Pathway to Japanese Literature
Discover Japan's stories—across time, across language.
Ice IslandAuthor:Hagiwara Sakutaro← Back
Author's Preface
Modern lyric poetry generally tends to overemphasize sensation, rush into Imagism, or indulge in intellectual compositional designs, forgetting the singular primordial expression of poetic passion.
Conversely, this type of poetry is now criticized as simplistic and categorized among poetry's primitive forms.
Yet I maintain that diversity's ultimate form is monochrome, complexity's extremity lies in simplicity, and all evolved techniques ultimately return to artless natural unity.
The Idea that poetry as art ultimately attains through all historical development resides in nothing but Poesy's most fundamental primordial substance—that is, the pure and simple lamentation of poetic passion.
(In this sense, the author considers Japan's waka and haiku to be the future form toward which modern poetry's Idea aspires.)
Setting aside such reasoning, at least for the author, the few poems collected in this volume were purely passionate lamentation poetry that simply and directly expressed only the most unadulterated excitement of poetic passion.
In other words, the author abandoned all artistic intentions and ambitions, writing solely 'from the heart,' entrusting himself to natural emotions.
Therefore, the author himself never intended to present the value of this poetry collection to the world.
The proper critique of this poetry collection was likely not so much an artwork as a record of the author’s real life—a diary of the heart earnestly written.
The author's past life was that of a desolate iceberg drifting through the polar regions of the northern seas.
From those drifting icebergs, gazing at phantom-like auroras, the author yearned, agonized, rejoiced, grieved, and raged at himself while drifting vainly with the currents.
The author is an "eternal wanderer" who possesses no homeland to call his own.
Over the author's heart there always lies the desolate overcast sky of polar regions, where the soul-rending wind of ice islands howls.
The author wrote all of such a painful life and its diary of real living into these poems.
Dear readers, I would ask that you read this in conjunction with the explanatory notes at the end.
Incidentally, of the five "Hometown Landscape Poems" included in this collection, all except for one piece—"The Forest Behind the Prison"—were previously published works from earlier collections.
The reason the author reprinted them here was both to unify the poetic style and because in content as well, they shared a spiritual continuity with the poems in this volume.
In other words, this poetry collection might, in a sense, be considered a sequel to *Hometown Landscape Poems*.
While living in Tokyo, the author always felt the sky over the plains of his hometown Jōshū in his heart and passionately expressed poetic sentiment.
That was precisely why all these poems were "recitations," chanted with the emotional resonance of oral declamation.
Readers should read aloud and must never read silently.
This was "poetry meant to be sung."
February 1934, the author
My heart is about to weep anew.
Winter day not yet ended—remember oysters on the rock.
Song of the Wanderer
The sun climbed onto the cliff.
Sorrow walked low beneath the overpass.
The infinitely distant reaches of the sky
Behind the fence of the continuing railway
A single lonely shadow drifts.
Ah, you Wanderer!
Having come from the past and passing through future,
The one who pursues eternal nostalgia.
Why do you stagger forth?
Why do you trudge in sorrow like a clock?
Like killing a snake with stone
Severing one cycle,
May you trample through desolation without will!
Ah, more lonely than a demon,
You have endured the winter of ice and frost!
You who never believed in anything,
In what you believe, you have known anger.
You who never knew the denial of passion,
You have indicted the very objects of your desire.
Why must you again grow weary of sorrow,
You shall return to the house of one who gently holds and kisses you.
You never loved anything.
And nothing shall ever love you.
Ah, you person of desolation!
You climbed the slope of the sorrowful setting sun,
Though you wander along cliffs without will,
There is no homeland anywhere.
You shall have no homeland!
At the Amusement Park
It was an afternoon at the amusement park.
The band resounded through the sky.
The carousel spun dizzyingly.
Glistening crimson rubber balloons
Flew over the crowd.
We came to this place on today's Sunday,
We boarded the model airplane's seats though,
Those who contemplated by the side were lonely.
Why must your pupils
Bear such tender melancholy?
On the seats, leaning shoulders together.
Lend me these hands that kiss.
Look beyond this soaring sky.
A single horizon rises high, tilts, and sinks low.
Before the setting sun that approaches late spring,
We have already seen this.
How can it be that life does not unfold?
Discard today's resolve-less melancholy
Fly forth!
Fly forth!
In the bright April sunlight
They blended into the merry crowd.
The two boarded the seats of the model airplane though,
Your waltz remains distant,
Those who contemplate by the side are lonely.
Nogizaka Club
December has come again.
How cold this winter is!
Last year I lived on the fifth floor of an apartment.
In the desolate Western-style room,
I pushed a bed against the wall and slept desolately.
What is it that I ponder?
Having grown weary of life's illusions,
Even now I still starve like livestock!
I have lost nothing.
Yet I have lost everything completely.
Why is it as though I am pursued?
Wandering in sorrow through the busy year-end streets,
Even at midday I try to drown myself at bar stools.
Like some bird coursing through empty skies,
These emotions too must fade into time's depths.
December had come again.
How cold this winter was!
Visitors had finished knocking on the door.
Though they saw my indolence and pitied me before leaving,
There was no coal and no hearth.
In the white plaster desolation of the Western-style room,
I alone awoke on the bed.
Even in broad daylight, I still slept like a bear.
Kill me!
Kill me!
Why must it be so noble,
Gentle、beautiful、fragrant,
Transcending all—you alone exude fragrance.
I am an ugly beast,
How could my sincere emotions ever suffice?
From start I am slave; I am livestock.
I will crawl on my belly beneath your noble feet,
Serve you like a dog.
I earnestly wish:
Trample me,
Insult me,
Spit on me,
Kick [me] down,
Chastise [me] harshly.
Ah, at last—
Until the moment my breath stops.
I am livestock from the start, I am a slave.
Rather than endure sorrowful submission,
quickly raise your whip hand and kill me!
Strike me dead!
Strike me dead!
Homecoming
In the winter of Showa Year 4, he separated from his wife and returned to his hometown with two children in his arms.
The day I returned to my hometown
The train plowed through the fierce wind.
When I awakened alone at the train window,
The whistle howled and cried into the darkness.
Flames illuminated the plain.
Are the mountains of Jōshū not yet visible?
In the dim glow of the night train's lamp,
Motherless children cried in their sleep.
All secretly probed my sorrow.
Ah, once more I fled the capital and came...
To what hometown do I intend to go?
The past stretched through valleys of desolation.
The future faced the shore of despair.
A life like gravel!
My courage has already waned.
I have wearied of living long in darkness.
How can I return alone to hometown?
Lonely，shall I stand again on the banks of the Tone River?
The train ran through the wilderness
On the far shore of nature's desolate will
Human fury grew fierce.
Hagitei
Did the days of youth feel things so keenly?
I leaned against the second floor of Hagitei
I was submerged in thoughts of melancholic emotion.
In the garden of that pavilion too, plants and trees grew thickly.
The wind blew across, desolate...
Was there or was there not that long-awaited person of old?
In days of old with a pencil,
Even on the railings were inscribed names.
―*Hometown Landscape Poetry*―
Family
He sat inside the old house,
They spoke to each other while remaining silent.
Not an enemy.
Not a creditor specter.
“Behold! I am your wife—
“Even in death I shall never part from you.”
The eyes spitefully burned with revenge and hatefully pierced through.
Sitting inside the old house,
I could find no means of escape.
Café Suigetsu
Trying to climb the slope but unable to bear the thirst,
When I staggered open the door of Café Suigetsu,
From within the disorderly shop,
The broken record resounded.
In the outskirts' soot-stained glow of electric lights,
A row of meager sake bottles stood.
Ah, this dark melancholy has lingered long!
I am now growing old and without a hometown.
My wife and children have scattered; I am alone.
How can I yet know the regret of wandering?
Women gathered and surrounded the table.
They saw my drunken state and took pity, but
They suddenly began berating him and snatched the wallet.
They counted every last coin and stole them away.
New Year
New Year came.
The New Year's pine decorations glistened white.
All roads frozen with frost
In winter's biting cold
Does Earth renew its weekly reckoning?
I still regret yet bear no grudge
Countless times I'll revive yesterday's condemnations
Why then in spacetime's void—
How perceive new dialectic's absence?
My emotions starve and scream
My life inhabits desolate mountain wastes
How comprehend calendrical cycles' return?
Behold! Life is error itself
Severing today's contemplations
Countless times, I will still renew yesterday’s regrets.
Late Autumn
The train traveled along the elevated track.
Thoughts wandered in the shadows of sunlight.
Quietly reflecting on his heart,
I was astonished at its utter lack of fulfillment.
In the streets, the autumn evening sun scattered.
Carriages and horses were coming and going along the paved road,
Does my life exist or not?
Soot-hazed backalleys’
Even to the window of a poor house
The flower of the spotted yellow hollyhock bloomed.
――For Recitation――
Shinagawa Offshore Naval Review
Under a low gray sky
The line of warships lay spread out.
Gloomily lowering anchors,
All like castles of heavy artillery,
Silently sullen they loomed.
The cloudy sky darkened.
The crowd of spectators at the pier dispersed.
Over the sea waves gradually darkening into dusk
Having already completed their formation task,
The warships all thirst for homecoming.
The winter sea beyond shore roars poised to rage.
Waves freeze and weep against steel hulls.
Rust eats into the iron plates, but
The line of warships refused to move.
On the boundless ocean
They strongly possessed their cries, their thirst, their fervor.
Fire
I saw a red-burning flame.
Beast-like,
Why do you remain silent without speaking?
In the evening’s tranquil city sky,
The fire began to burn beautifully.
Instantly the flames spread outward,
Instantly annihilated everything utterly.
Assets, factories, great buildings,
Hope, honor, wealth and status, ambition—
It burned all to ashes.
O fire
Why, like beasts,
Why do you remain silent without speaking?
Enclosed in desolate melancholy,
In this so quiet dusk sky
You have exhausted all passion in thought.
In the Subway
I came alone to the subway's
blue corridor and wandered.
Though I waited impatiently for you and grieved,
That which did not exist in your dreams—
What phantom’s taillight
Hollow-dark tunnel’s
Reflected on the wall and faded away.
Reflected on the wall and passed by.
“What phantom’s taillight” leads to “What phantom lover.”
Pivot word (kakekotoba).
Koide Shindō
There, where the road had been newly opened
It would likely lead straight to the city.
I stood at the crossroads of this new road, yet
The desolate horizons in all directions knew no bounds.
Ah, this darkly gloomy day!
The sunlight lay low upon the eaves of the row of houses.
The mixed trees of the grove were sparsely cut down.
How now? How now? Shall I not change my thoughts?
On the path where I did not rebel and go
All the new trees were cut down.
――Hometown Landscape Poem――
Farewell
The train strains to depart.
Coal has been loaded into the boiler.
Now toward the distant signal light and beyond the railway.
The train was about to cross the national border.
With what human attachment
had the locomotive thus been fueled.
How could such fierce passion ever be calmed?
O people seeing off on the station road,
gnashing your teeth in the depths of sorrow,
do not let the pain of farewell break you.
The train strained to depart,
violently spewed steam,
howled and screamed as if torn apart,
and blared its whistle into the void.
At the Zoo
Loneliness presses in like a scorching flame.
Having come alone, when I walked through the grove of trees within the zoo grounds,
All dead leaves fell to the ground.
The ferocious beasts lay sleeping sorrowfully in their cages.
They all submitted resignedly,
They ate the meat thrown by people.
In the blue pupils of instinct
They endured the anguish of being chained with iron shackles.
Ah, this darkly gloomy day!
That I had come to this zoo grounds
Was not to see their animals.
I was confined within the cage of my heart.
Enduring the suffering of hunger, they raged.
They gnashed their teeth a hundred times over,
While gnawing at the objects of my desire,
Ah, I fought a lonely revenge!
Now the autumn day was about to fade into evening.
The wind scattered and blew along the deserted path.
Ah, I am still like a bird
I cannot fly through infinite desolation.
The middle school's schoolyard
The days when I existed within my middle school
I was tormented by alluring passion.
I angrily flung the book away.
I was lying alone on the grass of the schoolyard,
What sorrow is this!
Far away I flew from his blue.
The sun beat straight down, scorching the hat’s brim.
――Hometown Landscape Poem――
Kunisada Chūji's Grave
When I came to this village of mine,
In Jōshū, the silkworms had already completed their work,
All farmhouses had closed their thresholds against winter.
The sun was darkened by dust.
Desolate shadow of the bamboo grove -
I do feel the destitute hardship of life.
Behold! Here lies a useless stone.
Blown by the wind through roadside bamboo grass,
The grave where the rogue sleeps stands.
Ah, I wander about in my hometown,
How lonely are the thoughts I harbor here!
Though the wheel of samsara be sundered for all eternity,
Ah, in that desolate plain
The sun and moon cast me away and departed.
Those who will have perished utterly.
What use is there in renewing my remaining days?
Beneath the desolate winter gravestone
You would deem even that recognition useless.
――In Jōshū's Kunisada Village――
Hirosegawa
Hirosegawa flows white.
When time passes, all illusions vanish away.
To fish for my life,
In days past, I dangled my line by the riverbank,
Ah, that happiness has passed far away.
The small fish do not linger in one's gaze.
――Hometown Landscape Poem――
Tiger
It is a tiger.
Vast and boundless like a colossus,
Though it sleeps in the cage on the upper floor of the department store,
You are by nature no machine.
Even when rending flesh with fangs,
How could you grasp human mechanisms?
Behold! Soot streams through heaven's vault,
From factory district roofs piled like scales,
The mournful steam whistle echoes.
It is a tiger.
It is a tiger.
It was afternoon.
Advertising balloons rose high,
the city sky as dusk approached
it sat distantly atop high-rise buildings
You hungered like a flag!
When gazing into distant depths,
the maggots crawling along the street
cast the living prey into gloom.
It is a tiger.
The ascending-descending machinery shuttles back and forth
On the roofs of Tokyo’s bustling downtown,
Wearing fur speckled with amber,
Lonely as a wilderness,
It was a tiger!
Ah, all your afterimages—
The void’s empty panorama was.
――At Ginza Matsuzakaya’s Rooftop――
Useless Books
Pale Person
He saw books being sold on the street.
His ribs were all emaciated.
He heard him cry out like a gamecock.
"I am by nature a useless person."
These are by nature useless books.
They should be sold to people for one sen.
On a day near winter, wearing a lined kimono,
The poverty of non-being has been utterly exhausted.
Why must I shed tears
On such yellowed, aged paper pages
While passionately pursuing what ignites my passion,
I shall continue to tell of this desolate life.
My perception lies barren and
All I possess has been drained of worth.
Let those who would buy come buy this!
On the road, pedestrians have scattered away
As the gale whirls up sand, yet
My old emotions cry out and do not cease.
Behold!
These are useless books.
They should be sold to people for one sen.
Crow of Nothingness
I am by nature a crow of nothingness.
Opening my mouth toward those high winter solstice roofs
I shall roar like a weathercock.
Do seasons possess self-awareness?
What I lack is everything.
What I lack is everything.
What I lack is everything.
How can I not endure destitution?
Even when crossing the bridge alone,
scorching flames bearing down,
all hearts are driven mad by impotent rage.
Ah, what I lack is everything.
How can I act shamefully like a beggar,
Begging for what has fallen upon the road?
Discard!
Discard!
Your petty honors and hopes you've grasped,
Clutching those sweat-stinking coins you've acquired,
the back of the automobile that charged ahead with ferocious momentum
Smash it against the trunk of the withered street tree.
Ah, all that is base!
Annihilate your feeble life!
The woods behind the prison.
If one entered the woods behind the prison,
The songbird sang high above for a time.
How could my thoughts—
Alone in rebellion, along the path I tread—
Not be told even to lonely friends?
Winter's withered grass burned on the riverbed.
Prisoners carried heavy stones
They all passed by, looking at me with hatred.
What dark and gloomy thoughts!
I tore off my tattered garments,
I shall grieve like beasts.
Ah, late in the season
What manner of cold is this in Jōshū’s sky-borne gales?
In the midst of the sparsely remaining woods,
the guard was present.
He heard the low clanking of sword hilts.
——Hometown Landscape Poem——
A longing greater than yesterday’s
A longing greater than yesterday’s
the swelling that surges forth
Endure in secret—how long must this last?
One who dwells in suffering must be.
From the beginning, you were radiant,
Since you are a flower blooming with voluptuous fragrance,
The sole thing left in my world,
The passion at life and death's extremity
Even love remains unrecognized as such.
In vain I gaze upon you,
Rather than scorch my breast a hundred times over,
If I must die, then let me die—emotions’
The evening of such a painful day
Having wandered lost onto the railway path,
To lament until I shatter!
To lament until I shatter!
――Recitation-Style Lyric――
Poem Commentary
Song of the Wanderer (Prelude Poem): Along the cliff walked a person beneath the viaduct.
That was my eternal form.
It was the shadow of a lonely wanderer.
I placed it at the volume's forefront to serve as prelude poem.
Homecoming – Showa Year 4 (1929).
My wife abandoned two children and left home, vanishing without a trace; her whereabouts remain unknown.
I alone remained behind, staggering back to my father’s hometown in Jōshū.
Departing Ueno at 7:10, bound for Koyama via Takasaki.
In the shadow of the night train’s dimly lit lamps, the eldest daughter slept exhausted, and the second daughter lay awake, sobbing in her dreams.
The voice was most sorrowful, and my entire heart was rent asunder.
When I finally returned home, my father’s illness had grown gravely worse, and all scenery lay desolate.
Nogizaka Club — Nogizaka Club stood on a cliff above the slope near the Azabu 1st Regiment.
Since parting with my heartless wife, I had entrusted my two children to my mother back home and taken temporary lodging in this apartment.
Day after day grew more chaotic; indolence reached its extremity.
During daylight hours he lay grieving in bed over the cold; at night he rose late and wandered.
Though visitors came occasionally, he never answered, keeping the door firmly locked.
Women of sorrowful vocation who knew me—as if secretly pitying my solitary wretchedness—would sometimes come to clean the room and gradually put my clothes in order.
One day Tsuji Jun visited and stood dumbstruck at seeing my life’s desolation; but suddenly turning about, he burst into loud laughter, and together we poured wine and sighed long into the night.
Shinagawa Offshore Naval Review — In January of Showa Year 4 (1929), I viewed a naval review at Shinagawa Offshore.
As twilight approached, the naval review had already concluded; though the spectators had all dispersed, the gray, sorrowful warships still lay anchored at sea.
They had all completed their military duties and seemed to thirst for the sentiment of returning to port.
I had long lived and grown weary, yet knew not the port to which my military duties should return.
They lay gloomily anchored, their hearts all rusted and devoured by oysters.
How could I not be heartbroken upon seeing this scenery?
Gloomy and unable to endure my rage, I shouted toward the distant offing, tormented by the fierce thirst of my will.
Café Suigetsu: A café like Suigetsu must dwell in those desolate outskirts one frequents.
A wretch like myself—grown old without knowing life's homeland, staggering drunk through backstreets—where else could such a being exist or not?
Yearning to climb that slope, my heart could not withstand this unending thirst.
New Year came, New Year departed; though the Earth made a hundred revolutions, there was nothing new in the universe.
Year after year, I repeat yesterday’s regrets, yet do not regret myself.
Even should life be error, that which I desire is no error.
Why should I censure everything only to regret yesterday’s regrets?
New Year comes, renewing errors a hundred times over, yet I endure with tragic resolve—never, never shall I repent.
January 1, Showa Year 7 (1932).
I record this in a new diary.
Fire: What my heart seeks is always a quiet emotion.
So gently, so beautifully, quietly, quietly burning upward, spreading like music—it knows the torment of a will so fierce.
Fire!
With your gentle music, sing a lullaby of sleep within my evening bed.
What I seek is emotion.
Kunisada Chūji’s Grave — In the winter of Showa Year 5 (1930), I was in my hometown nursing my father’s illness.
All human affairs had fallen into ruin; his heart could not endure this fierce hunger.
He secretly slipped out of the house, mounted a bicycle, and plowed through gale-driven gravel to reach Kunisada Village.
Kunisada Chūji’s grave stood by a desolate hamlet’s roadside.
An earthen mound trembled in a dark bamboo thicket’s shadow; under winter’s dim sun, he found himself able to bear witness to that rogue’s sorrowful life.
I lingered here and truly came to know Jōshū’s desolate nature for the first time.
I sat by the roadside and composed a poem.
The Woods Behind the Prison: Maebashi Prison stood on a cliff overlooking the Tone River.
Long red brick ramparts stretched dreamlike into distance, trailing sunset shadows across horizons.
A watchtower at center surveyed surroundings mournfully while maintaining perpetual prisoner surveillance.
Behind lay oak woods; all around spread plains encircled by wheat fields.
In youth I would pass through here whistling on wheat-stalk flutes circle long brick walls steeped in endless melancholy—but descending cliffside to riverbed winter-bare trees revealed convicts led by guards hauling stones as Tone River’s shallows rushed swiftly.
Four Love Poems: "At the Amusement Park"
“Kill me!
Kill me!”
"In the Subway"
“A Longing Greater Than Yesterday’s” and all other works from Showa 5–7 (1930–1932).
These are now but torn and discarded episodes from a diary of feeble resolve.
One such as I—a man of polar regions dwelling alone upon an ice island—what place could love possibly have?
The past is full of shame and regret.
This too must be the lonely aurora’s phantasmagoria witnessed during the Arctic’s long night.
Hometown Landscape Poems (Reprinted): Of the five hometown landscape poems, all except "The Woods Behind the Prison" were reprinted from my previous poetry collection.
Hagitei
"Koidemachi," "Hirosegawa," and others—all are in my hometown of Jōshū Maebashi City.
From my youth, I would often stroll along that riverside, walk those streets, and play in the garden of that small flag-adorned pavilion.
Vague years have passed; though Hirosegawa still flows white, my life’s idleness cannot be redeemed.
Now I was about to publish this shameless poetry collection and once more invite the world’s derision.
Having completed the manuscript here, how could I not confess and die?
Modern lyric poetry generally tends to overemphasize sensation, rush into Imagism, or indulge in intellectual compositional designs, forgetting the singular primordial expression of poetic passion.
Conversely, this type of poetry is now criticized as simplistic and categorized among poetry's primitive forms.
Yet I maintain that diversity's ultimate form is monochrome, complexity's extremity lies in simplicity, and all evolved techniques ultimately return to artless natural unity.
The Idea that poetry as art ultimately attains through all historical development resides in nothing but Poesy's most fundamental primordial substance—that is, the pure and simple lamentation of poetic passion.
(In this sense, the author considers Japan's waka and haiku to be the future form toward which modern poetry's Idea aspires.)
Setting aside such reasoning, at least for the author, the few poems collected in this volume were purely passionate lamentation poetry that simply and directly expressed only the most unadulterated excitement of poetic passion.
In other words, the author abandoned all artistic intentions and ambitions, writing solely 'from the heart,' entrusting himself to natural emotions.
Therefore, the author himself never intended to present the value of this poetry collection to the world.
The proper critique of this poetry collection was likely not so much an artwork as a record of the author’s real life—a diary of the heart earnestly written.
The author's past life was that of a desolate iceberg drifting through the polar regions of the northern seas.
From those drifting icebergs, gazing at phantom-like auroras, the author yearned, agonized, rejoiced, grieved, and raged at himself while drifting vainly with the currents.
The author is an "eternal wanderer" who possesses no homeland to call his own.
Over the author's heart there always lies the desolate overcast sky of polar regions, where the soul-rending wind of ice islands howls.
The author wrote all of such a painful life and its diary of real living into these poems.
Dear readers, I would ask that you read this in conjunction with the explanatory notes at the end.
Incidentally, of the five "Hometown Landscape Poems" included in this collection, all except for one piece—"The Forest Behind the Prison"—were previously published works from earlier collections.
The reason the author reprinted them here was both to unify the poetic style and because in content as well, they shared a spiritual continuity with the poems in this volume.
In other words, this poetry collection might, in a sense, be considered a sequel to *Hometown Landscape Poems*.
While living in Tokyo, the author always felt the sky over the plains of his hometown Jōshū in his heart and passionately expressed poetic sentiment.
That was precisely why all these poems were "recitations," chanted with the emotional resonance of oral declamation.
Readers should read aloud and must never read silently.
This was "poetry meant to be sung."
February 1934, the author
My heart is about to weep anew.
Winter day not yet ended—remember oysters on the rock.
Song of the Wanderer
The sun climbed onto the cliff.
Sorrow walked low beneath the overpass.
The infinitely distant reaches of the sky
Behind the fence of the continuing railway
A single lonely shadow drifts.
Ah, you Wanderer!
Having come from the past and passing through future,
The one who pursues eternal nostalgia.
Why do you stagger forth?
Why do you trudge in sorrow like a clock?
Like killing a snake with stone
Severing one cycle,
May you trample through desolation without will!
Ah, more lonely than a demon,
You have endured the winter of ice and frost!
You who never believed in anything,
In what you believe, you have known anger.
You who never knew the denial of passion,
You have indicted the very objects of your desire.
Why must you again grow weary of sorrow,
You shall return to the house of one who gently holds and kisses you.
You never loved anything.
And nothing shall ever love you.
Ah, you person of desolation!
You climbed the slope of the sorrowful setting sun,
Though you wander along cliffs without will,
There is no homeland anywhere.
You shall have no homeland!
At the Amusement Park
It was an afternoon at the amusement park.
The band resounded through the sky.
The carousel spun dizzyingly.
Glistening crimson rubber balloons
Flew over the crowd.
We came to this place on today's Sunday,
We boarded the model airplane's seats though,
Those who contemplated by the side were lonely.
Why must your pupils
Bear such tender melancholy?
On the seats, leaning shoulders together.
Lend me these hands that kiss.
Look beyond this soaring sky.
A single horizon rises high, tilts, and sinks low.
Before the setting sun that approaches late spring,
We have already seen this.
How can it be that life does not unfold?
Discard today's resolve-less melancholy
Fly forth!
Fly forth!
In the bright April sunlight
They blended into the merry crowd.
The two boarded the seats of the model airplane though,
Your waltz remains distant,
Those who contemplate by the side are lonely.
Nogizaka Club
December has come again.
How cold this winter is!
Last year I lived on the fifth floor of an apartment.
In the desolate Western-style room,
I pushed a bed against the wall and slept desolately.
What is it that I ponder?
Having grown weary of life's illusions,
Even now I still starve like livestock!
I have lost nothing.
Yet I have lost everything completely.
Why is it as though I am pursued?
Wandering in sorrow through the busy year-end streets,
Even at midday I try to drown myself at bar stools.
Like some bird coursing through empty skies,
These emotions too must fade into time's depths.
December had come again.
How cold this winter was!
Visitors had finished knocking on the door.
Though they saw my indolence and pitied me before leaving,
There was no coal and no hearth.
In the white plaster desolation of the Western-style room,
I alone awoke on the bed.
Even in broad daylight, I still slept like a bear.
Kill me!
Kill me!
Why must it be so noble,
Gentle、beautiful、fragrant,
Transcending all—you alone exude fragrance.
I am an ugly beast,
How could my sincere emotions ever suffice?
From start I am slave; I am livestock.
I will crawl on my belly beneath your noble feet,
Serve you like a dog.
I earnestly wish:
Trample me,
Insult me,
Spit on me,
Kick [me] down,
Chastise [me] harshly.
Ah, at last—
Until the moment my breath stops.
I am livestock from the start, I am a slave.
Rather than endure sorrowful submission,
quickly raise your whip hand and kill me!
Strike me dead!
Strike me dead!
Homecoming
In the winter of Showa Year 4, he separated from his wife and returned to his hometown with two children in his arms.
The day I returned to my hometown
The train plowed through the fierce wind.
When I awakened alone at the train window,
The whistle howled and cried into the darkness.
Flames illuminated the plain.
Are the mountains of Jōshū not yet visible?
In the dim glow of the night train's lamp,
Motherless children cried in their sleep.
All secretly probed my sorrow.
Ah, once more I fled the capital and came...
To what hometown do I intend to go?
The past stretched through valleys of desolation.
The future faced the shore of despair.
A life like gravel!
My courage has already waned.
I have wearied of living long in darkness.
How can I return alone to hometown?
Lonely，shall I stand again on the banks of the Tone River?
The train ran through the wilderness
On the far shore of nature's desolate will
Human fury grew fierce.
Hagitei
Did the days of youth feel things so keenly?
I leaned against the second floor of Hagitei
I was submerged in thoughts of melancholic emotion.
In the garden of that pavilion too, plants and trees grew thickly.
The wind blew across, desolate...
Was there or was there not that long-awaited person of old?
In days of old with a pencil,
Even on the railings were inscribed names.
―*Hometown Landscape Poetry*―
Family
He sat inside the old house,
They spoke to each other while remaining silent.
Not an enemy.
Not a creditor specter.
“Behold! I am your wife—
“Even in death I shall never part from you.”
The eyes spitefully burned with revenge and hatefully pierced through.
Sitting inside the old house,
I could find no means of escape.
Café Suigetsu
Trying to climb the slope but unable to bear the thirst,
When I staggered open the door of Café Suigetsu,
From within the disorderly shop,
The broken record resounded.
In the outskirts' soot-stained glow of electric lights,
A row of meager sake bottles stood.
Ah, this dark melancholy has lingered long!
I am now growing old and without a hometown.
My wife and children have scattered; I am alone.
How can I yet know the regret of wandering?
Women gathered and surrounded the table.
They saw my drunken state and took pity, but
They suddenly began berating him and snatched the wallet.
They counted every last coin and stole them away.
New Year
New Year came.
The New Year's pine decorations glistened white.
All roads frozen with frost
In winter's biting cold
Does Earth renew its weekly reckoning?
I still regret yet bear no grudge
Countless times I'll revive yesterday's condemnations
Why then in spacetime's void—
How perceive new dialectic's absence?
My emotions starve and scream
My life inhabits desolate mountain wastes
How comprehend calendrical cycles' return?
Behold! Life is error itself
Severing today's contemplations
Countless times, I will still renew yesterday’s regrets.
Late Autumn
The train traveled along the elevated track.
Thoughts wandered in the shadows of sunlight.
Quietly reflecting on his heart,
I was astonished at its utter lack of fulfillment.
In the streets, the autumn evening sun scattered.
Carriages and horses were coming and going along the paved road,
Does my life exist or not?
Soot-hazed backalleys’
Even to the window of a poor house
The flower of the spotted yellow hollyhock bloomed.
――For Recitation――
Shinagawa Offshore Naval Review
Under a low gray sky
The line of warships lay spread out.
Gloomily lowering anchors,
All like castles of heavy artillery,
Silently sullen they loomed.
The cloudy sky darkened.
The crowd of spectators at the pier dispersed.
Over the sea waves gradually darkening into dusk
Having already completed their formation task,
The warships all thirst for homecoming.
The winter sea beyond shore roars poised to rage.
Waves freeze and weep against steel hulls.
Rust eats into the iron plates, but
The line of warships refused to move.
On the boundless ocean
They strongly possessed their cries, their thirst, their fervor.
Fire
I saw a red-burning flame.
Beast-like,
Why do you remain silent without speaking?
In the evening’s tranquil city sky,
The fire began to burn beautifully.
Instantly the flames spread outward,
Instantly annihilated everything utterly.
Assets, factories, great buildings,
Hope, honor, wealth and status, ambition—
It burned all to ashes.
O fire
Why, like beasts,
Why do you remain silent without speaking?
Enclosed in desolate melancholy,
In this so quiet dusk sky
You have exhausted all passion in thought.
In the Subway
I came alone to the subway's
blue corridor and wandered.
Though I waited impatiently for you and grieved,
That which did not exist in your dreams—
What phantom’s taillight
Hollow-dark tunnel’s
Reflected on the wall and faded away.
Reflected on the wall and passed by.
“What phantom’s taillight” leads to “What phantom lover.”
Pivot word (kakekotoba).
Koide Shindō
There, where the road had been newly opened
It would likely lead straight to the city.
I stood at the crossroads of this new road, yet
The desolate horizons in all directions knew no bounds.
Ah, this darkly gloomy day!
The sunlight lay low upon the eaves of the row of houses.
The mixed trees of the grove were sparsely cut down.
How now? How now? Shall I not change my thoughts?
On the path where I did not rebel and go
All the new trees were cut down.
――Hometown Landscape Poem――
Farewell
The train strains to depart.
Coal has been loaded into the boiler.
Now toward the distant signal light and beyond the railway.
The train was about to cross the national border.
With what human attachment
had the locomotive thus been fueled.
How could such fierce passion ever be calmed?
O people seeing off on the station road,
gnashing your teeth in the depths of sorrow,
do not let the pain of farewell break you.
The train strained to depart,
violently spewed steam,
howled and screamed as if torn apart,
and blared its whistle into the void.
At the Zoo
Loneliness presses in like a scorching flame.
Having come alone, when I walked through the grove of trees within the zoo grounds,
All dead leaves fell to the ground.
The ferocious beasts lay sleeping sorrowfully in their cages.
They all submitted resignedly,
They ate the meat thrown by people.
In the blue pupils of instinct
They endured the anguish of being chained with iron shackles.
Ah, this darkly gloomy day!
That I had come to this zoo grounds
Was not to see their animals.
I was confined within the cage of my heart.
Enduring the suffering of hunger, they raged.
They gnashed their teeth a hundred times over,
While gnawing at the objects of my desire,
Ah, I fought a lonely revenge!
Now the autumn day was about to fade into evening.
The wind scattered and blew along the deserted path.
Ah, I am still like a bird
I cannot fly through infinite desolation.
The middle school's schoolyard
The days when I existed within my middle school
I was tormented by alluring passion.
I angrily flung the book away.
I was lying alone on the grass of the schoolyard,
What sorrow is this!
Far away I flew from his blue.
The sun beat straight down, scorching the hat’s brim.
――Hometown Landscape Poem――
Kunisada Chūji's Grave
When I came to this village of mine,
In Jōshū, the silkworms had already completed their work,
All farmhouses had closed their thresholds against winter.
The sun was darkened by dust.
Desolate shadow of the bamboo grove -
I do feel the destitute hardship of life.
Behold! Here lies a useless stone.
Blown by the wind through roadside bamboo grass,
The grave where the rogue sleeps stands.
Ah, I wander about in my hometown,
How lonely are the thoughts I harbor here!
Though the wheel of samsara be sundered for all eternity,
Ah, in that desolate plain
The sun and moon cast me away and departed.
Those who will have perished utterly.
What use is there in renewing my remaining days?
Beneath the desolate winter gravestone
You would deem even that recognition useless.
――In Jōshū's Kunisada Village――
Hirosegawa
Hirosegawa flows white.
When time passes, all illusions vanish away.
To fish for my life,
In days past, I dangled my line by the riverbank,
Ah, that happiness has passed far away.
The small fish do not linger in one's gaze.
――Hometown Landscape Poem――
Tiger
It is a tiger.
Vast and boundless like a colossus,
Though it sleeps in the cage on the upper floor of the department store,
You are by nature no machine.
Even when rending flesh with fangs,
How could you grasp human mechanisms?
Behold! Soot streams through heaven's vault,
From factory district roofs piled like scales,
The mournful steam whistle echoes.
It is a tiger.
It is a tiger.
It was afternoon.
Advertising balloons rose high,
the city sky as dusk approached
it sat distantly atop high-rise buildings
You hungered like a flag!
When gazing into distant depths,
the maggots crawling along the street
cast the living prey into gloom.
It is a tiger.
The ascending-descending machinery shuttles back and forth
On the roofs of Tokyo’s bustling downtown,
Wearing fur speckled with amber,
Lonely as a wilderness,
It was a tiger!
Ah, all your afterimages—
The void’s empty panorama was.
――At Ginza Matsuzakaya’s Rooftop――
Useless Books
Pale Person
He saw books being sold on the street.
His ribs were all emaciated.
He heard him cry out like a gamecock.
"I am by nature a useless person."
These are by nature useless books.
They should be sold to people for one sen.
On a day near winter, wearing a lined kimono,
The poverty of non-being has been utterly exhausted.
Why must I shed tears
On such yellowed, aged paper pages
While passionately pursuing what ignites my passion,
I shall continue to tell of this desolate life.
My perception lies barren and
All I possess has been drained of worth.
Let those who would buy come buy this!
On the road, pedestrians have scattered away
As the gale whirls up sand, yet
My old emotions cry out and do not cease.
Behold!
These are useless books.
They should be sold to people for one sen.
Crow of Nothingness
I am by nature a crow of nothingness.
Opening my mouth toward those high winter solstice roofs
I shall roar like a weathercock.
Do seasons possess self-awareness?
What I lack is everything.
What I lack is everything.
What I lack is everything.
How can I not endure destitution?
Even when crossing the bridge alone,
scorching flames bearing down,
all hearts are driven mad by impotent rage.
Ah, what I lack is everything.
How can I act shamefully like a beggar,
Begging for what has fallen upon the road?
Discard!
Discard!
Your petty honors and hopes you've grasped,
Clutching those sweat-stinking coins you've acquired,
the back of the automobile that charged ahead with ferocious momentum
Smash it against the trunk of the withered street tree.
Ah, all that is base!
Annihilate your feeble life!
The woods behind the prison.
If one entered the woods behind the prison,
The songbird sang high above for a time.
How could my thoughts—
Alone in rebellion, along the path I tread—
Not be told even to lonely friends?
Winter's withered grass burned on the riverbed.
Prisoners carried heavy stones
They all passed by, looking at me with hatred.
What dark and gloomy thoughts!
I tore off my tattered garments,
I shall grieve like beasts.
Ah, late in the season
What manner of cold is this in Jōshū’s sky-borne gales?
In the midst of the sparsely remaining woods,
the guard was present.
He heard the low clanking of sword hilts.
——Hometown Landscape Poem——
A longing greater than yesterday’s
A longing greater than yesterday’s
the swelling that surges forth
Endure in secret—how long must this last?
One who dwells in suffering must be.
From the beginning, you were radiant,
Since you are a flower blooming with voluptuous fragrance,
The sole thing left in my world,
The passion at life and death's extremity
Even love remains unrecognized as such.
In vain I gaze upon you,
Rather than scorch my breast a hundred times over,
If I must die, then let me die—emotions’
The evening of such a painful day
Having wandered lost onto the railway path,
To lament until I shatter!
To lament until I shatter!
――Recitation-Style Lyric――
Poem Commentary
Song of the Wanderer (Prelude Poem): Along the cliff walked a person beneath the viaduct.
That was my eternal form.
It was the shadow of a lonely wanderer.
I placed it at the volume's forefront to serve as prelude poem.
Homecoming – Showa Year 4 (1929).
My wife abandoned two children and left home, vanishing without a trace; her whereabouts remain unknown.
I alone remained behind, staggering back to my father’s hometown in Jōshū.
Departing Ueno at 7:10, bound for Koyama via Takasaki.
In the shadow of the night train’s dimly lit lamps, the eldest daughter slept exhausted, and the second daughter lay awake, sobbing in her dreams.
The voice was most sorrowful, and my entire heart was rent asunder.
When I finally returned home, my father’s illness had grown gravely worse, and all scenery lay desolate.
Nogizaka Club — Nogizaka Club stood on a cliff above the slope near the Azabu 1st Regiment.
Since parting with my heartless wife, I had entrusted my two children to my mother back home and taken temporary lodging in this apartment.
Day after day grew more chaotic; indolence reached its extremity.
During daylight hours he lay grieving in bed over the cold; at night he rose late and wandered.
Though visitors came occasionally, he never answered, keeping the door firmly locked.
Women of sorrowful vocation who knew me—as if secretly pitying my solitary wretchedness—would sometimes come to clean the room and gradually put my clothes in order.
One day Tsuji Jun visited and stood dumbstruck at seeing my life’s desolation; but suddenly turning about, he burst into loud laughter, and together we poured wine and sighed long into the night.
Shinagawa Offshore Naval Review — In January of Showa Year 4 (1929), I viewed a naval review at Shinagawa Offshore.
As twilight approached, the naval review had already concluded; though the spectators had all dispersed, the gray, sorrowful warships still lay anchored at sea.
They had all completed their military duties and seemed to thirst for the sentiment of returning to port.
I had long lived and grown weary, yet knew not the port to which my military duties should return.
They lay gloomily anchored, their hearts all rusted and devoured by oysters.
How could I not be heartbroken upon seeing this scenery?
Gloomy and unable to endure my rage, I shouted toward the distant offing, tormented by the fierce thirst of my will.
Café Suigetsu: A café like Suigetsu must dwell in those desolate outskirts one frequents.
A wretch like myself—grown old without knowing life's homeland, staggering drunk through backstreets—where else could such a being exist or not?
Yearning to climb that slope, my heart could not withstand this unending thirst.
New Year came, New Year departed; though the Earth made a hundred revolutions, there was nothing new in the universe.
Year after year, I repeat yesterday’s regrets, yet do not regret myself.
Even should life be error, that which I desire is no error.
Why should I censure everything only to regret yesterday’s regrets?
New Year comes, renewing errors a hundred times over, yet I endure with tragic resolve—never, never shall I repent.
January 1, Showa Year 7 (1932).
I record this in a new diary.
Fire: What my heart seeks is always a quiet emotion.
So gently, so beautifully, quietly, quietly burning upward, spreading like music—it knows the torment of a will so fierce.
Fire!
With your gentle music, sing a lullaby of sleep within my evening bed.
What I seek is emotion.
Kunisada Chūji’s Grave — In the winter of Showa Year 5 (1930), I was in my hometown nursing my father’s illness.
All human affairs had fallen into ruin; his heart could not endure this fierce hunger.
He secretly slipped out of the house, mounted a bicycle, and plowed through gale-driven gravel to reach Kunisada Village.
Kunisada Chūji’s grave stood by a desolate hamlet’s roadside.
An earthen mound trembled in a dark bamboo thicket’s shadow; under winter’s dim sun, he found himself able to bear witness to that rogue’s sorrowful life.
I lingered here and truly came to know Jōshū’s desolate nature for the first time.
I sat by the roadside and composed a poem.
The Woods Behind the Prison: Maebashi Prison stood on a cliff overlooking the Tone River.
Long red brick ramparts stretched dreamlike into distance, trailing sunset shadows across horizons.
A watchtower at center surveyed surroundings mournfully while maintaining perpetual prisoner surveillance.
Behind lay oak woods; all around spread plains encircled by wheat fields.
In youth I would pass through here whistling on wheat-stalk flutes circle long brick walls steeped in endless melancholy—but descending cliffside to riverbed winter-bare trees revealed convicts led by guards hauling stones as Tone River’s shallows rushed swiftly.
Four Love Poems: "At the Amusement Park"
“Kill me!
Kill me!”
"In the Subway"
“A Longing Greater Than Yesterday’s” and all other works from Showa 5–7 (1930–1932).
These are now but torn and discarded episodes from a diary of feeble resolve.
One such as I—a man of polar regions dwelling alone upon an ice island—what place could love possibly have?
The past is full of shame and regret.
This too must be the lonely aurora’s phantasmagoria witnessed during the Arctic’s long night.
Hometown Landscape Poems (Reprinted): Of the five hometown landscape poems, all except "The Woods Behind the Prison" were reprinted from my previous poetry collection.
Hagitei
"Koidemachi," "Hirosegawa," and others—all are in my hometown of Jōshū Maebashi City.
From my youth, I would often stroll along that riverside, walk those streets, and play in the garden of that small flag-adorned pavilion.
Vague years have passed; though Hirosegawa still flows white, my life’s idleness cannot be redeemed.
Now I was about to publish this shameless poetry collection and once more invite the world’s derision.
Having completed the manuscript here, how could I not confess and die?
Pagetop