Pathway to Japanese Literature

Meiji 35 (1902)

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In my garden, the swing sways without cease—
on banana leaves' coiled fronds,
a fine spring rain.

A single night's bond—

Stepping on fallen camellias,
people grow dearer,
in this village where spring's seventh day
lingers wearily.

Flowing comes
the Kamo River's cold spring night—
Kyoto's railings,
the people there,
so lovely.

Drawn by flowers at dawn,
the sauntering path—
all who wander here
are lovely.

Treading on fallen pine needles
as I walk on,
the village draws near—
morning mist fills the road,
thinning,
thinning away.

As morning deepens,
the beach—cool to the eye—
small sandals,
jeweled sandals,
traces of ripples.

Meiji 36 (1903)

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Intoxicated by white, yellow, crimson—the many-hued chrysanthemums— / the old man next door slept late again today.

Aimlessly wandering the fields at dawn— / west of the mountain cleared, the rainbow’s hue thinned.

After parting, Kyoto’s white plum blossoms held no delight— / following the flute’s lead, I descended along the Kamo.

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The songs had endured ten years here—was there no emotion left from when I was young and embraced my mother?

Ōyashima—spanning Wadatsumi’s seas—Toyohata clouds raced across the heavens. How immense!

The drizzling rain fell—youthfully I was, yet could not bear the kerria’s turbulent sway.

A burst of yellow flowed—

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Gathering peaches, plums, violets, and my songs into a basket—

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If I could console this faltering end that sinks into darkness, then my happiness might suffice.

Through reverent seeking, I grasp your august hand—the very darkness that engulfs us I do not spurn.

Having parted from faith—this hollow self alone in desolation.

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Like one who had grown weary of red plum blossoms over twenty years, their talent withered naturally.

Approaching the door—a fragrance of drifting dreams lingered. Had someone wept here tonight?

How many years since we last met? My arms grown thin could no longer bear these tears.

At least I saw flowers that shared some delight with me—now, a path through fields that could not bear this desolation.

My siblings became a humble song; water that should warm my love flowed away.

The soul had returned to others, the corpse to me—
just as in primordial times, remnants shattered.

Nameless small grass—frost pillars of ephemeral blades—
would two people trample them as spring's last traces?

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A soul had now been born from the fields, untamed—
What had seeped was a thought as pure and sweet as the milk of fig leaves.
The days when I enshrined heaven and earth in song became yesterday—today, it was the spirit of the thistle that I longed for.
The pillow—a lone stone of vast heaven and earth—if only a smile might enter, I would sleep beneath it.
Having sought in vain and cursed faith, upon returning—my heart lay hollow, my body a mere shell.

When weary—call it human; when parched—more than others—come! Poetry is wine overflowing with joy.

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The birds sang; small camellias flowed in the water—yet in the mountain retreat’s diary, a solitary soul found no delight.

Along the shore, I knew not how to praise—yet Akahito’s Fuji stood pure white (at Tago Bay).

Distinctly startled, even the thistle could not part from the darkness—the evening cuckoo merely cried in the night.

If, in blessing, I were granted a single stroke of your noble hand, then like a flower I would scatter and depart.

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Even though my loneliness has crystallized into songs,
how many times have I lain prostrate in the grass? Turn it back from behind—Horse-Headed Kannon.

You had departed; what remained was I and this small world—
Leaning on the morning door—scarlet peonies scattered even now,
and the clouds I had glimpsed behind churned in disarray.
In heaven and earth, a single flow of water made into a boat—
should I forget that I too had existed? A dream.
Longing for the songs even more, yearning for them—unable to forget,
I went to Hagi Field.
Awakening to the vast sky’s stirrings—
autumn revived this child.

Lower than cactus flowers—summer clouds— / listlessness bears down on people, this tedium!

Even the wavering dream—if it were to finally lose strength and cease—then love would vanish.

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O love I cast away as fleeting—
the sorrow of its memory comes beckoning this evening.

Fragile—no songs to nurture this noble nation;
body steeped in loneliness, night's heart hollowed to nothing.

For blood in my chest—having surged then chilled—
sways, and so the poem throbs with pain.

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Is it because I belong to this human world or because it's autumn?—that through night's veil I hear tides murmur their elegy.

Seeing my songs merge with my very being—restless tears fall this endless eve.

To question others' lives wearies; to gaze upon one's own soul—unbearable weight of autumn's breath.

Serene Light—pupils eclipsed by pallid glow—autumn's cruel jest through dim radiance flows.

Resentment born from raven tresses' length—yet not mine hand that cast this world reproach.

Even tears shed to scent wild blooms' embrace could not withstand your noble sleeve's cold grace.

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Ah, O heartless one—how many days have I dwelled there in sorrow?

Once accustomed, even I—among the people—found peace.

Because of its scent, because of its flower—people grew old, cried and were cried upon—the deep crimson camellia.

The ephemeral self sang like insects chirping—an evening of transient things surely passed.

Lying on the grass, the beautiful one wept without ceasing, unable to part—the field darkened.

Though misfortune roamed fields and mountains because of you, even as it came to me—no loneliness remained.

Though lonely, one must neither resent nor lament.
If it were my world alone, it would have withered away.

Under the frozen moon, did the thousand grass flowers choke back tears?
The dew murmured with a sorrowful air.

In joy—now like me—the metamorphosed celebrant insect sang.
Joy sung upon the earth—autumn.

Clinging still, may the corpse endure upon the earth.
In desolate loneliness, may the spirit perish.

O this love, tangled beyond knowing its end—like red vines entwining a thicket.

Wearily was I made to think—the name vanished.
The love song compelled laughter at me.

Early autumn—wild geese traversed the mid-sky; the light that shone there was a sign of the spirit.

At the gate of the child who alone praised the world—prosper, prosper, scarlet magnolia flowers.

Something stirred in the gloom.
Unaware of day, as if summoned by weasels and moles.

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Is it a person or a tree spirit lurking? Called out, and it answered as though day had come.

At the chirp of young birds—morning clouds chilled the air—with someone one parted, unadorned and bare.

In white dew—a mind on the verge of vanishing—Mother consoled while picking autumn grasses.
Under the evening moon’s beckoning—Musashi’s Mother too once came—the night lured dreams of old.
A little rabbit grown gentle-pawed—Osmanthus’s lovely eyes—what words remained unspoken?

Meiji 37 (1904)

A child of Kyoto it was.

If asked by chance, it held no charm—the fallen leaves gathered with the Tennōji sister.

Because of its scent, because of its flower—people aged, wept and were wept over—the deep crimson camellia.

Awakening from the voice of melancholy, what I saw was a one-eyed dancing true cave—the dark world.

Spring lingered—the visage of one in morning slumber flowed away as shy clouds.

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Even as your shadow—so cruel and sorrowful to me—
if icicles form, my body must freeze.

When I sense it, I am intrigued—
this being crafted by God holds such fascination.

Memories of picking Imadegawa greens and washing them away—
how often do I detest this charmless day.

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The Asuka that soars through heaven remains unaware—
this longing belongs to one who, parrot-like, became Shakyamuni.

As I lingered on that day when an evening blizzard swept through Nishi no Kyō,
tears flowed unbidden from a love unvoiced.

Now that my song has grown dearer still—
looking back, how youthful my love once was.

Because I came as others instructed—"Be this way, be that"—
love never was.

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Ah, were there but a day when flowers bloomed fair in dreams, I would lend my chest to be torn out by the roots.

And thus once more—ah, this melancholy!—spring’s evening light.
Listen! The song of the sin-child cutting their own flesh.

Before the grand hall of Isuzu Shrine by Isuzu River, my verse resounds like a giant bell.

The scarlet peonies scattered in the garden’s voluptuous beauty—love congealed into a mass of thick clouds.

From what age did this breeze carry love’s fragrance—now transformed into a howling gale and blizzard?

My lacking wisdom dared to crave the song’s felicity.
I did not think of the world to come—nor desire laurels either.

As I wandered aimlessly, here was the Land of Names, the Land of Wisdom.
Once more I pondered: where had love gone?

When I asked in passing, Tennōji lacked charm—ah, the fallen camellia I had picked up with my sister.

In Place of a Friend Who Has Lost Their Mother

Night after night，someone blocked the way．
It was not a dream of sleeping beside Mother．

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The Dream Land had rivers where flowers bloomed—though even songbirds were said to dwell there too.

How nostalgic—the lump-removing demon of the old mountain’s woodcutter invited all to dance together.

A longing resembling a child of the pasture whipped death onward as if driving it.

Let there be hundreds of cold eyes on earth—
what suffices me for love are the stars in heaven.

If I raise my hand and beckon, the cows of the fertile field come and go—what would they speak of?

O morning cherries scattering slightly—if songs too exist in this season, dye them forth, I pray.

Summer clothes.

The hundreds upon hundreds of candle lamps for the send-off being cherry blossoms—if Tendō were to adorn this parting as such.

In the old well of the village where once-seen flowers scatter—the shadow that dwelled there—O young one, you and I.

How nostalgic—the lump-removing demon of the old mountain’s woodcutter—let us dance together.

Even if one held back tears in silence, would spring’s light ever deign to grant it?

Deemed Slavs by detached voices—I had to endure the imperial army while awaiting the day.

Now that Pan God’s domain had startled the world—how I could not bear this fitful solitude.

The spring wind crossing the field resembled a lamb’s neck-bell ringing gently through the wilds.

When I recite others’ songs, cold pierces me with pain.
If this chill persists—ah—my chest cannot contain it.

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Under the evening moon where Musashi’s mother once came, this night beckoned dreams of bygone days—ah.

When the moon was trodden upon, the name of spontaneous loneliness faded—people danced and smiled on the shore at evening.

As I went yearning, there lay the Land of Names, the Land of Wisdom—where was the love I thought of twice?

As we walk together, autumn rain swells—the path narrows. O person holding an umbrella—grant it unto me.

Meiji 38 (1905)

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In the plum garden of early spring—a sixteen-year-old girl’s lipsticked smile was lovely as blossoms.

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Oh you, who have forgotten the frenzied flaming chariot—how cruel the past was!

I only wished for days by your side—those thousand years like a dream.

When I thought of you from this longing heart, my chest burned nothing but fire.

Patterned songs and cattle's distant lowing—I waited for you as autumn fields deepened.

The wind blew—tree leaves struck ground. On that autumn night awaiting you, I dwelled in loneliness.

Ekatabira

In the mountain village was one who wrote letters—were they sealed shut, tachibana blossoms would spill.

Lamps encircled the wake night's story; pitifully aching stood a child yawning.

Ah summer day—with bamboo blinds hung wide enclosing us, I first sent a letter where I'd written "coolness."

The lesser cuckoo—a bright day during a break in the rainy season; as I sat listening to the sound of the great river flowing.

In the rainy season dusk where smoke drifted—like a dream, I walked the path alongside someone.

Osaka—I, in my childhood, clung to my aunt’s shoulder on the lumbermen’s chant street.

On a day when flowers bloomed brilliantly and lantern candles were lit, as we two went out, the moon rose.

Having planted a single mountain lily to await someone—O beloved one—on this festival day that dawned.

During a break in the rainy season, willows deepened their green by the gate; someone played a grass whistle as you passed by.

On an evening when they had built a kerria hedge, distance formed between us and the house where a girl lived.

Evening moon—at the bridge’s edge, white garments; mountain lilies that would not part from the person.

Cherry blossom shells—stacked two together—the sea’s essence; with a smile came the question of which held deeper meaning.

Robeiya.

With you, in whom shared dwelling holds little fondness—the Robeiya flowers planted in June.

Since you are a person of a small house graced with summer flowers—ah, even this love resembles a fleeting visage.

The fine color of bellflowers on a long-sleeved kimono—along with a nostalgic person—summoned tears.
At that house where a woman resembling an elder sister had also been seen—dianthus planted in Kyoto fashion.

Woven ballads and the distant lowing of cattle—the autumn field where I waited for you had deepened into night.

Oh you, who forgot the frenzied flaming chariot—how cruel you were!

Lay your hands and grieve, I beseech you—the field adorned with nineteen summer grasses of the loveless.

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The evening wind blowing through blue bamboo blinds seeped from the window where a beautiful person had finished practicing.

Cuckoo—women had many friends, and in that twilight hour when its cry grew familiar.

The rice ears, not tall enough to hide Asama—yet the sun kept shining on the child walking with you.

Along the path where the breeze sang and whispered, fireflies were caught in four sleeves.

Irises—viewed through the twenty-sixth-night moon’s glow—a person in a hemp robe.

On a spring night, in a certain alleyway, one was startled—by a water jar that loomed like some giant.

When meeting face-to-face, there was nothing odd about friends being present—yet parting tore through the chest until it lay in tatters.

Her right hand resting gently on her chest—a girl plucking herbs with her left hand.

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When I weep wantonly, crumbling in longing, this cold world feels only as if light gathers thicker.

Night is night, day is day—if I were to go on longing, Mount Etna would be burning.

The absurdity of thinking that hell’s screams—observed as if through clockwork—lie in wait.

In Shakuritsu, where one speaks to reeds—at the evening marsh’s edge, as a snipe takes flight, I thought of Saigyō.

Old year—a thought like a monarch surfaced in the pale autumn evening rain.

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In the evening clearing—wind through the cornfield—autumn had come with sleeves grown cold.

Ah, spring night—I recalled the dwarf who stayed up late singing, his smile charming at the corner of his mouth.

On a night when the cuckoo cried and we spoke of Mr. Fuji—since you’re a scholar, roll up the blinds.

In a country where the great river flowed during a break in the rainy season—to the north, someone dreamed of planting morning glories.

At the old house, do not pick the May flowers that had bloomed yesterday—the rain would begin to fall.

When you looked—the adorned streets that had grown in Nijo; hands holding fans crafted with elegance.

Meiji 39 (1906)

Days Drawn to the Window

Before the lamplight, you exist and I exist—joyful, yet words are absent.

Cold days—thinking of frost on the cucumber field; the moon peered through the window where someone bathed.

The heart that stays apart is lonely—yet how closely it resembles days meant to be lived by tending.

I dreamed of a solitary house on the mountain—upon waking, the bed was damp.

Ose Mountain—did those crass doctors not deign to see it again? Such was people’s worry.

How many star fragments reflected in the village stream’s depths must I count before I meet someone?

Sunflowers

He was startled—when he looked at the sun, it glowed red-hot and kissed the sunflowers.

People of scorching India are dark-skinned; even their manner of speaking takes on a weary form, I see.

At a southern window, splitting a banana fruit—I dreamt of someone with splintered hands.
Seeking the great road to China—the wanderer set out in the morning and did not return by evening.
Ah, awakening from a dream—startled by traces of tears, for a moment I thought in a childlike way.

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I was startled—when I looked at the sun, it glowed red-hot and kissed the sunflowers.

O-some-sama and Hisamatsu, having stayed close for so long, walked hand in hand through a darkness unmarred by deceit.

Meiji 41 (1908)

At the water market, autumn made its presence known.

A carriage passed by, drawn solely to admire the small purple flowers along the road—ah, such fleeting beauty.

Entering the shaded path where a thousand measures of water stirred unease—in a moment of daily life, something cried out.

Longing for the sea—when one climbed a mountain—the distant peaks were like waves; even the wind’s sound.

Two cherry shells placed side by side—with a smile, they asked which held the deeper essence of the sea.

Osaka—where Aunt scolded me and clung to my shoulder on Kiyari Street—ah!

Though unashamed of the world’s path, even I hid my songs from you alone.

The cuckoo, with many female friends—that twilight hour when their calls became familiar.

Meiji 42 (1909)

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Stab a dagger to my heart—
let it ring like uncorked champagne.

Even the folly of pounding a stone door with my fist—
I endure it all for your sake.

Meiji 43 (1910)

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The women scattered from a narrow alleyway, came running—no time to evade.

Though pleasurable, it felt slightly insufficient—like viewing an opera without its overture.

When evening deepened, they wandered aimlessly; pausing before the firearms shop, they stared at pistols.

Having approached the railroad crossing to die, they saw the train’s smoke and fled.

What a rare fear I felt—like embracing a woman for the first time in bed.

On spring nights, even that man striking the metal clapper in the theater's orchestra pit filled me with envy.

On festival days, lying awake in bed—I felt a joy akin to hearing the bells of temples.

In the afternoon’s HOTEL window, I see the cliff’s red earth stained with COCOA.

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When the beautiful prisoners’ carriage first appeared, the people all did not raise a cheer,

A cold wind blew—or so one felt—from the old enoki tree in the Akagi pastures of hometown.

In my childhood days when I went to buy bread—the Jesus in the frame at the storefront—I still have not forgotten.

February—the bridge in my hometown where I attended flute practice, dusted with thin snow.

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The tachibana flowers that long, resembling the melody of Kiyomoto’s Kanda Festival.

The faint sorrow of departing spring—the ruptured sound from Isotsupu’s marsh of frogs.

Unforgettable—the one who crossed Paris’s grand avenue at the motion picture’s curtain fall.

Yet as one of the clowns in this tragedy, I must live on.

My younger sister’s first love—how amusing—the young flutist of the orchestra plays on.

The heroic sunflowers too—alas, the people of this country sorrowfully deign to discard them.

Meiji 44 (1911)

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When I leaned on the railing and poured sake, autumn’s sorrow drifted even in the cup’s depths.

When snow fell dappled like a fawn’s coat upon Akagi Mountain, the hometown folk set up kadomatsu pines.

The red sashes that pulled the town’s food stalls—the summer I was fourteen, when love’s curtain rose.

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In the dim corner of a bar, the person taught me a path that was no path.

When I walked over the withered grass on the sand hill, insects flew weakly at my feet.

Saddened, I came to the February sea—there, along the water’s edge, a dog walked.

That bench gazed at the sea; that bench waited daily for a sad person.

At the veranda’s edge, a weary face smoked a cigarette; in the teacher’s house garden, cosmos.

Taishō 2 (1913)

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What do I sow? Himehigurama seeds. Thinking of you, I sow them with tears.

All things—beneath Hana Akashi-ya's tree shadow—no spring night compares to waiting for you.

Wearied, I pick chickweed—all for thinking of you as lingering snow refusing to melt.

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At dawn's first light, having risen early with a married woman—daylilies viewed from the train window.

The hyacinths swayed and bloomed, their life sustained by spilled fountain water.

At parting, each dewdrop on willow leaves glistening—the rickshaw departed, ah.

Yesterday and today, blooming as one heart—only Lobelias, only this sorrowful tale.

A flock of birds.

A flock of birds departing into the distance.

Looking back,

When I think of myself, tears never cease.

Sadly hiding from people,

In hometown I create poems and such.

My lack of decisiveness.

Having grown somewhat accustomed to loneliness,

Something indescribable—

I came to think fondly of this countryside.

I gazed upon that distant Mount Akagi.

In my room’s window had bloomed

Osmanthus flowers.

Lying on Kurobaa,

I gazed at nothing but the sky.

The middle school garden.

I would often skip school,

Drenched in tears,

Back when I walked through Koide’s woods.

In those days when we used to meet and wander together,

Hagitei by the park.

It still exists even now.

The prospect of alcohol

The loneliness of not getting drunk these days

I sang, yet...

Ahhh—still no tears came.

Even now—

I keep making these songs—

Having asked myself—

My old friend's mocking face.

I came to Shinshō Salon.

Late at night.

The tenderness of my whistling self.

At times, abruptly—

I threw the wine cup and sobbed.

"How pitiful!" Even my mother must have thought so indeed.

Displayed in the rice specialty shop,

I resembled the fool-faced doll—

The sorrow of this thought.

Leaning against the park bench.

Sorrowing,

I gazed at Asama's distant smoke.

Rendezvous.

The iris scent sachet pierced me—

Drooping bashful grass could not speak—

When summer came, the new moon glowed upon your light blue yukata's shoulder with cornflower patterns.

"What do you sow?" Himehiguruma seeds I sowed—

How fiercely must the poppy petals have glistened, seeping into my fingertips—how lonely they must have been.

(1913, 4)

Autumn Thoughts

From the fish’s heart that clings to fingertips— / coldly, autumn begins to flow.

The loneliness came when he thought how poignantly autumn had frolicked in Tokyo’s Asakusa Nakamise.

He sat on stacked lumber—his weary heart yawned deeply.

When one peered through a gap in the boards—autumn had already flowed far across shadowless foothills.

Seeing the stonecutter’s bloodshot eyes—he found desolation matching oak woods under autumn sunset.

Autumn of Old Days

(Songs Once Sung)

The autumn wind blew through playbills plastered at a backstreet barber’s corner.

In Yoshiwara’s faintly lit teeth-blackening ditches—a broken comb fragment glimmered.

Gaslight’s faint odor drifted over Kankōba’s darkened paving stones.

Crisply crunching their bootsteps—after the company had passed, the autumn wind blew.

On the way back from Kabukiza—the shabby mantle that wrapped around me, and the person I cannot forget.

Benkei

My dear

To the fishmonger Benkei

If only there were no cheap bar by the bridge— / Benkei too comes, gets drunk, and sings.

That drunken Benkei too, when autumn comes, stands by the roadside lost in thought.

Ah, the fishmonger mad with allure taught me that boisterous tune.

Seeing Benkei’s red nostrils beneath the eaves of a late autumn bar—such sorrow.

Staring at the bar’s dark floor—what must this man be thinking? Upon seeing the wine spilled on the dimly lit floor, Benkei suddenly let out a shout. Even the lewd jests of that Benkei grew sorrowful when heard in an autumn bar. How sorrowfully must he have been gazing at the crimson sunset through the bar window.

(1913, 10, At the Bar)

Bar window

When swallows darted under the bar’s eaves, I too entered.

Leaning against the window of a bar on the outskirts, I gazed at the melancholy autumn evening clouds.

The underpaid conductor clinked cups with me and spoke, filling me with sorrow.

Though one may lament the dissolute haunting of disreputable quarters, my loneliness had nowhere to go.

Though it’s not a Cognac drunk, / the moon of my hometown’s bar remains unforgettable.

I entered the liquor store when the faded banners of the Shimura Troupe were fluttering.

Who now would claim to fathom this futile heart of mine—so dissolute, so adrift?

(The following takes place in the park)

In late autumn’s gloom, through my hometown park I walked today, sorrowfully.

On the grassy field’s lawn, the handlebars of an abandoned bicycle gleamed in the dusk.

He touched the park’s monument stone—his grieving heart turned cold, and he began to weep.

(In Hometown Maebashi)

Ancient and Modern: Newly Tuned

Foreword

Ah, the nostalgic heart of old poems! Particularly the richly fragrant tones of Shin Kokinshū’s laments—they must be akin to alstroemerias blooming in a twilight garden.
Sipping the weariness of sensual exhaustion from cups of bitter mugwort wine, dreaming of symbolic illusions in coffee smoke—the modern bohemians, ever prone to fleeing their pure-hearted selves to elegant old nests, sought to learn the futile elegance of the defunct Tang through the tactile feel of this ancient poetry collection.
Ah—did the new generation touch Motoo while the Decadent school’s rising star Greek sobbed to the piano’s rhythm? In this world, none possessed pathos as profound as the heart of Lord Teika’s selected poems.

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Pale Snow

Plucking chickweed in desolate resentment—all because I think of someone as the pale snow melts away.

Acacia

In the shadow of the flowering acacia tree, there was nothing like those spring nights I waited for you.

The waterside Azumaya

On the day of sorrowful parting

Today passed—by the water’s edge, where cow parsley bloomed, how must they be weeping, rustling in the wind?

Dusk.

In longing for the one who did not return—a bent bow—
the snow began to fall as dusk deepened, so fleeting.

Thin ice

Seeing the rare thin ice, they dressed up—Miyagino-beya’s morning disarray.

Begonia

When the bush warbler sang by the pond, the white begonias enclosed the night and scattered by the pillow.

Chrysanthemum

The road overflowed with rickshaws clattering back and forth—today must have been the Chrysanthemum Festival.

On the bridge too, willow leaves are scattering.

The local folk of Enetcha, restless at heart—have the willows scattered all too much?

Untitled

With a gentle-hearted person, I walked along the water's edge at dusk.

The balcony corner.

Do others know or not?—the moonlit bay window where we kissed on that brief night.

From *Draft Notebook* and *Letters*

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How very much the evening shadow is longed for—people inquire.

The water moon hesitates, casting faint light—

The Scene of Niagara Falls in America

Crimson-stained mountains beyond—

The grand waterfall cascaded down.

The Scene of Amsterdam in the Netherlands

Above the shining blue sky, wordless—
Diamond Mansion Mantle’s foreigner
Serenely, rickshaws clattered back and forth.
Today must be the year’s first gathering.

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Under the serene sky, rickshaws clattered-clattered back and forth.

Today must be the year’s first gathering.

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Enoshima’s verdant waves—as in a dream,
I descended the Iwaya Path with someone—
how fleeting!

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Ah, ephemeral! By the pillow where illness remained unhealed—white lilies that had bloomed for seven days.