cat*, sharing identical thematic concerns and stylistic approaches that naturally warranted their inclusion within *The Blue Cat* itself.
Indeed, without them, the collection would have lacked a cohesive conclusion and fallen short of achieving full artistic culmination.
Yet since the poetry collection had already been bound and released, I found myself compelled to gather these poems into a separate volume, planning to publish it as *The Blue Cat: Sequel Poetry Collection* (*The Second Blue Cat*).
However, with no favorable publishing opportunity arising and the poem count slightly inadequate for my original vision, I ultimately let the matter lie neglected.
These poems had nevertheless already reached readers through prior publication in magazines like *Nihon Shijin* and subsequent inclusion in Daiichi Shobō’s comprehensive poetry collection.
Moreover, to transform *The Blue Cat* into a truly complete definitive edition required supplementing it with these very works—a necessity that kept me awaiting a reprint opportunity from the first edition’s publication until this present day.

At the same time, while awaiting this reprint opportunity, I also sought to rectify the editorial inconsistencies present in the first edition.
With the exception of complete works and comprehensive poetry collections, all collections bearing a single title must vigorously concentrate the singular poetic realm indicated by that title toward one focal point, thereby constructing the collection’s unified impression—precisely akin to the structural unity of a single-volume novel.
In a single volume titled as a poetry collection, the writing of various poems differing in theme and style lacks unity as a work of art and disqualifies its aesthetic design in content.
And the first edition of *The Blue Cat* was also deficient in this regard.
For example, “Military”
Poems such as "Our Boss," which differed in their principal themes and styles—these alien elements had mixed in, destroying the harmonious beauty with the others.
At the opportunity of reprinting, this too had to undergo revision and editing.

The second reason pertained to the first edition’s book design, particularly its illustrations. As for my initial plan, I had intended to use woodblock prints similar to those employed in this book as illustrations for the first edition as well. However, as the publisher pressed for time and disliked the tedious negotiations with woodblock artisans, I ultimately had no choice but to substitute readily available picture postcards converted into copperplate engravings. In my books, illustrations are not mere decorations but form an integral part of the content, for illustrations that fail to satisfy the author’s intentions are equivalent to a poetry collection whose content fails to satisfy those intentions. This point too had to undergo revision in the reprint when the opportunity arose.

The third and final reason was that this poetry collection *The Blue Cat* held a particularly dear assurance and attachment for me among those I had published in the past.
Regardless of public opinion’s favor or disfavor, I, the author, loved *The Blue Cat* more than *Howling at the Moon*.
For in this poetry collection was sung the deepest sorrow of my soul.
In the second volume of his work *History of Meiji-Taishō Poetry*, Mr. Hinatsu Kōnosuke concluded that my *The Blue Cat* was merely an extension of *Howling at the Moon*, lacking any new transformations or developments; yet for my part, this collection and *Howling at the Moon* represented poetry arising from entirely different starting points.
My debut collection *Howling at the Moon* had purely occupied a poetic realm through an Imagist vision, its essence rooted in a certain physiological terror; whereas *The Blue Cat* differed entirely, its poetic nature departing wholly from sorrow.
In *Howling at the Moon* there were neither tears nor sorrow.
But the author who wrote *The Blue Cat* had, from the very beginning, cast his despairing, sorrowful body upon an exhausted chaise longue.

There is no poetry collection as nostalgically sorrowful for me as *The Blue Cat*.
The images and visions in these poems were magic-lantern projections upon a tear-stained retina—like condensation on a glass window during rain, a sorrowful apparition that kept reappearing no matter how often wiped away.
*The Blue Cat* is not an Imagist poetry collection; rather, along with my recently published collection *Ice Island*, it was a work that sang of pure sentiment for me.
The sole distinctive difference between these two collections lies in this: whereas the sorrow of *Ice Island* possesses teeth that bite back at will, the sorrow of this *Blue Cat* has no teeth—it is entirely the decadent sorrow of one who has thrown their body onto a weary chaise longue (a nihilistic sorrow that negates will).
Not only Mr. Hinatsu but also the established opinion of the poetry world at the time had profoundly misunderstood the author’s poetry on this point.
And this single fact still leaves me desolately sorrowful.
The reason I now publish this revised edition is that, in today’s literary world over a decade later, I wish to newly seek different readers who possess proper appreciation and understanding.

Since I was often asked about the meaning of this book's title *The Blue Cat*, I decided to provide an explanation here.
According to my intended semantic representation, the "blue" in *The Blue Cat* signified the English word *Blue*.
That is to say, I employed it as a term encompassing meanings like "hopeless," "melancholic," and "weary."
To clarify this intention, I had *The Blue Cat* printed in Roman letters on this Definitive Edition's cover.
This fundamentally means "a listless cat."
Another distinct meaning manifests through my perception of pale electrical sparks against urban skies as visions of a great blue cat—a representation of my aching urban nostalgia during my countryside poetry composition.
Furthermore, while writing this collection under Schopenhauer's profound influence, his philosophy of will-negation permeated these verses through world-weary ennui and Hinayana Buddhist notions of annihilation-bliss.

Although the first edition of *The Blue Cat* received considerable public attention, among all contemporary critiques I read at the time, only Mr. Kurahara Shinjirō's essay left me satisfied as the author—truly grasping what I considered the collection's essential spirit.
Thus in this definitive edition, I requested Mr. Kurahara Shinjirō's earlier manuscript and appended it to the volume's end.
Should this arrangement enhance readers' appreciation, nothing could bring me greater satisfaction.

Regarding the illustrations: All illustrations in this book have been taken from *World Famous Places Illustrated*, published in Meiji 17 (1884). These were not drawn by artists with artistic intent, but mechanically carved into wood engravings (Western woodblocks) by unskilled artisans working from photographs; yet strangely, a fresh poetic charm drifts ethereally through them. In other words, the people’s astonishment toward Western civilization—their childlike delight and wonder at trains, hotels, steamships, and tree-lined civilized streets—stimulated an exotic poetic sentiment, such that even in these unconsciously created artisan woodblock prints, the romantic spirit of that era was likely represented. In this respect, these woodblock prints coincidentally share a spiritual kinship with Chirico’s paintings—those works imbued with a child’s astonishment and distant backgrounds. However, they are far more antiquated, faded romantic landscapes.

Behold.
Throughout all the woodblock prints, the sky stretches clear in blue transparency, and serene white clouds float.
It is the blue sky seen over the roof of the Panorama-kan, quietly, desolately evoking infinite nostalgia like the tones of a music box.
And in the streets with sidewalks, dream-like buildings sleep quietly and soundlessly, while a leisurely crowd wanders like fallen leaves in autumn alleys.
People, carriages, flags, steamships—none in this landscape possess “time.”
It is infinitely and serenely stationary, like a large clock with stopped hands.
And all the landscapes, like scenes captured on a camera’s ground glass, project as magic lanterns in the fourth dimension of spacetime while singing the desolate song played by a self-playing instrument.
It is precisely this desolate song that constitutes the single nostalgia with which all landscapes are imbued—that very “nostalgia drifting through the city sky.”

Autumn 1934

Author

Definitive Edition: The Blue Cat (Complete)

Dreaming of a Butterfly

Inside the tatami room，large thick wings spread out。

The butterfly’s small black face and its long tentacles

the weight of thick wings spread like paper

I am awake within a white bed。

Quietly，I try to trace the memory of the dream。

The dream was a pathetically lonely autumn evening's tale.

By the water's edge, a sunset was sinking,

A sad story concerning an old vacant house that was naturally decaying.

While dreaming, I cried like a young child.

The helpless soul of a young child

In the clump of grass growing in the vacant house's garden wept like a damp toad.

The most heartrending emotion of a young child

Seemed to long for the faint light at the distant water's edge.

For a long, long time, it was as if I had been dreaming and weeping.

In the new tatami room, a butterfly spread its wings.

White, thick, paper-like wings trembled.

Black bat.

My melancholy fluttered its wings while

fluttering about the room.

Ah, what a hallucination this was!

An aimless, indolent day shed desolate tears.

The ship of memories had already left the port.

The gentle lover’s curly hair had dried bone-dry.

In the grassy field, the insect's antennae trembled

as the seasons passed by like ghosts, faintly pale.

Ah, I see nothing.

At least, oh girls of unrequited love
From the hazy cemetery sky, sing the gentle song of the evening breeze.

Carnation and Blue Cat

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

That black hair flowed across the floor.

Limbs were thrown out limply, and it lay face up on the bed.

In the shadow of this secret room’s curtain,
a single pallid strange passion crept in stealthily without sound.

That was the musk-churning anguish.
It knew the limits of feeling—painfully, shamefully, alluringly.

Ah, now close by the spring night’s lamplight shadow,
it delightedly sniffed and toyed with a corpse-wax body.

It daubed oil on gentle lips and toyed with smooth white limbs.

That was a lonely Blue Cat.

You there, fearing nightmares, pray do not censure this melancholic play.

Seabird

In the distant sky of a certain late night,

the lamplight seeped through pale white.

Having grown sorrowful, it circled the drying areas of every house,

or roamed toward the sea,

and listened to the gloomy sound of night waves calling out.

Soaked by the softly falling rain,
The lonely heart opened its mouth.
Ah, where has that seabird gone?
Across fate's dark moonlit night it fled,
Pecking at carrion soiled by night waves and weeping.
Ah, far away it flew off never to return.

Overpass

They crossed the overpass.
Like a blackly surging sewer,
treading upon the tangled overpass of tracks,
they ventured forth to the distant village in sunset.
Yonder aloft,
like a bird soaring along celestial paths,
they leaped over a single bridge.

Livestock

A resplendent moon rose in the sky.

Truly, how bright the earth is.

O little white sheep,

Enter beneath the house’s roof.

Quietly, tearfully, they tread their animal rhythm.

Train Station Scene

The loneliness of this long, long fence that stretched endlessly into the distance.
In the deserted station yard, freight cars slept quietly, and beyond the roofs, a nostalgic panorama spread across the distant sky.
This was the poet’s first sorrowful station of departure.

Farmers

O sea cow-like farmers

Grass grows on country roofs, and evening meal smoke drifts faintly white in the sky.

Have you forgotten cultivation, O farmers grown fat?

Famine pressed upon the countryside, and the winter farmhouse walls froze solid.

And in the dim lamplight’s shadow by the cupboard,

Ancestral ghosts trembled chillingly.

Like this wretched beast,

those beings possessed by the terror of a mysterious fate—

their stomachs were filled with vegetables, and a halo hung over their clouded nerves.

In the winter-battered poor village,

O dull-witted, sea cow-like farmers.

Harbor Smoke

Field mice hid in the fields.

The cornflowers lay scattered.

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

I was like a decrepit crow

I would totter off on a journey to a distant land.

And then the beggars wandered about

At some distant harbor’s wharf,

I gaze at smoke staining the sky from burning seaweed.

Ah, without even a phantom maiden,

I become fate itself—a withered bouquet.

Sandy earth clings to me.

Like a gravel crab, I weep in low tones.

That hand is confection.

How endearing—that plump configuration.

How round—swollen like sweetmeats.

As for the fingers—truly slender and graceful, exactly like small blue fish—the sight of them gently fluttering was unbearable. Ah, I wanted to press kisses upon that hand. I wanted to put it whole to my mouth and devour it. What cleanly roundedness graced these fingertips! How about the charm of this mysterious flower blooming between fingers? Its fragrance resembled musk, appearing like peach blossoms lightly glistening with sweat.

The fingers of a woman polished to such radiant beauty
Perfectly formed pure white slender elongated fingers
Fingers striking piano keys
Fingers at work embroidering silk with a needle
Leaning against shoulders yearning for love
On skin especially sensitive
Lightly touching with fingertips
Lightly scratching with nails
The action of fingers pressing down lightly yet firmly
The quivering shudder of love’s joy—fingers violently, cunningly tickling
The prim yet spiteful index finger

The cowardly yet vivacious mischief of the little finger.

The plump beauty of the thumb and its brutal savagery.

Ah, to press my lips against that one smoothly polished finger and reverently taste it.

I wanted to take it whole into my mouth and suck.
No matter how much time passed, I wanted to keep sucking.

The back of that hand swelled plumply.

The fingers of that hand were the cold craving of rock candy.

Ah, this craving.

A shameless craving, spitefully mean like a child's.

I walk through the crowd seeking

I always crave the city.

I crave being amidst the bustling crowds of the city.

The crowd is like a wave bearing great emotion.

It is a group of vigorous will and carnal desire flowing anywhere.

Ah, the twilight hour of a spring day.

The crowd seeks out shadows cast between tangled buildings.

Being jostled in the vast crowd was a joyful thing.

Behold the state of this crowd flowing onward

Wave upon wave piled up.

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

The sorrows and griefs each person carried—all vanished without a trace into those shadows.

Ah, this vast love and heedless joyful shadows.

The feeling of being led away by you, O joyous wave, was heartrending.

Now was the twilight hour of a spring day.

The procession of the crowd swam along the eaves from building to building.

Where and how was it trying to flow?

A single great earthly shadow wrapped my sorrowful melancholy.

The mindless waves drifted and flowed.

Ah, on and on, on and on—I wanted to be jostled through this crowd’s wave.

I want to be jostled through.

Hotel Illustration

A flag stood on the hotel roof.
What a lonely, pensive flag this was.
Both the people walking on the pavement and the carriages wandered through infinite "time," absorbed in quiet nostalgia.
And from the windows of every house came the sound of elegant music boxes.
At the end of the streets of this town, there must have been the harbor's waterfront street.
All the departed poets, while carrying heavy travel bags in their hands, still lodged on the fifth floor of this hotel.

Blue Cat

It was good to love this beautiful city.

It was good to love the architecture of this beautiful city.

To seek all gentle girls
To seek all noble living
It was good to come to this capital and walk through its bustling streets

Rows of cherry trees standing along the avenues

Were there not countless sparrows chirping there as well?

Ah, those that slumbered within this vast city's night

It was the shadow of a single blue cat

The shadow of a cat narrating humankind's sorrowful history

The azure shadow of our ceaselessly sought happiness

Seeking what manner of shadow

Even on days when sleet fell, I thought longingly of Tokyo.

Leaned coldly against the wall of that back alley there.
What dream was a beggar like this one dreaming?

Moonlit Night

Flapping heavy, enormous wings

Ah, what frail-hearted owners these were.

On a moonlit night as bright as floral gaslight,

Behold the pale-swarming swarm of creatures.

Behold that quiet direction.

Behold the single intense pathos these creatures possessed.

On a moonlit night as bright as floral gaslight,

Ah, what a sorrowful, pitiful flurry of butterflies there was!

The Sentiment of Spring

It was like the scent of tobacco resin arriving from France.

Inhaling that scent left the mind entranced.

Serene yet sorrowful—a sky steeped in intermingled emotions of every kind.

The cold silvery cry of a small bird

The joy when spring came

It resembled the sound of a flute playing through all people’s lives.

Trembling rare wildflowers along the field path

A solitary tone spreading through rain-drenched air

There too echoed the troublingly alluring voice of a woman.

Spring swelled moistly forth.

When spring came, even deep in mountain forests,

like earthworms writhing within rotted tree stumps,

my soul quivered and spewed fungi—

things like pure poison, mere snakes, crimson princesses.

Such fungi emitted an eerie hue and fragrance,

exuding their scent with desolate abandon all day long.

Spring comes Spring comes

The joy when spring comes is like the sound of a flute that plays all people’s lives.

There and here,

quivering fungi spewing forth, poison alone

And in the thicket's shade grow faintly glowing crimson princesses—their kind.

The Fly’s Chant

How far had spring come?

Spring had reached that point and let the scent of cherry blossoms be smelled.

The children’s cries in the fields and mountains.

Gazing at the distant mountains—white drifting clouds flowed.

And thus my heart was awash with tears.

My heart that always played quietly alone.

This heart was lonely.

This heart cast its shadow over my life since the days of my youth.

The gradually growing shadow of loneliness

The terrifying shadow of melancholy spread.

Now I sat alone in the room,
gazed at my soul’s fading shadow.
That sigh was lonely,
and I had no strength, like a fly that remained still.
Through the quietly fading setting sun of a spring day,
my life wandered without strength.
My life remained at the window glass,

I heard the helpless children's sobbing song.

Terrifyingly melancholic,

In the midst of a lush forest grove,

A multitude of white butterflies were flying.

They swarmed, swarming and flying about.

Butterfly butterfly butterfly butterfly butterfly butterfly butterfly

From the gaps in the lush green leaves

Glint glint glint glint—their small sharp wings.

They spread out fully and flew about—flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter.

Ah, what a melancholy vision this is.
These heavy limbs, this heavy heart.
The endlessly tormenting overlapping of substances upon substances

Ah, what a beautiful sickness this is.

At the seductive twilight hour of exhausted nerves

I see here the heavy limbs that women have sprawled out

the tormenting heaviness of exhausted loins and breasts

Those lips like fresh blood are here and there.

On my blue-tinged corpse’s lips

On the forehead, in the hair, in the strands of hair, in the armpits, in the groin, under the armpits, on the wrists, on the legs, on the soles of the feet, on the right arm too, on the left arm too, upon the abdomen too, upon the navel too

Swarmed and swarmed—the wanton clumps of material upon material.
Here and there lay scattered clusters of jet-black butterflies.
Ah, these terrifying earthly shadows
In this tormenting phantom forest,
I gazed at the gradually spreading shadow of melancholy.
That heart of mine flutters frantically,
Like the ugly visage of a dying bird.
Ah, this intolerably tormenting sexual sensation—
Excessively terrifying and melancholic.

Melancholy Cherry Blossom Viewing

Melancholy cherry blossoms began to emit their fragrance from afar.

The cherry branches were spreading out everywhere.

The sunlight sparkled, unbearably dazzling.

I dwelt within the sealed interior of a house.

Every day I ate vegetables, ate fish and duck eggs.

The eggs and meat had begun to rot.

In the distance, the cherry blossoms emitted a sour fragrance.

The sour fragrance of cherry blossoms was poignantly melancholic.

Now people put on hats and went out walking under the sunlight.

And the sunlight was shining in the distance.

Yet I sat alone in this room,

I gather my thoughts beneath the distant cherry blossoms.

To the Youthful Men and Women Frolicking in Fields and Mountains

Ah, what joy shone there!

Under cherry blossoms with branches spread everywhere,

young girls danced.

Their glistening white limbs in motion,

garments swaying supplely—

Ah, how exquisitely beautiful curves intertwined there and here!

The cherry-viewers' singing voices were serene as a flute,

resounding with endless melancholy's echo.

Now my heart was cleansed by tears.

By the shuttered window, I sobbed without strength.

Ah, this single humble heart seeks some being's life—
At what shadow do I gaze and weep?
At the very end of this beautiful world rotted utterly sour,
I hear the melancholy flute of distant blossom-viewing.

Almanac of Sloth

Several seasons had passed.
The melancholy cherry blossoms had turned pale and rotted away.
The carriage rumbled off into the distance.

The sea and the countryside lay sleeping in the hushed air.

What an indolent day that must have been!

Fate dwindled away again and again,

Lonely sickly melancholy smoldered hazily in the shade of willow leaves.

No calendar remained; no memory remained.

I will leave the nest like a swallow and soar toward the edge of strange landscapes.

O people of old, beloved cat

I know one song.

And from skies where distant seaweed smolders, I shall cast kisses like putrescent glory.

Ah, beyond this sorrowful passion, I know no other words.

Decadent Appetite

Walking through the pine forest,

I saw a coffee shop with a bright atmosphere.

In a place far removed from the city,
not even anyone came to visit.

It was a coffee shop in the woods—hidden, of reminiscence, within a dream.

The maiden bore lingering bashfulness,

A system where specially ordered plates arrived with dawn-like freshness.

I leisurely took up my fork and knife,

And ate omelettes and fried dishes.

White clouds floated in the sky—

It was an exceedingly refined appetite.

In the carriage

In the carriage

I fell soundly asleep.

Fair lady,

Fair lady, do not shake me awake.

I ran through streets bright with streetlamps,
Passed through countryside shaded cool green,
And before I knew it—the sea’s scent now swayed near ahead.
Ah—hoofbeats clattered too...
I chased reality through reality.
Fair lady,
To the carriage beneath ryokan eaves resplendent with flowers—
Do not shake me awake.

Primordial Sentiment

Deep within this jungle,

the sight of great rubber trees flourishing

was like the ears of some strange elephant.

In the dim wetland, shadows stretched out,

sinuously creeping fern plants and reptiles.

Snakes, lizards, salamanders, frogs, giant salamanders and such.

From the sorrowful yearning of broad daylight,

What did Adamu reminisce about?

Primordial sentiment was like a cloud,

boundlessly tender like beloved love,

drifting upon the distant shore of memory,

there being nowhere to grasp it.

Weather and Thought

The student crawled up from the gloomy bed like livestock.
The student threw on a haori
and charged out into the nature he perceived.
Nature was bright, neatly kept, and invigoratingly crisp.
Moreover, it carried a scent.
In the forests, at crossroads, in shops—
everywhere the blue sky rippled resplendent.
On such a cheerful weather day,
a beautiful automobile stood while girls ran circling around it.

In my thoughts—

Is thought still akin to weather?

The student placed a book in sunlight.

He smelled the scent of happiness for a long time.

Let us go to the village where flute sounds linger.

When riding through in a rickshaw,

Fields and mountains stretched boundlessly, hazed in mist.

Willows streamed windblown,

Swallows, songs, hatchlings—all dissolved into haze.

Ah, through ruts carved by rickshaw wheels,

A strange unbounded vista loomed ahead.

That scenery unfurled endlessly,

A desolate melancholy flute tone reverberated—

Emotion borne secretly, unbearable in its weight.

Advance toward this preposterous bearing.

In the shade of hazy spring willows, songs and swallows alike were blown away.

My rickshaw man is right here.

Pale Horse

Beneath winter's leaden skies,
In weather frozen solid,
Within such melancholy nature,
Silently grazing roadside grass—
The wretched, dejected shadow
Of Fate's Pale Horse,
Bound by cause and effect.

I moved toward the shadow,

The shadow of the horse appeared to be gazing at me.

Ah, move quickly and leave that place!

From the film reel of my life,

Quickly, quickly tear off and eliminate this phantom!

I want to believe in my "will."
Horse!

of cause and effect, of fate, of fixed law—the wretched

From the dry plate of a landscape frozen in despair

Escape, pale shadow!

Is thought a form of design?

In the shade of densely overgrown forest trees,
while setting a single thought in motion,
Buddha perceived the coldly luminous natural world
enlivening every meditation with vitality,
such that it dissolved into any nirvana—
he saw such a beautiful moonlit night.

"Is thought a form of design?"

Buddha, treading upon the moonlight,
inquired within his gentle heart.

Face.

When drowsy cherry blossoms bloomed,
a white blurry face floated up.
Someone was watching through the window

in the shadow of old, old memories—
as if we had met at some wharf,

There was a scent of violets laden with sickly melancholy.

From the glass window glittering with exterior light,

Ah, it vanished into the distance like a rainbow.

I know a single sorrow.

Passing through the dim corners of a lifetime,

I never return again to eternity.

White Rooster

I am a country rooster.

In the garden of a poor farmhouse, I fluttered my wings.

I crossed over the fence

I peck at a desiccated little insect.

Ah, in the shadow of this winter day's sunlight

I peck at the lonely, parched grass.

I am a whitish sickly rooster.

I am a pitiful, sorrowful creature that flaps its wings.

I am a sorrowful country rooster.

I crossed over the roof.

I crossed over the fence.

I crossed over the graveyard.

At the distant edge of the field, I trembled and shouted.

Ah, I am a broken sundial—a whitish country rooster.

Songbird

A day when soft winds blew,

while sinking into gloomy meditation,

I walked along a leaf-strewn path in the depths of a quiet grove.

The weather had cleared completely,
I saw songbirds clamoring high in the red pine's treetop.
The cheerful little birds thrust out their chests,
Once more the emotional tone shifted.
Ah, from my past oppressive meditations, from the environment—
Why attempt to overturn today's emotions?
I have not lost anything at all.

Even in life,
Even in life, what I have lost is only comfort.

Ah, but I have lost it for far too long.

ill season

The twilight-weary season arrived.

Everywhere the rooms were dim,
bearing the accumulated weariness of convention.
Rain splashed wetly across the thoroughfare,
rows of destitute tenements standing in formation.
Through the endless stretch of this season,

My life fell into ruin,

I fell into dire poverty.

The furniture lay thrown into a corner.

In winter’s dust-filled frail sunlight

Flies buzzed around the window.

As this season dragged on

My lonely visitor

was an elderly, tottering noblewoman always reeking of face powder.

Ah, she was indeed my former lover.

A shadow of passion’s shadow wandered through the flickering shadows of faded memories.

During this white rain that fell

Nowhere did new faith exist.

Poets sang of commonplace thoughts.
The people's old traditions languished on the tatami mats.
Ah, this damnable weather.
Season of dull sunlight.
Concepts that would scorch my emotions to ashes—
Ah, nowhere—nowhere do they exist anymore.

The Way of Peach and Plum

From Laozi's fantasy

O Sage, teach me your Way.

The bustling village remained distant.

Even the voices of chickens and calves could be heard through the haze.

O Sage, let me hear your truth.

In the season of leaden apricot blossoms

Ah—what learning had I pursued since leaving home?

Vainly had youth been lost.

Love—honor—fantasy—all had dried up in walls of muddy willows.

O Sage

The sun still hung high over country paths

The singing voices of village girls at their looms drifted faint from afar.

O Sage, why do you not speak of the Way?
You remain silent, and in the phantasmal village where peaches and plums bloom—
Do I pursue the profound mysteries of understanding that words cannot unravel?
Ah, I do not know this moral being—
When midday comes, I go to the village.
You must be sitting in a farmhouse kitchen.
O lonely Sage of the road—
I part; likely I shall no longer hear your footfalls in the distance—
Even at times when sorrow grows unbearable—
Ah, O Master!
I shall likely not die yet.

Seaport Scene

I came to the port.
A landscape with masts, and a steamship kicking through the waves.

Nowhere left!
There is no place outside to go.
I quickly turned around the stone-walled pier.
I will return to the sailing ship out on the distant open sea.

And so I will cast off the anchor of oblivion and seek out the harbor where memories fade away by degrees.

——Slumbering Song——

The Balloonist’s Dream

From the thicket where summer grasses grow luxuriantly

Balloon, floating up and up toward the heavens,
In the basket I placed an old calendar.
Let us be blown far beyond Earth’s meridian.
Through boundless void,
Clouds drifted forlornly away.
No grasslands could be seen; memory’s clock had stopped its spring.
What destination do we aim for as we soar!
Then the sake bottle’s bottom lay empty,
The drunkard’s beautiful illusions all vanished.

We gradually left the earthly land below,
Were blown along by sorrow and clouds,
Let us slip into the vacuum zone beyond perception.
Like a balloon inflated with gaseous matter,
At the mysteriously desolate edge of the universe,
Without friends, let us float up and up as we ascend.

An Antiquated Exposition

Where a sad, hazy light shines

Domed towers piled upon domed towers

Doesn't it stretch all the way to the distant mountain range?

What a lonesome blue sky.

Beneath the transparent glass-paneled void,

countless strange buildings contend,

their arms interlocking through architectural struggle.

Through this tranquil exposition scenery,

far beyond the main gate people’s shadows scatter across empty skies—

What a dream-like crowd!

There they wander about peering at civilization’s wondrous magic lanterns

and celestial travel’s bizarre spectacles,

then from panorama hall’s back entrance showing Paris circa Eighteen-Ten—

They slipped through a secret passage unknown to others into the womb of "Time".

Ah, who knows of this flight?

Domed towers piled upon domed towers
in the sky above an infinitely distant horizon,
sunlight drifted sadly.

Slumbering Song

In foolish seabird-like forms,
we passed through the harbor district scattered with tiles and paving stones.
Shattered covered wagons formed a line—
what a reckless conical mass came surging forth!
Dwelling foundations stacked upon dwelling foundations.
What a squalid throng of humans and beasts crowded this thoroughfare!

Looking beyond the weathered dial of the large clock,
wasn't the desolate winter seascape crying?
While tears flowed onto the roadside stones,
I let my queue hang down my back and walked like a Chinese person.
Where did this dark light come from?

Or barbers and tailors hung artist signs beneath their eaves,

Vegetable dishes and the meager bay windows of wooden inns were tilting.

"Why did it project such a destitute photograph of 'Time'?"

Where even?!
There was nowhere left to go outside.

I quickly turned at the stone-walled wharf,

would return to the sailing ship far offshore,

and so cast off the anchor of oblivion and sought out the harbor where records faded away bit by bit.

Desolate region.

Strollers wandered aimlessly.

Was there not a desolate eighteenth-century backstreet?

Blue, red, and yellow flags fluttered.

On the old bay window, a metal-leaf hat was displayed.

How could there exist such an emotionally profound cityscape!

The sundial's time stood still.

Nowhere were there any shops or markets for shopping.

Old artillery shell fragments and the like were dug up.

Hadn’t they rusted completely black in the sand of the fortress area?

They didn't know what would be best.

And so they walked only through these desolate regions where human wretches dwelled.

The figure of an old woman,

closely resembling ducks and chickens,

Within the retina's reflection, a crimson cloth fluttered.

What a sorrowful twilight!

Elephantine forms clustered,

wandering here and there in front of the post office.

“Ah, where shall I write my resonant letter!”

Buddha
Or perhaps—the enigma of the world.
In the hilly region abundant with ochre soil,
O you who sleep in the lonely cave

You are not a shell. Not a bone. Not even an object.
And on the sandy ground where shore plants had withered,
Was it not merely like an old rusted clock?
Ah, are you the shadow of "Truth"? A phantom?
For years upon years you had sat there.
O mummy living like a fish of mystery!
At the edge of this unbearably desolate wilderness,
The sea roared hollowly through the sky.
The resonance of a distant tsunami advancing could be heard.
Does your ear hear it?

Eternal One! O Buddha!
From the inner shell of a landscape
Where in the world—!
This passion would do well to open its mouth.
The giant sea turtle lay sleeping like a mountain,
Near the Paleozoic sea,
A giant clam shell weighing about a thousand kan gazed out over the view.
What leaden sunlight this was!
From the spray-misted shadow of the capes' island,

A strange form of a hospital ship appeared,
dragging heavily along the cable of a sunken anchor.

“Hey!”
“Young lady,”

How long will we sit here, lined up with these sad rocks?

The sun was infinitely distant.

Where the light rays struck, a conch shell boomed resoundingly.

“Young lady! When we line up sadly like penguins, love and liver seem to have turned into icicles.”

“Gentle young lady!”

“For me now there remains no hope, nor indeed any solace in peaceful living.”

“Every single thing drives me into this lunatic-like melancholy.”

“Strangely spun the seasons.”

Spring and plums alike had become entangled in the chaotic web of delusion.

"What should we do, young lady!"

We trembled like slabs of shellfish flesh at this terrifying lonely shore.

Moreover,there remained no language for passion,

"Can't you fathom this anguished heart?"
"Young lady!"

Cycle and Trees

When I tally the cycles' calendar,
my past is neither fish nor cat nor flower.
Nor vessels offered in vegetation rites—not tiles nor such things.
Not gold nor insects nor meteorites nor deer.
Ah—nothing but infinite Time’s sorrow spreading boundlessly!
Pursuing my endless life,
where should I turn this wheel of karma?
Don’t these aimless torments of will keep surging in one after another?

What a sorrowful flute sound this was!

A demon-like being stood playing among the trees.

The twilight had turned utterly hopeless.

When I lit the lamp and looked out the window,

In a clump of green grass, there was a lantern crackling fiercely as it burned.

Without wind,

Was this not a night where the constellations' slow turn held serene beauty?

If I quietly peered into the soul's secrets,
my reincarnation was a miserable beggar—
not a star, not a rhinoceros, nor any saint clad in woolen robes.
The universe whirled round and round,
a desolate moment of the eternal cycle emerging.
And in the valley of terror painted crimson,
beast-like hazel trees thrust out their arms,
or perhaps at their roots, various altars had dried up.
What delusions these wretched humans harbored!

Phantom of the Calendar

In the desolate room at dusk

My parrot clock was broken.
The screw of emotion rusted away,
and the mainspring slackened limply.
Looking at such a worn-out calendar,
how could I tally
the calendric cycles where destinies converge?
There was no particular time.
Carrying a tattered bag of melancholy,
tomorrow morning I would set out toward the harbor area.
And then under the hazy willows along the coast,
I would gaze at scattered sails
of mastless ships coming and going.
Or perhaps leaning against the pier’s fence,

Or perhaps I would gaze at beggars gambling in the gravel lot.

With no ships from any nation bound for destinations,

There existed no proper jobs or occupations.

Like a gaunt black-furred cat

I walked totteringly, staggering along.

And smeared into the garbage dump's mud,

This being before me

Must be the phantom of a forgotten almanac.

The Secret Garden of the Abandoned House in Dreams

What grew thickly in that abandoned house’s garden were pine trees and their kind.
Loquat trees， peach trees， podocarpus trees， sasanquas， cherry trees and their kind.
Vigorous trees． Branches spreading throughout the area．
And in the shade of those clustered branches’ leaves， plants thriving luxuriantly
All manner of ferns， bracken， ostrich ferns， moss， and their kind
Overlapping across the entire ground， they spread out．
The life of those green things
The vigorous life of those green things．
The garden of the abandoned house was always dim， cast in the shade of plants．

The only thing that flowed faintly was the water of a single stream.

The sound of water flowed low and sorrowfully night and day, murmuring endlessly.

And around the damp fence,

slugs, snakes, frogs, lizards—their slimy unpleasant forms could be seen.

And upon this profound world,

night was illuminated by a bluish-white moonlight.

The moonlight flowed gently through the garden's planted thicket.

Ah，I inclined my heart to this serenely quiet midnight thought deepening into night.
My heart leaned against the fence and wailed desolately on a flute.
Ah，the hidden secret lives of all these various things—
A world where limitlessly beautiful shadows and mysterious forms overlapped profusely.

In the moonlight emerge ferns, bracken, pine tree branches.

The uncanny existence of slugs, snakes, lizards.

Ah, the secret of this uninhabited abandoned house’s garden that I so often see in my dreams—

Always that unsolvable mystery—the nostalgic longing for its profoundly mysterious depths.

Black Organ

Play the organ, O woman.

You wear a black kimono

Sit before the organ.

Your fingers creep across the organ.

Lightly, gently, softly, like the sound of snow falling………….

Play the organ, O woman.

Who sings there?

Who listens solemnly there?

Ah, in this pitch-black darkness of melancholy,

Plastered flat against the wall

Who plays this terrifying giant organ?

Religion's violent emotion—that shudder.

Convulsing pipe organ Requiem!

Pray, O sick one.

There is nothing to fear. There exists no fearful time.

Play the organ.

Gently, distantly, quietly

Like pine needles beneath heavy snowfall

Cast bright radiance and play

Play the organ.

Play the organ, O woman.

Ah, you wore a pitch-black long kimono,

until emotions naturally subsided,

you had to play the large black organ.

Within the terrifying pitch-black walls,

you earnestly threw yourself—

You!

Ah, how violently—the spasms of gloomy emotion!

Melancholy Riverside

Something resounds by the riverside.

The rustling sound of reeds and rushes is lonely.

Growing naturally.

Sharp, small plants—the types of herbaceous stems—are lonely.

I close my eyes

I tried to bite the root of some plant.

To suck the juice of some plant—to suck melancholy's bitter sap.

Truly, there existed no hope of any kind there.

Life was merely a meaningless succession of melancholies.

It’s the rainy season.
It’s like damp dripping raindrops.

However—ah—rain again!
Rain!
Rain!

There grew mysterious herbaceous plants.

Countless sorrowful winged insects of every kind.

They crawled through melancholy; they crept along the riverside.

Those who walked along the damp riverbank

Ah, is this the funeral procession of shining life?

Is this the spectral malady of a luminous spirit?

Clumps of riverside grass decaying naturally as all things do

The intense smell of wooden material shining in the rain.

The fantasy world seen by the Buddha

A brilliant moonlit night.

Where deep green evergreens densely overlapped,

where one beheld beautiful waves tearing apart and surging back,

the path of that nostalgic religion was opened.

The uncanny saint’s dream was woven.

Truly, a single compassion flowing through that person’s heart—

the immortal illusion reflected in that person’s pupils

Illuminated brightly

The dreamlike happiness that faded away so sadly, and its uncanny shadowy forms.

Ah, the things I think about that person—
Contemplating the fantasy land seen by that person—
How the lonely twilight of life takes on color!
Now, weary, when I sleep long in the chair of solitude

Moonlight streams through my house's window too.

The moon ascends resplendent in the sky.

O Buddha—

I love—O exalted one—the lotus-petal visions of illusion you saw,

the scent of fever's flower blooming in pallid life.

O Buddha

Too resplendent and solitary.

Rooster

Before the dawn approaches

The one crowing outside the doors of every house is a rooster.

Shaking its voice long and tremulously

It is a mother’s voice calling out from the lonely rural nature.

To-o-tekuu—to-orumou—to-orumou.

In the cold morning bed
My soul flutters.
If I look through the gap in these wooden shutters
The scenery all around shines bright and clear.
Yet before the approaching dawn
A melancholy creeps into my sickbed.
Crossing over hazy treetops
Comes a rooster's cry from distant rural nature—
To-o-tekuu—to-orumou—to-orumou.

O beloved

O beloved

In the cold shadow of the shōji under lingering moonlight,

I smell the faint scent of chrysanthemums

Like the scent of an ailing soul

I smell the faint scent of decaying white chrysanthemum flowers.

O beloved

O beloved.

Before the dawn approaches

My heart wanders through the shadows of the graveyard.

Ah—something calls me with a single tormenting restlessness.

I could not endure this thin crimson air.

O beloved

O Mother

Come quickly and extinguish the lamplight

I hear—the roar of a great wind blowing at the farthest reaches of distant lands.

To-o-tekuu—to-orumou—to-orumou.

Miserable street lamp

Amid the pouring rain,

The streetlamp on the road was sopping wet.

The shoddy buildings sloped along the hill and were crushed into distortion.

Through billowing, dense smoke and mist,

someone’s fate wandered white.

That person wrapped himself in a greatcoat,

wretched and shabby, like a kite.

Growing on the window of a certain building,

he gazed at the azure tree trembling in the storm, drenched through.

The azure tree's leaves beckoned him.

Amidst the melancholy rainy scene.

It made him feel something repulsively probing into his soul.

And he became utterly drenched.

Shadow, body, life—all were sopping wet with sorrow.

Terrifying mountain.

He saw the visage of the terrifying mountain.

It was spewing smoke into the pitch-dark night sky.

It had enormous spider-like eyes.

It flicked out its crimson tongue.

It lay flat like a sea crab.

It spread its limbs wide and crawled all over the foothills.

A desolately frightening dark night.

The wind went gau-gau through the grass—blowing out there in the distant sky.

Nature held its breath in hushed silence.

Gradually, the strange shape of an enormous mountain came surging forth.

Towering immediately nearby,

The grotesque visage attempted to devour.

A Song Without a Title

Like a South Seas woman sunburnt naked,

Toward the wharf overgrown with summer grass, a strange rust-red steamship steamed in.

Fluffy white clouds rose,

The smoke from the sailors' cigarettes felt lonely.

I flapped my wings like a quail while

And I flew about over the tall wild brambles.

Ah, O clouds, O ships—where has she discarded the anchor of her voyage?

While tormented by a strange passion,

I wandered seeking the silent cemetery.

It was blown by the wind through this grassy thicket.

It was the quietly rusted mummy of a love bird.

Decadent Graveyard

The wind blows through the willows.

Where could such a dimly lit cemetery scene exist?

The slug climbs over the fence.

From the vista, lukewarm tidewater comes wafting in.

“Why have you come here?”

Gentle pallid shadow mysterious like grass—O!

“You are neither shell nor pheasant nor cat.”

And yet O desolate ghost!

From the shadow of your wandering body

In the back alleys of a poor fishing village lingered the stench of rotting fish.

Their intestines melted in the sun into slimy putrid ooze.

Sad—painful—truly unbearable stench of sorrow.

Ah like this tepid spring night

O you wandering in alluring crimson kimono
O you gentle as a younger sister.
It was neither the graveyard moon nor phosphorescence nor shadow nor truth.
And then—what sadness this must be.
Thus my life and body rot away
Beneath the indistinct scenery of "Nihil"
Alluringly yet glutinous, it dangles limply.

City Scene

Strollers wandered aimlessly.

Wasn't there a desolate backstreet lane from around the eighteenth century?

Blue, red, and yellow flags fluttered

Tin hats lined the old oriel windows.

How could there be a cityscape of such profound emotional depth?

――Desolate Expanse――

Crumbling Body

In the field swarming with bats,
I gazed at the crumbling pillar of my body.
It quivered desolately in the twilight,
like corpse grass swaying in shadows, reeking of decay,
like swarming maggots crawling over rotten flesh—hideous.
Ah, in this shadow-haunted landscape,
my soul seized a crawling terror.
Like a ship that came from the harbor, it crossed distant islands where ghosts dwell.
It was neither wind nor rain:
all of that was a dark fear entangled with carnal desire's torment.

And in the dull tones blown by the snake charmer,
my crumbling shadow wept mournfully.

Raven-haired woman

Gentle raven-haired woman—O!
Into the attic room of my house she sneaked,
Filling it with musk’s alluring scent.
You were a mysterious night bird
Perched desolately on a wooden chair.
Its beak pecked at a heart; its pupils overflowed with quiet tears.
O night bird—
Where does this aching passion spring from?
Cast off your melancholy-clad garments and fly into the wind of night dew.
Green Flute
Through that twilight field
Long-eared elephants trudged in a line.

The yellow evening moon trembled in the wind.

Here and there, hat-like grass blades fluttered.

“Are you lonely, miss?”

Here there was a small flute, its tone a clear green.

“Gently blow into the mouthpiece—

Quivering in the transparent sky—

Summon your mirage.”

From the distant sea of longing,

A single phantom seemed to gradually draw near.

It resembled a headless cat, fluttering in the grassy shadows of the graveyard.

"In such a sorrowful landscape, I feel I could die!"
"Miss!"

Song of the Hermit Crab

The tidal water flowed coldly

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

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

I watched ghost-like grass wet on the shore.

The roots of the grass faded white in the haze,

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

From the hazily visible offing

The sailor sang a strange voyage song, and the sound of the oar came with a lively beat.

Mysteriously clustered here by this shore,

Mounded up in surging heaps and crawled shadow-like.

It was a mental image like a cloud—the spectral ghost of a lonely hermit crab.

Melancholy Prisoner

They wore pale shabby hats,

Dragging the dim tips of their tails, they walked about.

And look! That one’s gloomy shovel dug into the mud.

Ah, the grass roots were dug up and overturned.

Everywhere was shrouded in dim sunlight.

What a tedious life this was!

Forming lines like strange funeral processions, they went in and out of the large building's shadow.

This shadow stood desolate as ghosts.

In the sad open field where glass glittered,

They all wore pale shabby paper hats,

Trudging in serpent-egg chains—was this not a procession of desolate prisoners?

Pussy willow

Upon coldly pallid faces

I float a fragrantly elegant and towering moon.
The moon’s bashful visage

With gentle words I speak to your corpse.

Ah, thick with dew,

The damp pussy willow swayed in the night breeze.

Having wandered here,

I sang through every joyful feeling.

This was a lonely craving unknown to others—yes, desire itself.

Drenched as if in streaming tears,

I smeared blood upon my lips.

Ah, what unbearable longing this was!

I cling to and toy with this ashen specter
Blown by the night wind

I wander darkly through the pussy willow's shadow—that is the graveyard's tender singing voice.

Melancholy Landscape

It was a cat-like melancholy landscape.

A lonely balloon rose straight up

Look—a linen-clad figure flickered into view.
An interminably long time had already passed—
no one even thought of this harbor.
And from the cape where cargo machinery stood vacantly,
all manner of biological consciousnesses faded away.
Moreover, cotton had been loaded onto the sailing ship—
look—wasn't that swelling ponderously as it brooded out at sea?

Indescribable.

Memories that make one's hair stand on end and send shivers down the spine.

Ah God, there's no way to reverse it anymore.

And from these eroded recollections, I would always weep like an infant.

Field mouse.

Where does our happiness lie?

The deeper I dug into the muddy sand,

the more profoundly did sorrow surge forth.

Spring swayed faintly behind the heavy curtain.

Shaken by the rickshaw, they vanished into the distance.

Where can our lovers be?

Even if I stand in the desolate field and try whistling,

The maidens of fantasy will never come again.

I wear melton trousers stained with tears.

I walk like a day laborer

Ah, I have no hope left, no honor, no future.

And nothing but irrevocable regrets

They ran off like field mice.

Cycle and Reincarnation

Like a wheel spun by a hellish demon,

The winter days revolved dully, desolately.

The small bird of the cycle's wheel died in the shadow of the sandy plain.

Ah, while this gloomy season persisted,

I rode upon a phantom camel

And staggered forth on a sorrowful journey.

Where could such a desolate wasteland exist!

The group of aged beggars

Countless they passed along the procession's wake.
Like vultures swarming carrion,
Filthy little insects swarmed across the scorched polluted ground.
What a heartrending sight!
Everywhere long-necked flowers bloomed.

They swayed gently.

I need not think—evening would approach like this, I supposed.

From a lifetime of love and loneliness—

Lifeless mental images had vanished entirely—now they only faintly appeared like specters.

What direction did the weathercock gaze upon?

On a barren hill where winter days rolled heavily, corn leaves were being blown.

Loathsome scenery.

During the rainfall,

the view faded into whiteness.

Buildings buildings sopping wet

I saw a lonely desolate village.

Emotions festered there.

They lived like horses.

I circled the house walls

I observed moss growing on the house walls.

Their food was very poor.

Even their spirits were sodden with the rainy season.

During the long days of rain,
I was in a dull countryside,

I wandered through dull nature.

I saw a faint, ghostly shadow.

I saw poverty indeed.

In this soaking wet humidity,

I saw something thoroughly drenched—a loneliness most loathsome.

Lonely History

Swollen obscenely fat,

O mysterious spherical phantom, white and constricted!

It had no ears, no face—slick as a wild vine climbing into the sky.

O summer clouds! What boundless loneliness this must be!

There was no particular faith to be found anywhere, nor any lover to rely on.

I staggered like a camel,

chewing through the sun-scorched pit of a coconut.

Ah, from this beggar-like life

I lost absolutely everything.

I finally came to a country path where the wind had died.

The undersides of the corn leaves had withered completely.
What a desolate history my own has been.

Coastal region.

Horses and camels scattered here and there.

I blended into the coastal region with meager light.

There was no market for trade,

there was nowhere to even unload these blankets.

There were no shops either,

desolate tents lined the sandy ground.

Why would I attempt to pass through such an hour!

Like the terrifying murderous weapons of the natives

various incantations had been cast all over the place.

The landscape grew hazy and dark,

a bizarre sand wind whirled in swirling vortices.

There wasn’t a single signboard hung anywhere.
There wasn’t any prospect that anything would come of trade.
In utter futility, completely exhausted,
I lay face-up at length on the white sand.
And then with dark-skinned girls,
I went to search for even an aimless passionate love.
I fired the cannon.
I wore a fluttering coat
and pulled a cannon out from the grass.
There was nothing I intended to fire at.
I packed gunpowder inside my guts

I swelled up bloated as if turned inside out.
Then opened my pupils like horn shells,
My face livid,

I gaze at this cloying sea and land.

I have no association with the folks around here.

After all, I must look like some worthless grotesque clam creature to them.

In my room—this idle son’s room—

The gentle light of early spring does not pour in.

I lie lolling about in the gloomy bed.

The voices of the world that scorn and laugh at me—

Not a single soul comes to comfort me,

Not even a woman’s gentle singing reaches my ears.

Therefore my eyeballs open ever wider,

And now they have become oddly transparent glass marbles.

There’s nothing I intend to eat.

Packing gunpowder into the guts of delusion,

Dragging a weather-beaten cannon across the desolate field,

Boom!
Boom!
I’ll keep firing!

Seal

I come from a distant countryside.

I came like a seal.

In my country, the wheat ripens

The fields stretched out as far as the eye could see.

No matter where I wandered aimlessly,

There wasn’t a single kitten.

Blown by the whistling wind,

I was whistling in the fields and mountains.

What a sorrowful life this was!

I bid farewell to the beech and elm trees.

Then I wrapped my belongings in a blanket

And set out in a daze.

Around the time when cherry blossoms were blooming faintly

Over the whitish roads of the city,

My rickshaw ran on.

And on the tower of the Panorama Hall,

Fluttering small flags were raised

Over domed towers and smokestack roofs,
I saw a brilliantly clear blue sky.

Ah, no matter where life turned,
As if wheat were flowing endlessly,
Far away, the loneliness of the countryside continued.
There was no proper work to be found anywhere,
From the hunger of a tired unemployed person
Sitting on a dirty park bench
I sighed like a seal.
Cat corpse
To a woman who could be called Ula
In the midst of a sponge-like landscape
It swelled damply with moisture.
Nowhere was there any sign of people or creatures.
A strangely sorrowful waterwheel appeared to be weeping.

And from the hazy shadow of the willow trees
I saw the gentle figure of my beloved
She wrapped her body in a thin shawl
Dragged a beautiful gaseous garment
Quietly wandered like a spirit
Ah Ura—forlorn woman!

“You’re always late, aren’t you.”

We have no past, no future.

And thus we have vanished from the realm of reality…………

Ura!

Into this bizarre-looking scenery
Bury the mud-cat’s corpse properly.
Marshland region
to a woman who could be called Ula
A swarm of frogs had gathered.

I wandered through the desolate marshland region.
The sun hung cold in the sky.
Everywhere, muddy bogs stretched into damp paths.
I dragged my shoes like a beast,
or perhaps visited sorrowful villages—
I sank slovenly into the terrifying dream of indolence.
Ah, Ura!
Let us now bid farewell.

By the log cabin on the day of our meeting,

You shrank in fear and trembled like a kitten.

Under that gray sky
It was always ringing like a clock.
Ura!
O strange, lonely heart!
Ula! You would leave again, never to meet once more.
Crow
Painted in blue and yellow,
Shabby bay windows lined up.
Roofs extended in cluttered, haphazard manner,
The entire road covered with piled-up rickety carriages.
Everywhere human refuse swarmed,
Dragging hungry straw sandals—
Were they not wantonly devouring leeks from garbage bins!

What a scene of despair!
I grew cold like a fish,
trailing noodle-like tears from my eyes,
tormented always by unfulfilled carnal desires—this gloomy anguish.
Ah, like this scorpion biting into me!
From where to where does dark melancholy writhe onward?

When I looked, from the red window of the money exchange shop
a sickly swollen face peered out.
He was bellowing like a giant pipe:
“You filthy crow!
Get out of here!”

Camel.

Along a path where lonely light fell
I will walk like a camel.
I will escape from the sour love of those women.
I will try looking for some kind of job.

Not knowing where,
I will set out toward the distant trading market
and gaze upon the shabby trade of horse gear and farm tools.

And I will pitch a tent on the sandy plain,
stretch out my limbs scorched by indolent days,
and gamble with riffraff laborers.

Ōimachi

I dragged my muddy boots along

Leeks and garbage bins cluttered chaotically.

I staggered through the alley of fate.

“Ah, Madam!” The refined women of the tenements—from that dirty brick window there—on the beggar’s dusky hat—hurl a rat’s tail at them! Then haul coal cinders from the factory grounds and fill the entire room—make it dim with excessive soot! Gradually, the evening scene began to fade. On roofs here and there, the master’s chatter began to glow. Strangely, paper scraps fluttered—to where melancholy sunlight shone—the brats’ twisted voices—don’t I hear them now?

I have become utterly famished.
That felt ridiculously sad.

From the dark eaves of the Ōimachi Textile Factory

Gah!

With that, I dashed out.

Clock Tower Illustration

Grieving in eternal loneliness, the clock tower struck the long hours of winter days—
The lightning rod wept toward the sky, and the street trees stood frostbitten in needle-like desolation, lonely.
Looking, beyond the weathered dial of the great clock, wasn't the desolate winter seascape weeping there?

Yoshiwara

Enclosed within high wooden fences.

A dim, eerie district.

Even so, in the vacant lot a ditch flowed.

Trees grew

The white carbolic acid smell hung pungently.

Yoshiwara!

Like a dead frog by the embankment

A red-light district lay with its white belly exposed.

Within the sorrowful enclosure of wooden fences

I heard my courtesan’s voice crying.

Night lay utterly distant.

And then ate indigestible udon
I lay sprawled under the sooty electric light.

“Come see me again, won’t you?”

Even on days when despair hung as thick as clouds,
a photograph was displayed on the brothel signboard.

At the post office counter

At the post office counter,
I wrote a letter to my hometown.
I had fallen into ruin like a crow.
Shoes and fate had both worn through.
Soot clouded the sky.

Today too, I still haven’t found work.

Father!

What remains of life?

From a sorrowful sense of nihilism,

I counted out the bottom of my impoverished wallet.

I changed all of life into copper coins

I smashed them against the paving stones of the road.

Hometown!
Aged and honored Father.

I will go toward the harbor.

Like air staggering,

I will walk the melancholy road of the harbor.

Life!

Aboard the departing steamship,
I heard the blaring roar of the whistle.

Carpenter's Apprentice

I will go to the city.

I will learn the art of building houses.

I became a carpenter's apprentice.

Facing the vast clear sky,

I will build a roof as wrathful as beasts and men.

We were like termite eggs

Under the pillars of a gigantic building,
We writhed through our work.
Roof tiles unfurled their wings
When the summer sun blazed in the sky.

We squirmed on the bustling streets

The trivial women served.

We ended up drinking coffee shop tea and such.

I became bored with life.
I will become a carpenter’s apprentice and study.

Clock

In an old lonely empty house

Was the chair not sitting there vacantly?

Perched upon it,

No girl sat knitting,

There was no sign of a black cat sitting by the hearth.

In the white hollow house

I drifted through melancholy dreams while
The old-fashioned pillar clock unraveled
I heard the clang of a rusted spring
Clang-clang-clang!
Clang-clang-clang!
In an old lonely empty house

I was looking at a photograph of an old lover.
Nowhere were there memories to recall.
In the shadow of the oil lamp's yellow light,
Only a sad passion lingered.
As I dozed on the chair,

The far end of the deserted corridor,

disintegrating like a ghost,

I heard the rusted clang of the pillar clock.

Clang-clang-clang!
Clang-clang-clang!

Appendix

Cat.

Blue Cat.
Hagiwara Sakutarō.

Criticism of poetic art—in short, it's futile.
More than anything, one must simply read and feel it.
One must feel it freely in that person's own way, as one once did.
Thus ultimately, my capricious impressions amount only to the Blue Cat that resonated even with me.

Behold the connective threads of his words, like spider’s silk.
Behold his words that cling strangely from the first line to the last—even long after the words have vanished.
In his heart lies Japanese spider’s silk.

His heart is of course—a thing of old Japan—but also the primordial landscape of a lonely world.
And how tenaciously it clings to the reader’s heart.
Long after the reading has ended, its scent, sound, and scenery remain uncannily lonely.

This was one of his remarkably successful expressions.
It was not epidermal sensation.
It could not be mere impression—of course it was no explanation, nor propaganda—it was truly a tenacious expression of soul sensation.
The expression lay in completely transplanting the mental image of that individuality into the reader’s heart.

He was a snake—we were frogs—cowering without any means of resistance.
They said evil snakes emitted their demonic aura to torment other animals.

In his poetry there resided a strange demonic aura of the soul.

In the dense grove of trees within the forest, white butterflies flutter everywhere—swarming, clustering, swirling about—flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter flutter.

This is not merely butterflies flying—you know?
A strange—lonely soul’s—parched longing in the depths of my heart; the strangely dim and damp evening scene deep in the forest; and thus—my heart, for no reason at all, aches with unbearable loneliness.

His poetry constitutes what he calls the quiet soul's nostalgia—that very "sound of a transverse flute heard on a spring night." It reveals the world of longing buried in desolate human hearts' depths—the distant shore where dawn's sentiment flows eternally.

Within that exhausted soul's recesses, along the trajectory of biological consciousness fading into extinction, where twilight moons cast faintly fragrant shadows—there flicker dim apparitions of bizarre flora and fauna.

Here dwells a cat.

This cat—without undergoing any particular transformation—sometimes crystallizes into poetry; sometimes becomes adopted as symbolic object; sometimes emerges warped through subjective lenses; sometimes manifests as mere conceptual abstraction.

Moreover, his cat did not belong to any of those.
It was precisely there that my secret interest lay.

Baudelaire’s cat might be the ordinary Western feline we recognize, but it was a bizarre decadent plaything.
At times eradicating that splendid primordial essence inherent in the feline species while firmly grasping cats’ peculiarly exaggerated features, this clearly remained nothing more than a servant of his ideology.

Our "Blue Cat" was a mysteriously primal creature—always a feline species in its inherently strange form, far removed from the cats we ordinarily saw, yet precisely the truer essence of what a cat was.

There lay his magnificent sensibility and primal disposition.
He was of course the essential cat.
Within this feline form, Hagiwara Sakutarō's own heart quivered with melancholy.
Here ordinary cats transformed into the Blue Cat bearing this resplendent coat of longing.
Yet this was no superficial metamorphosis like a chameleon's.
It was a newly conceived creature—excessively real, living, roaming.
No—in truth—this cat became none other than Sakutarō's incarnation: a mere vessel from birth.
It was he himself.

Is this a cat? Is it he? Is it he? Is it a cat? A realm where nothing could be clearly determined.
Truly a mysterious cat, the Blue Cat—thus did it newly exist in this world, quiveringly alive and active.

The world where this cat moved, the scenery—it was truly a landscape steeped in desolate sentiment—a phantasmal world in the soul's deepest marrow—a region where melodies flowed with hushed persistence!
The plateau-dwelling world of Plato’s Ideas.

That this strange Blue Cat permitted not the slightest glimpse of him (as human) constituted his magnificent art.
The realm where, having emptied one’s being to fully become feline, one completely sustained the cat within oneself—then finally bestowed upon it an ego, resurrecting it anew as a liberated creature of freedom.

That his cat, having traversed such a path, was no ordinary feline stood to reason.

Thus was born the "Blue Cat"—chillingly filled with mysterious allure—and thus did it delight people's souls, make them joyous yet lonely, torment them with unbearable restlessness, delightfully tormenting until death.

All flora and fauna, landscapes—ah, even humans—in him, everything traversed this path to bloom into that eerie yet sorrowfully beautiful flower.
We each carried within the depths of our souls the ancestors of every individual (What even were ancestors!).
He revealed to us the true forms of those ancestors and the landscapes where they lived.
You who had forgotten your ancestors!
You would tremble as you encountered his poetry.
Like Poe, it was he who had created a new shudder in modernity.
What could this new shudder be if not reality itself?
I could discover true realism only in Mr. Hagiwara Sakutarō.
Realism is nothing other than the creation of "new shudders."
Like Nietzsche, like Dostoevsky, like Shakyamuni.
Our Hagiwara Sakutarō created a new shudder.

Mr. Hagiwara Sakutarō’s poems appeared extraordinarily mysterious.
They remained hazy and ungraspable.
They appeared mysteriously like clouds.
What emotional allure this must possess, people would say.
But look at the preface to *The Blue Cat*.
Was he not exposing the secret of that mysterious magic?
“I write poetry compelled by indescribable nostalgia,”
This is what I call the heart that yearns for ancestors.
However, the work is an expression.
Now he revealed the distant causes behind that expression.

But here, something crucial had been omitted.
His dreadfully sharp, gleaming intellect!

From a distant vantage point above his works, he made the sharp eye of intellect gleam.
Like a poaching surveillance ship, it kept sharp watch.
While his poetry might not appear intellectual, there was nothing as much a product of intellect as his poetry.
Yet in the works themselves, not even a fragment of intellect was visible.

For free verse, the most rigorous restrictions that make one truly oneself were necessary; a terrifyingly sharp intellect that watched from a far higher place was necessary.

He did not reveal the secret behind expression.
Thus his poetry appeared to emerge from a world far, far removed from the result that had been expressed.

It was humanity's secret.
The landscapes, sensations, heredity, experiences, and dreams encrusted in his bloodline since ancient times—the truth of ancestors.
These elements had finally conjured invisible magic.

Two profound secrets of origin!

One was as he himself had elucidated in the preface—hereditary melancholy and the soul’s nostalgia. The other lay buried deep within: a faintly glimmering, luminous intellect akin to Buddha’s!

Distant memories—within heredity they writhed like shadows: glowing beasts, howling flora, landscapes, ancestral figures. The soul’s truth.

Behold his form, straining to seize something yet never grasping it! Was this what he himself called the fate of moth larvae? Their struggling forms ultimately exuded a mysterious allure as expression. He declared this was not ascetic discipline—yet was not struggle itself ascetic form? No—it was a manifestation of vital growth! The fate of larvae straining to grasp—was this not life’s very ascetic shape? Ah—where dwell our ancestors? Thus he fluttered his withered soul in struggle. It already lay within his grasp—yet he himself knew it not. Why? Because he too was human, no god. This was living humanity’s tragedy.

It is the burden he was born with. It is a sad fate.

A landscape, light, and shadow all too resplendent yet solitary.

He cast into modern civilization—not the mere charm of splendid yet profoundly mysterious primitive magic lantern images—what I earlier termed a "new shudder." People would gaze upon their own souls through that shudder. And thus elevate them.

And thus he led us to the entrance of Plato’s world of Ideas. Certain people who never truly sought to understand him became obsessed with pursuing his traces and crossed a long imaginary iron bridge. Those who followed no longer knew the way back. Ah, truly so many wandered there in misery—those blind epigones lost at the crossroads.

Is poetry that which leads people's souls astray, makes them rejoice, and kills them? If that is so, then his Blue Cat is the dreadful modern vampire cat—that apparition which phantasmally appears and vanishes between mountain and sea—a terrifying electric cat.

If poetry must be that which saves and purifies people's souls, then his poetry collection *The Blue Cat* should cleanse your very soul until people shudder.

In any case, all too "resplendent yet solitary"—his art will emit an ever more beautiful fragrance in any era where Japanese is read. For the essence of fragrance itself remains fragrance wherever and whenever it exists.

Indeed, the Blue Cat is a musk-scented uncanny cat.

It is neither symbol nor dream, but resolutely reality itself.

Kurahara Shinjirō

At the End of the Volume

The poems contained in this volume had appeared scattered across various published collections, beginning with the first edition of *The Blue Cat* and including the Shinchōsha edition of *Dreaming of Butterflies*. While they were scattered across other published collections such as the Daiichi Shobō edition of *Hagiwara Sakutarō Poetry Collection*—each differing slightly in verses and arrangement—this Definitive Edition represented the true version, having corrected all misprints found in circulating copies while revising its immature portions according to established principles. Therefore, all those who wished to criticize me based on these poems or excerpt them for other anthologies were henceforth required to consult this "Definitive Edition".

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