Pathway to Japanese Literature

The complete works were structured in two volumes, upper and lower.
Since the early works were included in the lower volume, historically speaking, one might have needed to begin annotations from there; however, respecting the deceased’s intentions, I instead started with what had been compiled first.

The 286 poems of *Snow on the Hearth* are composed, as noted in the colophon, of miscellaneous verses written between Taishō 1 (1912) and Shōwa 5 (1930).

Titled *Snow on the Hearth*, the ephemeral nature of this collection was something the author knew from the first.

There were times when people too viewed things with the spirit of the great cosmos; one felt that even their own art—which they believed to be an undying flame—must inevitably be ephemeral, being creations of humans who possessed such fragile lives.
To put that into words would have become mere self-deprecation.
This poem—not framed as rhetorical questioning—had anticipated from the outset the disparity between the motive the author sought to express and the results it would yield.
It was not that snow fell onto the hearth; rather, clumps of snow had been placed upon the fireplace's edge, squeaking as they melted away.
When we first lived in Fujimichō, I would gather snow from the small garden and often carve shapes of things with it to amuse myself.
This was something done atop the kotatsu.
When I carved things like a person's face and grew pleased with what I had made, perhaps I derived a hint from the foolishness of lamenting upon realizing that this object was, of course, snow destined to melt away.

Oh sun—is this not a wish equivalent to saying "Stay in the same place"?

It was a heart mourning departing youth.
This feeling—akin to wishing the sun’s celestial course would halt in one place—was something he mocked himself for.
I believe that what was provisionally expressed, being most fitting, achieved potent effect.
Moreover, the overall tone remained unhurried, showing no trace of the early middle age the author had feared.

Though he dwelled in the eastern land, he possessed no realm of the heart like others—such loneliness.

The place where he lived was indeed Japan in the Far East, yet within his own heart there lay no land of peace.
When he looked at others, none seemed to share his own anxieties; for him, this very fact was what pained him so.

He had finally come to know himself—yet were he to speak of this, people would mistake it for arrogance.

Lately, he has finally attained a state of mind where he feels he has come to understand what it means to be oneself.
I sing of this, yet it seems to invite misunderstandings as though it were mere arrogance; through this, I sought to express that such matters differ entirely from what one might call ordinary self-awareness.

With a whitish peach hue, the tade flowers stood like cheeks after tears.

If examined closely, the tade flowers were a pale red tinged with white, but the impression they gave was of a whitish peach hue.
The author was not failing to observe closely; rather, he expressed this by associating it with the beauty of the uneven pale red hue on a woman’s face after tears.
The frail yet youthfully vibrant appearance of field tade was what the author cherished.

Seeing a butterfly, I thought of love—whether catching it or letting it escape.

The butterfly that appeared before him led him to contemplate love. In the joy of capturing what was elusive and in the despair of losing it from his grasp—so it was said—he articulated the essence of what is deemed beautiful love. In this poem and others, one should recognize the author’s distinctive merits.

When a person feels lonely, they look up at the sky, and even the treetops seem to await something.

This one has some omitted words, so it must be read carefully. On days when one keenly feels human loneliness, the treetops before one’s eyes—much like oneself—unable to endure the solitude, can do nothing but await even a miracle’s arrival; thus they appear to be gazing distantly at the heavens.

A stone statue, half its face turned toward the twilight’s blue light, weeps.

The stone statue—half its face oriented toward the bluish evening light—was described not as merely appearing to weep, but declared to be weeping through this technique. It also conveyed, without explanation, that this was a female statue. I think it is an excellent poem.

How wondrous—even within my newly cut and read book, your eyes smile.

This would have been when a French book had arrived after crossing the sea.
A poem that said: Though one was cutting first one side then the other through papercraft—it being a poetry collection or some such book—how curious it was that within it, the eyes of a lover from a distant land with whom one had parted seemed to gaze at oneself with a smile.
This work had begun with an extravagant word like “mystery,” yet it lightly recalled a past lover—seemingly a fleeting jest but one that lingered indelibly in the heart.

Had I not been invited at this maddening love’s end, even then I would not have ceased—musk carnation.

It was a musk carnation; however, this was not a current flower.
Was this not a scene from the past that he had recalled while composing the previous poem?
A poem that spoke of a carnation with a fragrance containing such intense stimulation that it compelled these two—who had loved each other only in spirit—to reach every possible extremity.

A Chinese doll painted with red ocher and yellow ochre, readily fashioned into Yang Guifei.

This work spoke of a neighbor’s naivety—one who believed even Yang Guifei of Tang China could be rendered with simple pigments smeared on clay—but it also satirized a world where things merely resembling poems passed unchallenged as poetry.

Before me, a ship of early autumn whitened half the river as it hoisted its sails.

The author was standing on the upper floor of a house on the shore.
Though not a great river, it had a considerable width of water.
At first glance, the claim that “half the river was whitened” might seem exaggerated, but in truth, by treating the river as narrower than it was, he focused solely on that single point which appeared so beautifully to the eye in that moment.
The term “early autumn”—a different music from early spring and early summer—is deftly employed.

The waves upon the shore, adorned with pearls, spread smoothly like a dancer’s robe.

He described them as waves upon the shore resembling a dancer’s white silk robe adorned with many pearl ornaments flaring open.
Each wave crest often showed us a size comparable to the wide hem of a dancer’s robe, but it was only when phrased by this author that we realized, “Ah, indeed.”

Though the sun, that shining fish, was elusive, we cast our nets toward the sky.

The sun—that shining fish—might prove impossible to grasp, yet our nets had to be cast toward it without regard for others; it spoke of the resolve that human ideals must be placed high, that what we aimed for must not be base.

When a silver spoon touches one’s lips, its coldness is welcome—like wisdom.

The author said he liked the cold touch of a silver spoon.
It brought joy akin to what one feels when reason lifts its gaze within the realm of emotion.
“However, the essence of wisdom is something that never changes its silver coldness,” the author remarked with a smile.

Without hesitation, I take my own instinct as the measure to gauge the universe.

He prided himself on measuring the universe based solely on his own instinct—without relying on anything or anyone’s theories—and without any hesitation.

The swans that should be seen in the seas of Greece mingle with ducks, mingle with geese.

This unfortunate swan had not found its place.
The author lamented his own sorrow: not making the seas of Greece his playground, he mingled with filthy ducks and at times behaved as if among geese.

Soundlessly, after nuns in black robes passed, the sunset remained.

In the garden of a great temple in France or Italy, nuns clad in black mourning robes passed through in a line without making a single sound.
Afterwards, a crimson sunset became visible in the west, they said, making it a poem so eerily oppressive one could scarcely breathe.
The temple’s walls, roof, and trees were all darkened, but since they were not as black as the nuns’ robes, this went unremarked.
The sunset, too, was better seen when not spread too widely.

A shooting star that, trying to outpace all others, stumbles.

That was how it was.
The author said it was the same shooting star as himself.
That star had merely tried to surge ahead first, disdaining others’ pursuit, only to fail.
Compared to stars safely maintaining their former positions, he should have had no defect.
This was composed in a light tone, adopting a form suited to speaking of shooting stars.

Having called you a pink thistle that pierced my heart to pain, I would hate you.

Since that person remained as a mark of love so deep it stirred the heart, if I were to call them a flower, I would say they were a thistle.
Yet I would call it a beautiful pink thistle.
To speak of hating was to speak of loving.

This vine that spares its own flowers climbs skyward to bloom in the heavens.

The garden's owner sighed as he noticed that this vine plant, which refused to show its flowers indefinitely, seemed to aspire toward the heavens—believing it would only bloom upon reaching that realm—and thus endlessly extended its vines upward.
The garden's owner, being a poet who had lost interest in creative work due to not being placed in a favorable environment yet whose ideals alone continued to soar higher, sensed something in common between himself and this vine.

Though I met no great savior, when I wept alone, I found solace.

Though I encountered neither the saviors of which religionists speak nor the greatly compassionate Buddhist deities, when I simply wept alone in solitude, my heart softened and I obtained solace.

A sad poem that said when one weeps, even in this unpleasant world, quiet resignation arises.

More pitiable than a star hidden by trees was the pale evening moon over the plaza.

I say that greater love is held for the white evening moon—which boldly casts itself forth, showing the courage to willingly endure even the most piercing pain of rightful criticism—than for those stars that modestly veil half their light among tree branches. Speaking of the plaza above, the solitary pure light of the moon in midair shows itself to every eye.

My hatred, which sought to scorn all things, reached you and shattered.

The hatred toward life that sought to deny and scorn all reality had shattered the moment it reached the lover in a single thought, he said.
It would be better not to interpret this hatred as having attempted to manifest itself through suicide.
This was a feeling of one fleeting moment.

The sun of this morning’s naked sea drew the world into its net of light.

The sun upon the sea appeared to draw all the land we inhabit close at hand with a net of light.
The author saw him—that man called the sun’s great power—as a robust nude with healthy-looking red skin.
This was an interesting poem.

That a prologue should come after the climax—this is permitted only in love, alas.

There comes what should be deemed the final collapse, and once more the sweet mutual longing of beginnings returns.
A poem declaring this form—rarely seen in other matters, unquestioned by those who witness it—is a phenomenon confined solely to love.

Should my tears vanish transiently into the earth? No, no—they enter the sea called people.

Could these be my tears, with nothing to do but watch them seep sadly into the soil? So it might seem, yet the truth differs.
It is said what receives these tears is a lover’s heart vast as the sea.
The word *person* used here—though *love* or *you* would be clearer—fails to convey the weight the author intended.
I think the phrase “that person,” as a paragon among what we call lukewarm souls, is wholly encapsulated in this single term.

In Paris, while carousing at night, I acquired this wretched habit—snuff tobacco, alas.

The lodging in Montmartre where the author stayed housed several single women whom the lodgers called “Madame,” and I too saw that both these women and the hostess kept small silver boxes of snuff tobacco. During his longer stay at that house compared to mine, the author may have been present in the parlor where the women smeared snuff inside their nostrils while idling away the night in chatter—perhaps even trying it himself—but I believe this poem creatively imagines the sentiments of someone who, having briefly played the libertine in a foreign land, had just returned to Japan.
It is not the author’s life.

At times, Tokyo—oppressive—granted me a loneliness akin to foreign lands.

At times an imperial capital so oppressive it makes one feel the loneliness of a ten-thousand-mile solitary traveler—this was a poem lamenting such reality.

Adjusting the coat’s collar abruptly and looking down, one felt as though on a journey.

This was different from the previous poem.

A faint melancholy felt on a certain day’s journey was expressed in song.
Until that moment, I had thought nothing of it, but in the instant I tried to shield myself from the cold air with the hem of my coat, the sorrow I had tasted in an alien realm during a journey in some year and month suddenly revived in my heart.

Pale and brooding beyond all others—the twilight rose.

It was said to be a white rose with a pale face that appeared to brood more than we did, seen beneath a twilight sky already darkening—yet even when perceived as deeply pensive, it remained a flower whose beauty stayed undiminished, and people, though emaciated by love, seemed all the happier compared to it.

Amidst floating debris lay a boat’s solitary trail in the twilight river.

This appeared to be a river in the capital—not that its entire surface was covered, but where the author’s gaze fell, debris had spread widely enough to cloak the water.

They said this single path formed within was the trace of a boat’s passage—how magnificently must that waterway’s hue have shimmered with a clarity of light unmatched upstream or down in the river’s distant reaches.

The unsightly debris must have demurely withdrawn to both banks.

I pray that young Konohanasakuya-hime would transform my heart too into blossoms.

When a musician expressed interest in composing music for tanka, the author submitted several poems, and this was one of them.
The deceased often wrote this poem on hanshi (half-size calligraphy paper).
The deceased was pleased that a poem with a suitable and pleasant tone for invoking and addressing the god of spring had been created.
O Konohanasakuya-hime, wise ruler of blossoms, bestow upon his own heart too a fullness of flowers—thus sang the author, enraptured as one whose name remains inscribed in the register of youth.
He hopes to become a hero of flamboyant love.

The cactus tree, its palms spread like a sumo wrestler's, bore piled white snow.

Not merely large but also richly thick, the cactus tree with great leaves like a sumo wrestler’s splayed fingers bore snow piled white upon it.
To me, this large-leafed cactus was one of the things I disliked, but when I saw this poem, I felt the urge to take another look at this tree in some morning garden where snow lay white.

Looking up for no reason I can name, yet feeling I want to break just one thing—ah.

To others, I must have appeared as one gazing distantly, but within me grew this urge to shatter just one of those unseen things that bound me so painfully—or so it was said.

Is it dry lacquer or wood carving?—officials flicking the Nyoirin Kannon statue with their fingers.

Government office officials in charge came to an old temple in Yamato and, saying it was either a Buddha statue made of dry lacquer or a wood-carved Buddha, flicked their fingers against the blackened image of Nyoirin Kannon to inspect it.
Not only were they irreverent toward the Buddhist statues themselves, but they also showed no respect whatsoever for the profound ancient art.
They said they had thoroughly examined the nature of the antiques and considered their duty done, but this too was likely a work born of the author’s dissatisfaction with how the world perceived him.

Though I cried out that I would take that person’s place, it proved futile while bearing the same burden.

This was no love poem; I believe it to be a voice of grief and indignation born from friendship.
I had thought to rescue someone in pitiable circumstances through my own strength, yet upon turning back, found myself bearing an equal burden—unable to move a finger.
I grieved that even my raised cry had turned to emptiness.

Is there no prophecy that seven beautiful suns will rise for my tomorrow?

Could there be no prophecy to hear that in the world only I see, seven beautiful suns would rise? This poem expressed a wish for something that might at least encourage my unfortunate self about the future with such words—but the author had not merely lined up fantasies as letters to create things like seven suns; rather, he had vividly imagined all he desired—beauty, wealth, love, poetry—in radiant clarity. It was excellent that he declared with full confidence that he could grasp that happiness with just one more step.

A tower of humanity built upon the joy of having shared mutual affection in youth.

Built upon the recollections of mutual love from youth, this was a tower of humanity beyond religion.
I declared there was nothing else I worshiped besides this.

Like tarnished silver foil, sparsely gleaming—the catkins.

A folding screen adorned with silver foil had aged to blackness, and it was said that early spring catkins exhibited the same composed elegance as this screen, worn by touch to reveal scattered gleams.
The silver color of the whitened catkins’ buds could not quite be thought of as exactly that.
It also required an explanation that they were sparsely attached.

Fearing it will flee when I try to take it—this beautiful hand must be a beautiful bird.

At the moment he tried to take his lover’s hand, he feared his own hand might take flight before reaching there—that from the very next instant, he would have to taste an irreparable disappointment.
The reason such thoughts arose in him was that a beautiful hand shares the same nature as a beautiful bird—or so it is said—and the author was not merely attempting to speak of the hand’s beauty alone.
He demonstrated, by stating just one aspect of it, how greatly he idealizes that lover beyond reality.

At even the faint sound of roses scattering, the heart of love quivered—akin to timidity.

It could be interpreted as a mental state when two are together or a mood when alone, but I believe the author’s intention leans toward the former.
The faint sound of rose petals falling reached their ears, and since they both knew the other had heard it, their cheerful conversation must have naturally lapsed, leaving silence to envelop them both.
Those who love tremble with anxiety like cowards; the author fears that faint sound may have become a motive to turn the other’s heart elsewhere.
Though it may seem pitiable, in truth, this too is a manifestation of a tense heart; the author knows that even as it borders on cowardice, its essence differs.

Beneath the dim lamplight of the basement, seven chairs—a poetry gathering resembling a secret society.

I too seem to have been among those present at this gathering, though I cannot clearly recall when or where it occurred.
The author, cradling that small notebook in his palm while murmuring verses he composed, must have thought—when he suddenly looked up and noticed the lamp’s dimness—that this resembled the meetings to form secret societies often depicted in novels of Imperial Russia.

Even the oft-spoken words of this lonely world become momentous when heard from you.

The word “lonely,” used everywhere—when heard from a lover’s lips—what an impact that must have struck! That indeed had to be deemed a momentous event.
Even when loved this deeply, did it still leave one feeling wanting? Was there a flaw in the environment? What compelled the lover to say “I’m lonely”? Though such rapid self-reflection occurred, the fact that the other was somewhat underestimated could be discerned in the poem’s tone.
When I cry, “Save me from the unbearable fire of longing,” you too cry out.

When he raised a final cry to save his heart, burning in passion’s flames and on the verge of breaking, it is said that the same words were also shouted from his lover’s lips. To speak of calling out or screaming—these acts were not directed toward another world, but rather within a world of their own; this goes without saying. This avoids the polished finish characteristic of this author’s usual style, and the passages where it is deliberately phrased without formal airs stand in direct opposition to the technique of the previous poem.

What overflows is but a moment; the river mostly reveals ugly stones.

This is a symbolic poem.

The abundant youthful emotions that overflowed from his heart and effortlessly yielded many satisfying works of art were akin to the vigorous mountain streams visible only after rainfall—something that could not endure for many days. Afterwards, he was left only dwelling painfully on a dried-up, hardened mind. He meant this as self-mockery—comparing it to a mountain stream cluttered with nothing but ugly stones.

Though the factory whistle blows, it is not a voice calling me; there is nowhere to go.

The author walked dejectedly through the town.
Around this time, the whistle signaling the start of work sounded at a nearby factory.
However, that was not something that called out to him.
A poem stating that while the men and women who had walked the same path in the same direction until today all had their cheeks somewhat flushed by the recent sound, he himself continued to walk aimlessly, still without knowing where to go.

Whenever I hear strangers censure me, once I hated; now I feel loneliness.

When I heard rumors of people who did not know me well censuring me, I would often feel furious in the past.
Now, even in such moments, I find myself not angered but only made to feel the loneliness of life ever more deeply.

A crimson autumn leaf placed on my hand—like a spell to restore youth.

I held a single crimson-stained maple leaf upon my palm; so dearly cherished that I could not bring myself to discard it for a long time.
He had said remaining thus would be akin to a youth-restoring spell, but the leaf was neither maple nor persimmon—it seemed instead a slender, delicate cherry blossom leaf.
Though he never uttered "beautiful," it was fully conveyed to the reader's heart.

If I weave it upon my loom, even loneliness should become celestial cloth.

If he, as a poet, took into his heart even loneliness—which would be painful for ordinary people—it could be made to serve a part in achieving exceptional creations; in this, the author’s confidence was fully instilled.

How ceaselessly they cry—astonishingly long and clamorous! Cicadas who know nothing of brief songs.

How endlessly they must have continued to sing—these cicadas.
What loquacious cicadas they were—noisy, irritating! They possessed no technique to succinctly and thoroughly express complex emotions within a mere thirty-one syllables.
The author stated they were pitiable cicadas.
Cicadas were indeed such creatures; yet within the heart of the author who heard their voices lay an exasperation toward those who waste needless words crafting clumsy long poems of scant effect.

The noise could still be endured; the loneliness of wearing labor uniforms.

This too was a symbolic poem.

Though it was described as if observing Soviet cities, the author’s true intent lay in lamenting the vulgarization and massification of literature—stating that while one could still endure those vulgar, clamorous noises, it was truly unfortunate to be forced to gaze upon a crowd where not a single person wore anything but labor uniforms.

In times of sorrow, he would smell a rose and cast it aside, like a monk drawing a cross upon his chest.

When sad feelings arose, I would smell a rose; then try shaking it in my hand—this was my habit.
A poem stating that this act was performed in the most sacred mood, like a religious devotee invoking the Lord’s name and tracing a cross upon their chest whenever moved by circumstance.
Though it being a rose meant no lover was mentioned, what the author—who smelled this flower like a monk pursuing divine visions—contemplated was unmistakably the image of something youthful, beautiful, and fragrant.

At Hernani’s love banquet, how the dreadful horn of death resounds!

I once viewed the play *Hernani* by Hugo, performed at the Théâtre Français, together with the deceased.
The author said he liked it and had seen it several more times.
Because I had previously read Mr. Osanai Kaoru’s translation and knew the plot, I was able to watch this play relatively easily.
The deceased must have been the same.
Hernani, as atonement for a certain indiscretion witnessed by his romantic rival, had made a pact to surrender his life whenever called upon; at the climactic banquet following the wedding within the castle walls, the sound of the horn—to be blown when claiming that life—resounded. Before the newlyweds, trembling in fear as they cling to each other, the old man soon appeared and declared he had come to collect. Though tormented, the two drank poison and perished. Yet the author laments that it is not only in Spain’s past but even now that our fates are often imperiled by such calamities—though the word “love” exists here, it merely substitutes for “happiness.” This is no song of love.

Having tried to polish it only to shatter it—afterwards, there was none who would call these fragments jade.

It was undoubtedly jade that someone had tried to polish but ended up shattering, yet no one would acknowledge that these were fragments of jade, not mere pebbles.
The author seemed to have thought—had it been left unpolished and cloudy, its identity as jade would have gone unquestioned—yet the spiteful world did not necessarily affirm this.
O unfortunate author.

Let them call it a sand tower if they wish—I stand amidst the ephemeral.

Even if those without goodwill called this a sand tower devoid of permanence, it mattered not—so went his verse. A poem declaring that it was I who strove to entrust my singular philosophy of life to art and give it voice, even amidst impoverished days.

Thinking excessively of the distant one unaware of my love for Genji orchids

During the time when the late Mr. Shibukawa Genji was residing in Qingdao, Shandong Province, he had photographs taken of his cherished collection of one hundred varieties of orchids and sent them. Genjishi had left his lover behind in Tokyo. In this instance, “waga” carries the implication of “my beloved.” “My lord,” “my country,” and “my wife” do not merely signify possession. Lately, some people indiscriminately use the term “aga ko” (“my child”), but that is a phrase meant to address someone as “dear child.” In *Genji*, instances where “aga kimi” appears are strictly limited to situations requiring deliberate flattery. It does not exist in conversations between men and women with self-respect. The tone became overly sweetened, and a meaning distinct from “waga” emerged. Now, the author had deep sympathy for his friend Genji. To say that he had been fond of orchids of late was merely a solace for the heart when a lover living apart became unbearably longed for. She pitied him for distracting his mood with orchids.

In the corner of the granary, young seeds breathe—the spring they await, humans too wait for.

Today there were vibrant seeds stored in the dark corner of a granary, sighing yet burning with anticipation for the coming spring—and there were humans who, with the same heart, longed for future light.
The author stated that at the very least, he was such a person.

The young child writes "First Spring" with characters boldly leaping—in this morning's world.

This was the writing that the youngest daughter Fujiko produced during her first calligraphy of the year one spring, characters brushed onto a half-cut sheet of blank paper.
Both "Dai" and "Haru" had been executed with a vigor adults would deem impossible.
The author had been delighted by this boldness.
Our new spring had been invigorated by this child.
They rejoiced that the orderly house on New Year's morning had grown even more lively.
This world here centered around the interior of the house—a somewhat narrow sense.

While winding the stopped pillar clock, I suddenly conceived a thought that defied heaven.

While winding the spiral of the pillar clock that had been still until now, I suddenly conceived an audacious thought.
I believed that a power capable of disregarding even the laws of nature filled my being.
In other words, I had come to think the flow of time was nothing significant.

If silence were ice, then my existence would be a peak now bitterly cold.

If one were to liken the state of remaining silent to ice, then where I now stood should be called the bitterly cold peak of a snow-clad mountain—by this I meant that those who stand wordless before an uncomprehending world, withholding speech that ought to be spoken, endure a cold so piercing it feels as though their very bones are being whittled away.

Placing myself in love—"White jewel, become one in a fragrant handbox," I said—

Now, I was a person wholly devoted to love.
The meaning was that I had resolved thus: only love—imbued with rich fragrance and existing beyond fame and profit—would truly soothe me, for I wished not to place my position, which I would liken to a white jewel, where it might easily be damaged.

Even the person standing at the crossroads waving tram flags—the days they waved them would have been enjoyable.

This was an impression gained from the streetscape of Tokyo during an era when traffic signals and such had yet to be established.
The people standing at crossroads like Suidobashi or Jinbocho, waving blue and red flags—though theirs was a wretched task—likely felt no different a satisfaction when their flag-waving was skillfully executed than we did upon completing a fine creative work. In Mr. Takamura Kotaro’s poem, there had been a line where seeing the deftly trimmed edges of a door closed by a roof thatcher made one sense this too was art—a work by the same man who wielded sculpting blades. I recalled this as an instance where he revealed an unnoticed beauty in such skillful acts that others overlooked. Here was sung the recognition that the joy of creation resided even there.

All women, more fleeting than meteors, have passed before the eyes of my Yonosuke.

The protagonist of Saikaku’s *The Life of an Amorous Man* (here, “my” does not mean he himself loved them, but rather that the author Saikaku loved them) engaged with many women who held no more value than meteors in the sky—casting but a momentary light in Yonosuke’s eyes—and should be understood as having disappeared one after another.
It states that while there was no woman who inspired in him undying devotion throughout his life, this does not necessarily mean Yonosuke should be deemed frivolous.
There might be a trace of the author’s self-justification mixed in.

A person in December, aligning with a heart that admires itself, breathes in the white plum’s fragrance.

Early in December, he inhaled the fragrance of white plum blossoms that had bloomed ahead of season—a scent he breathed in with a sentiment akin to admiring himself.
He loved this flower all the more because he harbored within himself something akin to the white plum’s pure fragrance—the person being none other than the author himself.

When the grass greens, is there nothing on earth that scorns time?

Was there truly nothing upon this earth with the courage to defy the promises nature had imposed? Such were the thoughts he found himself thinking each spring, as young grasses greened in their annual custom—and within this song one saw a seething discontent that could not rest without stirring something into being.

When I turn my gaze, in the corner burns and waits a rose—more than the world’s love, more than anything.

With the phrase “suddenly looking at a corner of the room,” one understands that until that moment, the author had been tormented by a certain thought. There was a rose there that showed a crimson as fierce as burning blood. The term “world” here refers to the people of the world. At the same time as positing that this was a rose—one showing a fervor unlike the lukewarmness of the lover he pursued, waiting for his approach—the author let out a sigh. Might not even the word “wait” be one that arose because the response from the person to whom longing had been confessed was not what had been hoped for? It is to say “more than anything else and all other things,” but he does not particularly emphasize it.

In this country, I feel no sudden shame in my murmurs—winter’s lapis lazuli sky too stands blessed.

In Japan, I found myself sighing discontentedly and felt ashamed.

For something called winter, how about this vivid lapis lazuli sky?
Wasn’t Paris’s winter gloomily overcast every day? The author thought—wasn’t I the one now residing amidst the blessed natural surroundings of the East?

When I wrote my beautiful heart across the sky, the evening star placed a golden period.

I gazed at the evening sky and thought of pure love.
I became one who transformed thoughts into beautiful words, writing them upon wide blue paper.
This poem tells how the evening star that then appeared set a golden punctuation mark upon my writing.

Who strikes my brow with a whip? Awakening, I find it is the book in my hand.

Something snapped against his forehead.
When he awoke and considered who had delivered this rebuke, he realized it was a reprimand from the book resting upon his hand.
The author had not been fully asleep.
Nor had he been dreaming.
That he had closed his eyes and temporarily forgotten himself was also due to the warning already issued from this good book.
The one who wished to chastise the foolish self existing before encountering this was naturally the author himself.

If one catches it in a large umbrella, even the rain dancing in a flurry becomes pleasant.

At the moment the large umbrella was opened, he felt a pleasant sensation—akin to rain scattering and dancing above.
It states that the rain shares our heart’s delight in novelty and change.
This seems to be summer rain.
No cold was felt.

In a corner of the world, I hold a single cool gaze and think only of remaining tranquil.

A song that says: Lately I find myself wishing only to protect this self of mine—equipped with sound judgment to discern good from evil and beauty from ugliness—and remain a quiet presence in some unnoticed corner, never emerging onto the world’s surface, for such an existence would surely bring happiness.

Waves of time ceaselessly come crashing, seeking to bury human bodies in endless sand.

The wave called time, ceaselessly crashing forth, sought to bury every human being in this world within the lonely sand of death.
The author had moments when he shuddered thus.
I do not think the author has been perpetually buried in lonely colorless sand.
I believe that even this heart of mine, which merely thinks of the deceased, forms a brocade of a hundred hues.

Still lingering awhile in yesterday’s dream—eyes upon awakening sweet and heavy.

Though I make no attempt to defy my reason’s decree that this is someone who ought to be forgotten, nearly all my emotions remain occupied by that love.
I am the one who feels what might be called the mood of awakening eyes on a good morning after a pleasant dream—that sweetness and heaviness of half-sleep.
It is not that I fear the approach of this promised awakening.
I find it remarkable how such complex emotions could be expressed so concisely.
The word “yesterday” here is no simple utterance.

From behind the curtain, you peer out, a water-blue cornflower clutched between your fingers.

As I passed beneath, my lover peered outside through a gap in the window curtains.
This speaks of clutching a water-blue cornflower between one's fingers—a gesture seldom seen among Japanese women, yet one that strikes me as bearing the coquettish airs more common to foreign women.
Through this poem I can see clearly—as if before my eyes—the cornflowers that bloomed abundantly in the garden before our Parisian inn.

Adorning ourselves with flowers together—ah, how we lament that our youth will not return!

This too seems to have been born from reminiscence of the same person.
The flowers too were likely cornflowers.
Or perhaps they were white marguerites.
The word “adorn” may also refer to a man tucking [a flower] into his suit’s breast pocket.
Adorning our chests with matching blossoms—knowing youth slips away so easily—we drew close, cradling inner flames, and whispered that it couldn’t be helped even if this were sin or worse.
To lament means their love harbored unease at its core.
That scene demands a leek-green garden bench.

Having a garden beside me filled me with joy; I gazed upon you, fragrant one, so near.

I thought it likely not meant as a garden blooming in riotous profusion.
I was granted a happiness akin to dwelling in a house neighbored not by some dazzling showpiece of a garden, but by one of such beauty that passersby might feel faint envy toward its owner.
This came from sitting knee-to-knee with this beauty, she explained.

A single sunflower arranged—a lapis jar brimming with happiness.

When one arranges a single sunflower in a sapphire jar, they say the very shape of happiness becomes visible overflowing outward. One understands it was a solitary bloom large enough to envelop the entire vessel—a flower at its most vigorous peak. This slight tilt must have conjured associations of spilling abundance. Yet this stands as a symbolic poem: where sunflower voices passion and serene azure jar cradles his contemplative heart—a duality capturing both composed middle-aged love and woman’s ardent devotion.

Is it the heavenly sun’s dream seen in April daylight? On Muko Plateau, azalea flowers bloom.

I thought perhaps this was the dream that the sun in the sky saw on a spring April day.
The place where these azaleas bloomed in their glory was said to be the highlands of Mount Rokko, and the flowers were likely not white but crimson and birch-colored.
Mount Rokko derived its name from ateji—characters initially applied phonetically as "mukoyama"—which later became established as its Chinese-character reading.
Near the summit, what formed a rocky plain consisted of shrubs, mostly azaleas.
The author had cherished such scenery and often spoke of wishing to visit Shinshu during the season when azaleas bloomed from Karuizawa to Asama, yet this wish remained unfulfilled.

In a corner it sits, listening intently—a water-colored jar like a blind person.

In a corner of the room sat a water-colored ceramic jar.
It remained motionless, ears pricked, attempting to catch even sounds beyond ordinary hearing.
This was a song evoking a jar that called to mind the seated figure of a sensitive yet faintly disagreeable blind person.
It grasped something with such chilling certainty that one felt a shiver.

Though it is a dream written upon flowing water, how difficult to erase through my own strength.

This song took up the sentiment of the *Kokinshū* verse—"More fleeting than numbers traced on flowing water is yearning for one who does not yearn"—and lamented that though unaware of such futile thoughts, he could not shatter this fantasy through his own willpower. It would be more fitting to interpret this not as a love poem but as voicing what others might deem an eccentric hope folded within his breast.

A silvery ribbon faintly drawn through departing cedars—a single river at the grove’s depths.

This is a Hakone poem.
The author had visited Hakone countless times for leisure, but I recall this poetic excursion being in the tenth year of Taisho.
He stayed one night each in Tōnosawa and Sokokura.
I believe this describes the view of the Hayakawa River seen when descending from Gōra to Miyanoshita.
The author gazed upon the river flowing through cedar-covered mountains on both banks—a silvery ribbon faintly trailing through them—as beautiful.
It was a slightly turbid flow on an early April day when spring rain was falling.

At the tunnel exit, a friend waiting for me blows a blue bird whistle in the twilight.

This was during the same time when we had gone out from Tōnosawa to see Tamadare Falls in Yumoto—at the tunnel exit, our friend Mr. Nishimura Isaku leaned against the wall, playing a flute he had bought at a souvenir shop.
I think the loneliness of mountains sinking into twilight is well captured here.
Yet one sees the loneliness of a season that is neither autumn nor winter.
Through words evoking blue hues and resonant sounds, and through the friendship of waiting for me, it conveys a hushed spring.

A ship clad in white comes running like a girl through peach-colored light.

Upon reading up to "clad in white," I thought it spoke of a girl approaching beneath the dawn sky—but no, it meant a white-hued ship advancing in such fashion.
A swift small boat emerged, its lively force made manifest.
This seems to be a summer poem.

Chastising and striking my flesh—having erred—I have shattered even my soul.

In his extreme self-reproach—seeking solely to atone for previous day's licentiousness through relentless self-denial—he had erred grievously.
From the punishment wrought upon his body, even his spirit had shriveled pitifully.
The author declares this outcome lay entirely beyond expectation.

O loneliness—seeing my thinning hair these days, even forced smiles grow all the more fitting.

It is a desolate fact.
To explain what that is—seeing my hair receding ever wider at the forehead and falling out, calling it comical and forcing a laugh to show others—I find myself pitifully lonely.
Though there may be times when one forces a laugh without sincerity, this goes too far—it is a poem that speaks of reflecting upon this act of making oneself ugly.

Unseemly mirrors with frames removed stand conspicuously—autumn in my home.

A mirror that had lost its frame and had its backing peeled away, leaving only its bare form with an ugly appearance—it was said that in that chilly autumn, such dreary things easily caught the eye and often wounded him in those days.

Women trail their hems from the Hall of Mirrors and gather at the window—the autumn night’s moon.

The Hall of Mirrors referred to a room in the Palace of Versailles lined with mirrors.
It had become one of the grand halls, its window opening toward a vast forest.
These were ladies in trailing evening dresses who had just emerged from the Hall of Mirrors into an adjacent room; it was said they gathered by the wide window there and gazed at the garden brightened by the autumn night’s moon.
It depicted a scene from the court of Louis XIII and XIV, akin to palace poetry in Chinese verse.
Yang Guifei—who had leaned against the northern railing of Chinkō-tei gazing at peonies—was imagined akin to peony blossoms themselves, while these noblewomen of the Louis court evoked beauties reminiscent of an autumn moon.

Before a cloudy sky and white waves, a completely naked person casts a net.

A cloudy sky hung above, and white waves rose on the sea below.
It was said that before this scenery stood a naked person casting a net—the solemn impression lay in imagining a single fisherman there—but I thought it better to envision several fishermen.
I did not consider these words alone insufficient to express it.
Even had the combined strength of many naked men been gathered, it would still have been small against the vast sea or sky.

All trees sharpened into crosses, and the sun too shone as a cross upon the winter-withered land.

Every tree appeared as a cross, and the sunlight falling upon them took cruciform shapes that rendered them even less visible—a desolate garden scene on a winter-withered day.

Autumn, like a Bodhisattva on an elephant’s back, aged with ultramarine and white pigments.

Like an old Buddhist painting of Fugen Bosatsu riding an elephant’s back, autumn was white and ultramarine, rusting day by day into antiquity just as that painting did; the author envisioned Fugen’s robes as painted with azure mineral pigments, his face thickly layered with gofun.
Moreover, the figure of the elephant painted gray from the very beginning must have been reflected in the author’s eyes.
The author saw the deepening autumn in this way.

At the theater entrance, one felt a sweetness akin to entering while turning one’s back on everything.

At the theater entrance, there was a satisfaction in knowing that one had now, if only temporarily, placed oneself in a world severed from society.

It is a poem that speaks of faintly perceiving that this was the moment when one felt the pleasure of being able to turn one’s back on all things displeasing and leave them behind.

In that corner, someone stood shouting, yet above the crowd only waving hands could be seen.

In one corner, a certain notable person stood delivering a speech in a loud voice, yet nothing could be heard; above the crowd, only the waving hands appeared comical—but the author of his later years, who detested argumentation, declared such things to be nothing but wasteful expenditures of energy. We should take this as reflecting his conviction that young people ought to devote themselves solely to creative work.

Two men striking fists—how effortlessly they assume the form of rejecting all!

To those who have never seen fists, this poem might prove somewhat difficult to grasp.
They shape their fingers into myriad forms as they clash with their opponent, yet among these exists a posture where both hands thrust forward with palms upright.
Compared to configurations using two or three fingers, this stance appears more flamboyant and arresting to the eye.
The form embodies a posture of absolute refusal.
The author observed from afar how exhilarating it would be if one could, like those men, so readily manifest the will to reject everything.

It is a poem in which I lament that I cannot show the world two hands thrust forward with palms upright.
When I entered the riverside teahouse Kawajin on the Edogawa with Mr. Ishii Hakutei and others during cherry blossom season, people in the far room were striking fists—from our position, only their fingertips were visible—and this author too has a poem about that amusing sight.

A youth who parts ways after lightly exchanging vows of certainty.

Young people make promises so casually—from eternal love to commitments years ahead—but I know well from past experience how rarely these are kept.
I myself never fulfilled a single one of those easily made pledges from my youth.
Rather than warning young people that "You too shall taste nothing but bitter regrets like mine," I see this as a poem that endlessly cherishes the simple youth one might have preserved.

A mountain softly about to enter the sea, supported by the rocky shore—a white castle, ah!

There was a headnote stating "In Italy."
Though I have never seen Italy myself, the place described in the author's poem appears to be southern Italy - where a softly contoured promontory extends toward the Mediterranean Sea, culminating in a white château that seems to arrest the mountain's silhouette at its terminus.

I too went beneath the spring lights of Ginza as one among the people of Parisian nights.
I too walked where Ginza’s spring lights were lined up.
However, in feeling, I differed slightly from the other people gathering there.
My feet were not steps that carried me through present pleasures but chased the past.
It was said that I was now trying to gain the sensation of parting through the crowds on the Grands Boulevards of Parisian nights.

There, when they spoke of meeting nightly, Mr. Nishimura Isaku walked along Ginza-dori.

The poems lined up on this page were all of a light tone.
While three or four people were talking of such things in Ginza's night, Mr. Nishimura Isaku—the very subject of their whispers—passed along the pavement ahead.

From the café, lamplight fanned out, illuminating the snow of Ginza on a spring night.

It was said that the lamplight from the entrance fanned out into a widening arc over Ginza's snow, but here it was the light of a café—distinct from an ordinary home—where rich interior hues and pale exterior tones seemed to form a pleasing harmony.
It was undoubtedly early spring snow.
Needless to say, the author was watching from inside the café.

When the youthful crowd sang drunkenly, even I at a table on one side found it amusing.

This does not refer to those sitting with the author at a corner table, but rather to clusters of young people gathered here and there.
Even before they grew drunk enough to sing out, their cheerful voices had already delighted the ear.

"Pour more"—a low voice faded. Waiting for whom? The white nape at the corner table.

“Another one,” the woman said in a low voice, pointing at the cup on the table to the garçon.
The figure impatiently awaiting someone promised to meet here at this hour appeared as a beautiful white nape bowed so as not to show her face outward. Yet this poem also revealed how the author felt a measure of envy toward the happiness of the man being waited for.
This was a work that, while in Ginza, illusorily depicted distant Paris and old recollections.
By deliberately omitting words and only stating the shape of her neck, he had entrusted the woman’s feelings to it.

Through you, I first hear tomorrow's songs—the arrival of spring amidst the frozen.

This was one of the poems composed for the preface to Mr. Yoshida Seiichi's poetry collection *Spring Whistle*.
Through this author, I had been able to see the future world for the first time and hear tomorrow's poems.
Our surroundings had now completely frozen over.
It was because this poetry collection had brought the arrival of spring at such a time that I felt delight, and within it, convictions were expressed without departing from the flute in its title.

Rain on the highway through pines bathed in the crimson flow of sunset.

It seemed to be summer’s unseasonable weather.
From a house set slightly back from the Tōkaidō highway near Fujisawa, the author appeared to be watching.
Since these were old roadside pines, large trees formed a row, and the sun sinking near Ashikaga cast a red evening glow across the sky that served as the background.
On this highway, rain was now falling.
It seemed to be a rather heavy rain.

Having forgotten to ask the world why—how tranquil this hollow heart.

The feeling of wanting to demand of the world why I must be ignored had, before I knew it, turned into resignation; thus, my present state of mind—having forgotten both hatred and sorrow—was tranquil.
This was a poem that said this emptiness was something to be cherished.
Of course, this was an emptiness that only the author himself designated as such.

While galloping as though unaware of sorrowful things, the circus horsewoman scattered roses.

As long as one was human—and especially given her circumstances—she must inevitably bear sorrow, yet here she scattered roses from horseback, this circus horsewoman of whom it spoke: acting as though she felt no grief, as though she had forgotten.
This too was not a circus the author had seen in Japan, but rather one he likely witnessed while filled with nostalgia during his travels in Paris.

Among them, a white peacock’s pride trailing long in evening robes—ah!

The author penned this verse about one particularly striking noblewoman moving through the corridors of the Théâtre Français; yet one might equally interpret it as depicting someone he envisioned appearing more resplendent than all others, clad in white attire at a soirée in some grand mansion.
During the author’s Paris years, women’s evening gowns often trailed hemlines four or five feet long.
There existed a shared quality between the white peacock’s regal pride—like that of avian royalty—and the self-esteem manifested outwardly by that figure.

May my brush, like Michelangelo’s chisel, reveal people where it strikes.

It was said that whatever the master Michelangelo’s chisel struck—be it rock or wood—became a living person; he wished his own brush could do the same. The author expressed this aspiration: that whenever one might set out to write, all phenomena would become poetry without fail.

A field in early summer lay spread over the hill like patchwork of various Persian cloths.

It must have been the flower garden of Matsudo Higher Horticultural School.
The field appeared as though they had cut and pieced together various kinds of Persian sarasa—patterns rich in color and dominated by straight lines—into squares and rectangles laid over the hill, likely because it was early summer, a season brimming with diverse flowers.

That it is difficult to grasp with my own hands—how I wish they had not known this.

I do not wish to be forever granted the awareness that this is a hope unattainable no matter how much I strive by my own power.
It speaks of not wanting to abandon this fantasy forever, and while it could be interpreted as a love poem, since this is a relatively late work of the author’s, I believe it more appropriate to view it as something beyond that.

Since it remains unseen by most eyes, people will not know—though in my heart I pray and bleed.

This too may seem like a love poem, but I do not believe it to be so.
To ordinary eyes, I must have appeared carefree; yet it should be understood that I endured suffering so intense it felt as though my heart bled for the sake of devotion to the path of art.