Pathway to Japanese Literature

I dedicate this book to the people of my homeland.

Thou shalt live with sweat upon thy face.

Human Victory

Humans were all suffering.
"What is causing you such suffering?"
"Endure!"
Stand tall in human strength.
Live by human strength.
"Does it hurt?"
"Suffer!"
That made us noble.
Look at the old pine tree on the mountaintop.
Where its branches were lashed by the fierce wind
The aching rawness of that sound
That sound strengthened humans.
The awful intensity of that sound biting into human flesh

"What torments you?"

"I too am suffering like this."

"Rejoice in suffering."

"Stand in human strength."

"Know disgrace."

"And when the time comes to fall"

"Smile and fall."

"Fall demonstrating human strength."

Gaze fixedly upon everything as it is.

Fall like a great tree.

"Is that all?"

"As if demanding, 'Is that all you've got?'"

"Heavy suffering."

"What makes it so heavy?"

"Even as you draw your last breath—say no!"

"Be obstinate."

That is what it means to be human.

Author's Preface

I am human.
Therefore, these poems are needless to say human poetry.

I believe in human strength.
Strength!
That which expresses this belief is these poems.

I am the author of these poems.
When I reflected on these poems as their creator, there arose within me a sensation akin to gazing up at that lofty, crisp azure sky of dawn following a melancholy-laden and spiteful tempest—a sensation honed with fierce acuity.
Truly, that was the agony of creation.

The agony of creation!
From this suffering I was born anew each day.
I sprouted.
This suffering moreover directed toward me the strong, bold power of Prometheus.
What could it have been that humankind—reaching out their hands to the very ends of distant worlds—had so patiently sought since creation's dawn?
I knew it.
O this joy!
I seized it firmly.
No matter what might come, I would never let go now.

Suffering is beauty!
And strength!
Only the children of Strength are art, are poetry.

One day, I was struck down by an epileptic seizure.
That was three years ago, in early winter when the leaves were falling.
And yet I, the next morning, while discovering a terrifying sort of stillness in my flesh and heart, was already no longer my former self.

So intense was my anguish that it became a cruel spiritual ordeal.

These poems constitute my meager harvest from roughly three years following that time until recently, when I suddenly coughed blood and lay upon a sickbed—they are the cry of a revived human soul.

Even a single blade of grass takes root in the earth.
And my poetry—having imbued all things' love and fragrance with truth—takes as its foundation the natural world in its boundless abundance and unfathomable depth.
It emerged from that source—like the viper's offspring my friend describes, gnawing through its parent's navel to birth itself.

I declare.
From the standpoint of faith, I am a Christian.
And yet, how different are those so-called people of the world from Buddha's devotees?
Be that as it may, within these poems exist terms such as "gods" and "human god."
When I speak of "gods," they are not theological gods; I ask you to vaguely imagine the myths of ancient Greece.
As for what is called a human god, whereas a formless god becomes personified as an object of worship, this is precisely the opposite.
Other things follow this principle.

Finally, O poetry critics and readers.

This human takes aim.
It is the single-minded yearning for light that takes aim.
When I thought I had seized it, I held the concept in my hands.
Now it begins.
Now it begins.
Though I always declare "Now it begins," I pay no mind to such things as reason's patchwork or emotion's kneading.
How do whalers value sardines and flounders?

...What a solemn emergence of "life" this is.
Let there be radiance upon this emergence!

Ⅰ

Grain seeds

And a Certain Town’s

At the street corner.

I saw an old woman lining up grain seeds on a plank and selling them.

That night, I had a dream.

A fine rain began falling moistly.

The seeds all at once lush green—

Sprouted shoots.

The old woman scowled.

She lay dead by that roadside.

They are good friends.

A winter sky like frozen ice.

Beneath it swirls a violent wind.

The mountains are pure white with snow.
It is dim even at noon.

In the sprawling winter fields of the northern lands,
A horse and a person toiled as small figures.
Far away, and here,

Horse and Person

What harmony there was!

And they lived by helping one another.

The winter field was plowed.

The plowed stubble-field's surface lay freshly blackened.

Upon it alighted four or five crows.

Where had they come from?

They descended into this cruel scene.

The crows did not cry.

Today alone, they became good friends and worked.

What were they seeking to become one with horse and person?

That was clearly visible from here.

Even the seemingly withered trees along the rice paddy ridges appeared to share in the suffering.

Poem of Father’s August Hand

That's right.

Father's hands were less hands than massive horse plows.

They neither pressed palms in prayer

Nor knew anything of stealing others' belongings—

Earthborn farmer's hands.

They were hands as if dug from the ground itself, like gnarled tree roots.

Is this the true hand of humankind?

People call their own fathers fools.

People call their own fathers saints.

It doesn’t matter.

When I think of those fatherly hands, my chest fills up completely.

When I see those hands, I want to wash them with tears.

But those hands strengthen me.

These hands embraced Mother.

From there I emerged.

From here, to the far, far hometown at the foot of the mountain.

Even now, those hands have become nothing but bone and skin,

they are still cultivating this gelid, emaciated field.

Ah, I have nothing to say.

I take those soil-covered hands and press them to my forehead.

Here, I press a fervent kiss upon those hands.

Poem of a Certain Morning

When winter deepens into December

City street corners grow sharper……

Gnarled trees

When dim, ominous clouds appear,

Immediately, the trees in the field brace themselves.

These gnarled and twisted trees

Their twisted contortions are the wind’s doing.

And again straight and smooth—

They simply cannot become so.

That sorrow—
Has that sorrow now become this tree’s very nature?

The twisted, stubborn trees of this wind-lashed place.

Rain falls even upon twig tips stretched taut as bones,

Even so, they put forth buds.

Make even the small birds sing.

Be splendid even in your contortions.

Ah, the bare standing tree in the field!

Ah, and yet still—trees pointing to heaven!

Lamp

A lonely house in the wilds.

The surroundings had already grown dim.

Cold.

Far in the distance,

A lone lamp flickered on.

A lamp lit with a solitary flicker.

Ah,

How utterly true this was!

This was it.

This is it.

This makes humans earnest

I was like a single withered tree.

Like a single withered tree standing in this fierce wind,

When I faced the lamp, my hands came together of their own accord.

Even there humans lived.

Ah—everything comes from suffering.

In this ever-threatening wind,

the lamp was about to go out.

At this,

I too was about to go out with the lamp.

Thus while gathering strength as one,

the lamp and I were each other’s solitary companions.

Poem of the Night

She put the baby to sleep.

Lullaby

Softly、slenderly、sorrowfully、

Even I、who am singing this、

Truly、at some point、have become a baby。

The lamp and the brazier、

The teapot and teacup too、

The tick-tock clock grows drowsy。

I sensed this great metropolis in the distance.

This narrow path along the wheat field's ridge—

Does the distant metropolis also perceive me standing on this narrow path?

Day after day, today too—

Blades of grass swaying in gritty dust.

Ah, even the great whirlwind begins from such blades of grass and still races down this path.

Ah, this path.

All roads lead to the metropolis.

The road is like a vine and pulses.

The midday sun darkly

A fantasy being showered hazily with dust from above

O world-class metropolis breathing beneath the dust!

Ah, may there be splendor in the great desert!

Ah, magnificent great whirlwind!

The great whirlwind crossed from roof to roof of the massive buildings in those streets.

The great crowd's voices like howls—

This great metropolis, deeply—

In this great desert, the massive smokestacks standing like a forest—
I feel amidst this stillness.

Where are they headed?

Once again.

The wind roars.

Is it snow that blows against the window’s shoji?
Softly, it spills.
It is a pitch-dark night.

A spell of hushed stillness.

It was not the wind.

It was not the wind.

It was the voices of starved humans.
From where did they come, and to where were they headed—these voices of the crowd?
No one would know.

I don't know either.
I don't know about that,
I too was mingling with it.

At the treetop, there was a small bird nest.

What am I saying?

Don’t fall, no matter what winds blow.

At the treetop was a small bird’s nest.
That sufficed.
Wasn’t that enough?

Spring

Somewhere came the drone of a kite.

The children's ears stayed sharp.

The blue sky returned to memory after long absence.

Stubborn hands that had been icebound now flushed faint red.

An unplaceable liveliness hung in the air.

Again came the drone of a kite somewhere.

Hearing this, the people—

Ah, spring has come at last—they thought.

With eyes that sought they knew not what,

They gazed up at water-fresh blue skies.

Children spilled into paddies bearing kites,

Soon those kites rose here and there.

Along with that, gradually—
The children’s feet also left the ground.

II

Season of All Creation

After the rain.

Damp and moist.

Swelling plump,

Swelling upward,

The earth awaiting seeds spilling from farmers' hands,

The earth as though having slept deeply and awakened,

A crisp clear blue sky,

A day when even skylarks seemed ready to sing,

It became a fine season.

In the corner of the granary,

The seeds in the grain sacks must be humming too.

Burst forth

Burst forth

Insects and humans

Everyone, into this light!

Everyone, gather under the sun.

The seeds are humming.

The seeds are humming.

In the granary's seed sacks—
So spring had come?
The skylark in the blue sky too—
The farmers who caught wind of that
Hurriedly rushed into the granary
And carried out the sacks of grain seeds.

A Morning After Rain Poem
Ah people—a fine rain falls
At dawn it clears crisply
Damply.

Everything has taken on weight.

Ah, this weight!

Does that calmness render the world beautiful?

And yet humans alone—

What wretchedness this is!

That arm carrying out sacks of grain seeds courses through.

That is the weight.

Be filled with that weight!

Ah, humanity

The beloved child of earth and sun

Poem of the Crossroads

“THIS IS THE MANY-TENTACLED TOWN”

――VERHAEREN――

Here was the great crossroads of the metropolis.

All roads gathered there.

All roads began there.

It towered majestically in that corner.

Look at the grand bank.

Under those windows they streamed in droves,

People went

People returned

Even the country folk who knew nothing

At the front of this grand bank lowered their heads.

They reverently joined their hands.

Ah, the Grand Crossroads that were the heart of the metropolis.

The metropolis was exactly like the stomach of a gluttonous leviathan,

Here it drew people in,

It was the place that devoured and killed those people.

From there, streets stretched out in all directions like creeping vines.

Row upon row of houses.

What a splendid thing!

Ah, this forest of smoke-belching smokestacks.

Hats off to this splendor!

Exhausted yet living splendidly was the metropolis.

This Central Grand Crossroads

That sensation spread through spiderweb-like arteries and capillaries of streets,

Exposed across sprawling suburbs yet trembling,

There lingered nerves sensing every stimulus without exception,

Nerves straining to grasp anything within reach,

The terror lurking at their very fingertips!

Poem of Poplars

Smoothly and straight they grew.

They bore leaves of pale green.

The poplar trees of the high ground.

From that vicinity,
The distant view visible there grows nostalgic.
Whether standing smooth and solitary,
Or lined five or six in solemn file,
This tree alone keeps its clarity.
Watching these flutter in the zephyr's breath,
I find myself utterly overcome.

Ah, to have a disposition like this tree
Terrifyingly sensitive poplars
At winter’s end—already budding
As soon as autumn arrives, they shed their leaves

Ah, poplars

This is truly the tree that light loves.

Let the children play beneath this tree.

The wind's direction changed.

From somewhere unseen,

a swallow came flying.

The swallow crossed the town’s crossroads,

turning nimbly at a right angle.

Then the north wind that had been blowing until now

ceased abruptly,

and now blew gently—

the faint smell of seaweed swaying somewhere spread thinly across everything.

It submerged every street and every house.
Ah, the wind’s direction completely changed.

However, it was not merely the wind's direction.

O wife,

A long winter had been stormy.
Your hand grows soft,
softly damp,
even as it pales to faintest hue—
how this fills me with joy!
Yet merely remembering,

How childlike do I become?

Wings.

Joy is like wings.

Joy carries humans high into the air.

The city sky like the sea

There，a single kite drew a grand curve with leisurely ease．
What tranquility！
The people looking up at it
Shining wings fluttered upon their shoulders．

Do not doubt.
They know nothing—and yet,
invisible wings flutter at their heels as well.

Needle.

Beside where the child sleeps
The mother is diligently sewing clothes.
Because one hand keeps time,
The other hand—like a looper caterpillar—steadily
Advances the needle at her fingertips
Her eyes, without even blinking, stare fixedly at it.
Not even a single sound breaks through.

Night deepens.

How quiet it was.

The child's breathing came soft and steady.

The needle advanced of its own accord.

Rather, the needle seemed to race along, trailing a single thread.

The aged farmer spoke thus.

“Compared to those days, everything’s done changed complete-like,”

“But no matter when you look, what stays good’s just...”

“It’s only this vast open sky that’s stayed the same, y’hear?”

"I'll never forget"

“When a perfectly round moon rose in this vast sky,
there in the dark shadow behind the granary,
we’d have our sweet secret meetings.
That’s where you got with child.
What’s there to hide?”

“The granary knows every last thing,”
“And there—in that wheat field blazing hot enough to scorch grass—”
“That’s where I came bawlin’ into this world.”
“All this lay bare before Heaven’s eyes.”
“Poor I’ve stayed all these years,”
“Grew stout like some fodder-stuffed calf bound for slaughter,”
“Strength—calf-strength—that’s what matters.”
“My old missus back then? Just a sapling of a girl,”
“Knees all awkward cradling,”
“Slept like winter earth I did.”
“What joy lit our faces seeing that!”

And when I would wake up,
I used to roar like a mountain wolf.
There, all sorts of playthings waited for my eyes to open.
What's this? I wondered.
That big hoe right over there.

“And then that plow in the barn and
that big sickle hung on the wall.
Now it’s your turn from here on.
This barren field of my family’s ancestral generations—
I with all those various toys—
you’ve got to cultivate it proper-like.
I became a grown man.
I became such a fine young buck that even the local girls would turn their heads.
When I think on that, I’m so happy I could burst.”

“Keep at it properly now.”

“My role’s completely done for, it seems,”
“How my sown seeds will sprout—”
That was the only concern.
It was only after seeing that.

Until I see it, no matter what anyone says,
I won't ever close these eyes.

Poem of a Fine Day

Everywhere you look, the buds on the trees are reddening.

They turned completely red
From under the dead leaves，the grass too grew lush and green．

And on the damply soaked lower branches of the tree,

Hawfinches and buntings that have gathered from nowhere in particular are chirping.

What a fine day this is!

How tender my eyes felt, having witnessed the friend’s bride’s diligent work!
What could be so joyous?
As even the O Sun watches over us,

On this mountain path

I am slightly drunk.

Every Morning's Soup

At that time, I was greatly weakened.

Everything I did felt wearisome

Nothing I did brought joy.

The oppressive air inside the house, day after day, made even the child's complexion melancholy.

At the usual meager dining table

One morning, an unusual soup appeared.

My wife’s hands trembled as she carried it,

I will not forget that morning.

That day, from morning onward, the sky was crisply clear.

Even the spoon was silver and new.
The small particles of fat scooped up by that spoon were alive, glistening brightly.
I sipped it.
When I sipped it, I placed my hands on the Seto-ware plate

I looked up at my exhausted wife.
There, my wife was watching over me.
Gazes met and spoke.
And onto the child sitting there looking lonely beside them,
they dropped their gazes in unison.
That was the moment.
I had never before experienced anything like—
I felt something vast and powerful permeating my entire being.

The sun, which had been warming all things on earth throughout the day, entered beyond the mountains.

As the sky turned red with the evening glow,

My wife went out to town with a back that looked as if she were going to offer a prayer.

And so, every morning, soup appeared on the dining table.

I regained the health of plants and grasses that grow day by day without seeming to grow,

Through the love of my wife, my child, and every morning's soup, I reclaimed.

The long winter days passed.

The inside of the house grew bright again like a verdant field.

The child began to sing like a lark.

One time.

Joy first begins where onions and leafy greens sway.

From now on…

III

What is there?

The waists of humans who do nothing but stare at the ground beneath their feet and think will soon bend.
Do not lament and grieve in vain.
Brothers!
What lies above your head?
Stand upright like trees
And raise your drooping head to look up high

"What is there?

What of this vast blue sky?

Humans are forgetting this blue sky.

Brothers!

What of this vast blue sky?

Poem of the Melancholy Giant Crane

It thrust forcefully into the air.

Think of it as an arm.

Now the giant crane moved."

The giant crane firmly grabbed the heavy, large jet-black object.
It lifted it lightly from the ground into the air.

There wasn't even a gentle breeze.
What should I call this silence?
It was an ominous sort of day.
Tiny as ants,

In the place where the large heavy object had been removed, they swarmed—
swarming and writhing people.

Behold the giant crane's unwavering power!
That movement like a great wave!
That immense silence!

Ah, the melancholy of the giant crane!
Ah, the giant crane's monstrosity!

Place your trust in this mysterious titanic force!

People gazing at the path of its movement while looking up at the vast sky—
What entity installed it?
Whose hand forged it?

Ponder this—
Ah, this is a feat beyond humanity that becomes clear at once!

Humanity has conquered nature!
Now is the time for humanity to stand above all things.
Does even the sun reel?

Ah, has humanity conquered nature?

Ah,
But humans were sorrowful.
From the moment they acknowledged the monstrous power in this giant crane,
they became utterly pitiful slaves
And they shrank to the size of ants.
So what?
So what?

Kneel at one point on Earth beneath the blazing sun and worship this colossal monstrosity!

Ah, the melancholy giant crane's splendor!

Ah, the melancholy giant crane's muteness!

A poem to let those with ears hear

This is God's will.

Where this power touched
Everything shattered.
Everything turned to dust.

This arm that lifted high and swung up any object aloft
Therein resided the melancholy power that destroyed worlds.

Let the girl be crushed in this arm's embrace.

To the baby with doll-like wide-open eyes,

Don’t you want to let it suck at these swollen, engorged breasts?

That too was God’s will.

This too is God’s will.

Declare:

"We ourselves are the gods of men and women."

A Poem Given to Humanity

There lie thick roots.

It’s because we’ve forgotten this that things go wrong.

Tearing apart branches like arms,

Scattering leaves,

Even when gales bend sturdy tree trunks,

Beneath the pitch-dark ground,

If one remembers there are roots bracing themselves firmly—it amounts to nothing.

That is enough.

There lies this magnificence.

Look at the trees

Look at the great tree.
What do you think of this solid mass?

Regarding Forgotten Things

You all carry.

To each individual, arms more splendid than levers.

Fists that crush even stones.

What in the world is this?

And so you won't try to reclaim humanity?

You have completely forgotten that.

And are being ridiculed as fools.

Iron-like arms and fists

This is the weapon that cannot be bought or sold with money.

It is something of no use to others, belonging to each individual,

It was God who first bestowed upon you all that sole precious weapon called thus,

Who is the villain that mocked it as something not even fit for firewood and tried to make you discard it?

But consider—
More than you all who are called fools—
Those who call you fools are far greater fools themselves.

When you all remember those arms and fists you firmly carry yet have forgotten—
At that time, one becomes a thousand, ten thousand people.
At that time, those bastards will collapse onto the ground.

Ah well.

All things are known to God.

And then, at that time, the world will revive.

Regarding Sleeping Humans

Look.
What magnificent bone structure!
And this flesh that clings—
Thus stark naked,
Where they lie sprawled out heavily is exactly like a mountain.
As they breathe peacefully,
The body beats with the mountain’s ripples.

Sleep well.
Sleep well.
The drunken stupor of last night had completely worn off,
if their whale-like eyes were to snap open,
this earth under the blazing sun—
Steadily.
Steadily.
Tread firmly.
Or you must labor.
Sleep well.
Oh, this greatness that sleeping humans possess—
Oh, this unshaken greatness—
When gazing upon that,
heads drooped of their own accord.
Children cry.

The children cried vigorously.
How they did cry.
Was this the language of nature?
They cried over anything and everything.

Cry! Cry!
Cry your fill!
Cry harder!
Cry until your tears run dry!

And when they had wept all they could weep—
like skies scrubbed crystalline after storm—
the children stood smiling once more.
What pure sweetness!
This was right.

Grow tall through this crucible.
Grow steadily taller still—
until you tower

and turn at last
to soothe your weeping parents.

Ah—I had lost a child’s true tears.
Ah—the perfection of children!
Their weeping only made them dearer.

IV

Humanity's Afternoon

Still there,
were they shouting and groaning?
Violin.
What an oppressive day it was.
Thick black smoke was belched out.

Beyond the great smoke emission, the sun sinks away.
In the depths of this melancholy,
May blessings be upon the squirming living beings.

The first words of prayer

Lord, human suffering is more beautiful than the sunflower.

Poem of Rain

Through the wide streets he trudged steadily.
A man ran as if chased by something.
Seeing that，all the people laughed.
Without paying any heed to such things，

The man had already turned the distant street corner and disappeared from view.

Then, before long,
Large raindrops began to fall sparsely.
The people who had just been laughing looked up at the sky
In panicked confusion,
Some tidied up shops.
Some scolded horses,
Some hiked up their clothes and ran away.
In an instant, the rain drove sideways.
Chimneys, roofs, and roads alike were thoroughly drenched.
And the rain poured on for a time.
When the town fell hushed and still,
The rain stopped abruptly.
In the clear blue sky, a rare swallow was flying.

Poem of the Cart

In the sunlight stands a single cart.

No one was there.
It was hushed.
On the trees，the fruits were deep green.
The cart lay utterly exhausted.
And it felt the oppressive low-pressure system.

On the road lay deep purple shadows of trees.

The cart that cast off those oppressive shadows

Poem of Joy

The cactus spins round and round.

Spinning round and round like fire,

My eyes too join in spinning round and round.

If my eyes whirl round and round,

Ever more intensely

The cactus spins round and round.
If the cactus spins round and round,
My eyes grow utterly dizzy.
This entire world begins to spin round and round.
Ah!

Poem of the Sea

The Sea's Gloomy Sentiment

Ships were pulled up onto the sandhill.

Others were being violently tossed among the waves.

From the distant open sea far away,

swelling and surging toward this shore,

came the surging sentiment of the sea.

Where does it come from—

this melancholic undulation of waves—

with the unfathomable depth of that place?

This tremendous force—

Ah! The sea is alive!

Night and day ceaselessly,
The splendor of these waves breaking upon the shore—
Think of the fishermen who dwell there!

Poem of the Pomelo

It was a day of terrifying storm.

Yet the tabletop remained calm.

Two pomelos

The affectionate closeness of them leaning together

Without saying a word,

They said nothing, yet

That was how it should be.

The fiercer the storm grew,

the calmer the pomelos became.

Pomelos radiating luster upon each other -

Here, humans grew great indeed.

The earth pulsed steadily,

and thereupon, the farmer pondered:

Did he sense this pulse at his hoe's tip?

After the rain,

the damp earth's touch -

This was an overwhelmingly vast happiness.

Grow stout and solid in body.

Look!

What abundance!

This lush green grain field
These plump furrows upon furrows
In this vast expanse, humans grow great indeed.
Oh pulsating, throbbing health of the earth!
It is a beauty as if forged by a sledgehammer.

In the Suburbs

In the field at the mountain's edge with ochre soil that had grown barren,

shabby wheat stalks swayed in the wind.

I am somewhat hungry.

I am seeking something.

Passing over the wheat stalks, where does it go?

O gentle breeze,

O wind steeped in deep green,

Look upon the city sky,

At the streets beneath this forest of chimneys.

Swallows dart through their midst.

People too find joy dwelling there.

Here it can be heard -

The city's tumult echoing through that sky.

It was exactly like the sea.

The wind murmured softly.

What did it whisper to the wheat ears?

The wheat stalks shook their heads.

That desolation pierced.

The Poem of the Rippling Wheat Field

From this vast wheat field that encircled us

From between these golden furrows

Thus I stretched out my dirt-covered hand toward you all.

You beneath the city’s great smokestacks,

What were you thinking all day，so still?

That seemed visible to these eyes.

Ah，great Tokyo’s Ginza Street

Even there，did the gentle breeze flutter delicately?

With the scent of fresh grains that gentle breeze carried along

Were the city’s shops filled?

Be vigorous
Be vigorous
The city weighs down upon you all.
And you are suffering.

It was not you alone.

But what did that alter?

Stand firm.

Ah, this rippling wheat field
Remember us
We are in this wheat field

We stand behind you all.

The gentle breeze brushing your foreheads is what we send from here.

Ah, this bountiful wheat field—

Ah, here was a skylark's nest.
If there was a small egg in that nest,
I must proclaim this to you all—to the entire world.
The Poem of Wheat Being Harvested

Ah, what beauty this was!

This beauty lived!

Look!
The wheat field had completely changed color.
Patches of potatoes,
broad beans, green onions, and leafy greens -
this vast, endless beauty
where wheat ripened golden across the land,
this stillness awaiting harvest.

Wheat cutting had begun here and there.
From every direction came crisp sickle sounds -
their sharpness like gushing water.

My heart kept sobbing somewhere far away.
What was she doing?

I am thinking of her.
Upon this, they must heap the beauty of this vast farmland.
The wheat stalks were harvested from one end to the other.
The crisply sharp sound of sickle blades rang out.

Is the wheat also listening to that sound with me?

Bountifully bearing fruit

Wheat stalks with heavy, drooping ears, limp

Poem in the City

The city was exactly like the sea.

Great waves surged and receded.

In this sea of coal smoke, eddies swirled.

Ten million human voices—

A great wave of voices surging and receding—

Became one vast voice,

Writhing and twisting:

"Writhe though you may—remain human!"

Ah, city like the sea!

Beneath eaves of street upon street, house upon house,

Even sparrows survived while starving,

There warming eggs to hatch them.

Be strong.

Be strong.

Believe in being human.

Hold it fast.

Great axe

When you strike the resonant trunk,

The axe bites into the tree trunk.

The weight of the swung Ōmasakari

This weight that travels through the arm

The tree quivered.

Deep in the mountains, aiming at the large beech tree spreading its roots.

The descending Ōmasakari.

An axe filled with human strength.

Ah, this cutting edge!

The raw vividness of this tree's scent.

The mountain depths, hushed as though listening intently.

Defying the mountains,

The axe bit into the resonant tree trunk.

The Ōmasakari possessed a soul.

A single Golden Bat.

A single cigarette comforted me.

A single Golden Bat led me out to the city streets.

The cigarette from fingertips

feebly raised a single wisp of sky-blue smoke.

It made me happy.

And renewed me

bathed in gleaming sunlight.

Today again—a single Golden Bat I had lit—

distanced myself from the noisy tumult of various matters.

While amidst all those various matters
It makes me gaze at it from afar.
Ah, this lightness of foot!

On Memory

Plucking rhythmically with fingernails.

Now I took up the bow, but—

The rhythm had gone awry before I knew it.

A dust-covered violin.

Even so—just a little—

In the shadow of some blade of grass, something chirped.

I tried to imitate that cricket’s voice.

Harvest Time

Golden-ripe wheat upon wheat

As if drunk on golden beer

Be drunk on that rich aroma

Young farmers,

Here in the midst of wide-open fields.

As if handling a young girl—

Never mind that!

Firmly embrace the bundles of grain and carry them out!

Beyond the mountains, evening shower clouds lay hidden.

In this moment—

In this moment—

Now,

And know the joy of your harvest.

Love the reaped and dried grain.

Fruit.

Crimson fruit.

Fruit upon the tree.

Merely glimpsing it—

Humans become lonesome thieves.

This hand is dreadful.

V

A Poem Dedicated to Christ

O Christ,

This was nothing particularly unusual,

but today again a young woman came to me,

and asked: “How can I—

like that sinful woman described in the Bible—

wash His mud-covered feet with tears—

with this black, thick-flowing hair—

do such a thing as wipe them for Him?”

I was a bit troubled, but

I said this.

"If one person suffers, that is enough."

"Thus everyone is saved."

The woman, heartened by my words, hurried off home.

The woman had a large belly.

And yet she claimed to be unmarried.

O Christ,

"Was that enough?"

I couldn't shake this dreadful feeling.

A Poem for a Certain Fallen Woman

O woman

O you stand at the edge of this world.

O your path has come to an end.

O you know that.

Now is the time for you to return that once-beautiful body to the earth.

You must quietly close those eyes and forget everything.

O you, what are you thinking now?

O you, the nobility of ignorance

O your suffering

Know that that is the world's bitterness.

Ah, through that suffering, humans are forgiven.

O you saved humanity.

O you were also saved by that.

Any ordeal fades when one thinks of O you.

When O you, gaunt with hunger, stood night after night at dim street corners like a stray kitten,

Who cast stones upon seeing you?

To appease those beast-like men,

that ripe body in its prime—

Ah, without hatred, you yielded to their whims,

the clenched-teeth agony of fleeting ecstasy.

This endurance is noble.

What purity of soul you possess!

O you remain unstained by their sins.

Pity them.

Through their sins, they torment you, O you.
Through their sins, they destroy you, O you.
They do not even know that.
They do not even know how to wash their own hands.
O you, the flower that gently bloomed in the mire for their sake
O you who observed every matter in detail
The beautiful, the ugly

O you have known everything completely.
Not a single task of yours remains.
O you, hold a heart clear as sky.
Be free.
Be magnanimous.
Through tears shed long and unnoticed,
Behold those eyes purified to divinity -
Sublimity like the Virgin Mary's
O you shine radiant.

In front of O you, my head naturally bows.
Ah, lily of hell!

O your deeds purified this world.
O you shouldered humanity's burden alone
You served as a substitute for all people.
And yet you were cast aside.
Ah, righteous!

Tragic white lily of hell
Cat,
Where do you intend to go now, O you?
O your path has ended.

O your body has begun to rot

O Earth

I say nothing.

Accept this kiss for truth's sake.

Ah Earth that knows everything

And O woman,

Once, while standing in the very midst of their praises,

You had not even a moment’s peace.

The maggots are now waiting for O you.

Grant eternal life to all things

O purifying Earth that cleanses all things
Believe in this Earth.

Will you die as a sacrifice for humanity’s sins?
I worship O you.
They know nothing at all.
Have you understood?

And O our flesh and blood!

Turn this way once more.

O you, look well upon the world that remains after you.

To the Wife of a Drowned Man

O your sorrow is great.

O woman

O you are a human whose soul has been stolen away.
O your life begins anew today.
Its end resembles the sea.
And O you casting a lonely shadow
Day after day, people said they saw it.
The baby who slept soundly without knowing anything

She carried that baby on her back while crying,

The footprints left behind by O you wandering here and there on the shore

The waves that wash away those footprints

O woman,

Do you hate this terrible sea, O you?

You must not hate.

Do you resent this vast sea, O you?

You must not resent.

Do not murmur, ‘If only it weren’t the sea...’

Ah, in the sadness that it is the sea

Be still.

The sea does nothing but roar thunderously.

The waves do nothing but bite the shore and rage wildly.

Where is there malice in the sea?

That is nature.

But O the smallness of drowning humans!

Know human powerlessness.

What becomes of those who have drowned?

Cease futile lamenting and grieving.

Rather than that, focus on raising well the child you bear upon your back.

Strongly, strongly

Be stronger than the sea

Be stronger than the waves

The sea sleeping upon that hand

Beneath that hand, the storm and waves holding their breath

This magnificent vision

Paint into the baby’s future

Live looking forward to that.

When the child’s strength governs this great sea

You no longer resented nor bore grudges.
Gazing upon this sea,
Acknowledging the selflessness of this sea,
You would come to know humanity for the first time.
You would embrace humanity
And clasp this sea to your breast and love it.
And yet, O you—until then—
How many times must you speak sorrowfully to the sea?
“At least return his corpse to me!”
Ah, O young widow with none to rely on,
The Poem of the Great Arm
Where in this world exists a great arm?
I feel it.
I do not know where it lies.
I know nothing of it.

And yet, what tremendous strength this possesses!

Think of that arm.

If you think of that arm,

At any time, from somewhere unknown, this great force welling up within oneself

The body that had gone limp now stood solidly,
But do not try to look upon that arm.
If you try to look upon it, the strength will instantly vanish and disappear.
Believe like the blind.
Ah, the suffering of living—
In that intensity, I felt that arm all the more strongly.
Do not murmur that fortune is meager.
There is a great arm somewhere.
O humans,
With this unseen arm as your pillow, peacefully—
Sleep embraced.

The Poem of the Pioneers

Take this path

This path of the terrifying storm

Run

With great power surging deep within
Sense the beyond
Aim for the beyond
Without glancing sideways

Do not look back
Destroy all obstacles—houses, trees—that stand in your way.
Like a storm.
Do not ask about what comes after.

Be brave.

That is enough.

Ⅵ

Onset of Autumn

TO K.TÔYAMA.

With my lonely wife and children in tow,

we departed this land far into the distance,

before the migratory birds,

and where were we trying to go?

From underfoot trails a shadow, faint and untraceable.
Do not let the wind stir that shadow.

At the onset of autumn's seashore
The anchor was rusted a deep red.
On the cliff that loomed high above, bellflowers and mountain lilies bloomed.

From the navy-blue sky, my hand is cold.

“Friend,
your destitution cuts too deep.”

"And yet, in the depths of your sunken eyes, truth remains untainted.

Know life."

Friend,

Humans suffer individually within this vast nature.

Go forth quietly

Was the beginning of this world also like this?

The pale purple haze cleared.

Look at the sea.
This crystal-clear sea’s sensation—
Ah, this dawn—
Was the beginning of this world also like this?
From the shore where rippling waves lap
Toward the vast sea,
An aged fisherman presses his palms together.
The footprints of plovers left on the shore are clearly visible.
The sea is calm this morning.

Soliloquy.

By the fierce labor of a whole day,

The body was utterly exhausted.

When I looked this morning,

It had swollen and grown stout,

Swelled brimful with power,

And had become nearly overflowing.

It was like a large water tank filled to the brim with clear water.

Drip-drip-dripping—the bamboo pipe's water fell into the tank, yet—

Oh, this bodily strength!

Where had it come from while I slept?

Strength is like overflowing water.

This strength—visceral and overflowing from the body.

Once more, even now on this day, it waited insistently in the distance.

The grain fields stretching along those hills.

Picture that golden, rippling wheat field.

This new day's light
Be renewed.
Live in the joy of abundant strength.

Newspaper Poem

Look at today's newspapers.

Look at these blood-drenched type.

Open your eyes wide and read.

This is the phenomenon of the world.

This has now become humanity's daily life.

Is this humanity's existence?

Is this human labor?

Ah, the human race cruelly infested!

What a terrifying era this must be.

They gnash their teeth and clash.

Look at these accursed humans.

A single newspaper that shows the whole world as if held in one's hand

Cast your gaze over every corner of it.

Scratch beneath the printed words and see.

Is there not somewhere within it a grain field barren with red clay?

Take heed.

And lurking hidden between those furrows,

Knowing nothing of the world's ways

Even were this humanity's end—

The poor farmer must grow grains for himself and family to eat.

There remains the primordial age.

From there once more the world draws breath anew.

Oh golden-hued fantasy of grain fields!

O hope ripening within this golden vision!

Train Poem

The signal arm clanked down.

Thereupon, with a heavy ground rumble,

the train came charging majestically like a great whirlwind.

Look.

Into the midst of several rails running parallel and intersecting

Choosing one line from among them,

the precision with which it came rushing in

and halted exactly at the platform with perfect precision.

How should one describe this magnificence?

This boldness oppresses.

But the path is long.

Fill the boiler plentifully with water and coal.

And speak:

how it was met with children's cheers,

how it scattered a woman’s head and limbs,

how it overturned trees and houses to demonstrate—

O beloved things of children.

I too love this strength.

City Poem

Soot was beautiful.

It was a world filled with that soot.

Within that lay this metropolis.

Look at the faces of those who worked.

Look at those limbs.

What sublimity!

Ah, soot!

Within that groaned the groups of laborers.

There were indeed strange things in this world.

This was fresh,

And yet it appeared splendid.

Everything was an act of cruelty.

Ah, unbearable!

They are drawn in.

City Poem

Swirling smoke

Twilight Metropolis

A light bloomed like a flower.

Everywhere along vine-like lines of illumination,

The beauty of golden-radiant candlelight suffusing!

Countless golden-radiant candlelights suffusing,

Look.

The metropolis resembled broad daylight.

What is a diamond?

What is a ruby?

This magnificent city's every street and every house—

It is precisely because they are humans dwelling here that they endure every bitterness.

The happiness of humans who inhabit this place.

Ah, I need nothing.

What can rival this splendor?

Amidst this happiness,

The city lives.

As the night deepens,

The deeper it grows,

Gradually, the city shines beautifully and brilliantly.

There, weary humans solemnly closed their eyelids like gods.

This beauty is alive.

Handshake

“What ails you?”

That shabby withered state.

That gaunt, emaciated form was exactly like rootless grass.

“Hey brother,
What troubles you?
First things first – begin with a handshake.
Now show me that hand.
I’ll grip it tight.”

In the field where barley was reaped
This hand has sown autumn buckwheat.
A hand acquainted with all trials.
A hand that’s borne all hardships.
Don’t scorn its earthy scent.
This hand instills resolve.
Thrust it forth!
Hesitation dishonors.

You too—put strength into that hand.
And I grip back until pain speaks.

Grip it back.

That’s right.

Stand strong! Stand true! Stand upright!

When I returned to my hometown

This wasn't it.

This wasn't how it should be.

The world I saw as a child

Even the mountains weren't this shabbily low.

Everything was beautiful.

The sun had just settled into the sorghum field.

It leisurely colored that brief moment at day's end,

The sun had just settled into the sorghum field.

Undulating in great swells,

Beyond fields upon fields of hills layered in every direction,

A vivid crimson sunset sky,

A horse-drawn cart piled mountain-high with withered grass clattered—

Beneath it passed many in succession.

What tranquility.

While living in this vast tranquil world, humans suffered.

And each and every one suffered.

That is beautiful.

This is the beauty.

A cricket was chirping somewhere deep.
That voice was pulling me toward the distant ancient past.

But what of days gone by?

Everything belongs to tomorrow.

Everything belongs to tomorrow.

VII

I am thinking in loneliness.

It is good to bring people joy.

To bring joy to oneself is an even greater good.

To bring joy to people

Perhaps it can be done.

To bring joy to oneself is important, but it is not easy.

The rightness of things—of all that is called 'thing'—

An autumn day when all things hold their rightful places.

This hand, crisp and keen—

Emaciated fingers—

I am thinking of such things alone.

What a lonely shadow I cast.

Locusts.
Suffering is beautiful.

The suffering of this human existence—
This is not limited to humans.
Is this the deep, grand will of nature?
A crisp sky of deep indigo,
the faint loneliness of an autumn day—
Look upon their shabbiness in the ridges scattered about:
women and children,
locusts scrambling to escape those hands.

Hushed and impoverished villages

The drawn-out cry of a chicken sounded.
The surface of the rice field lay calm and expansive.
Locusts hopped and fluttered about.
They struggled to catch them.
They chased about after them.

Incessantly hopping and flitting about—
disrupting the frail afternoon light as they flew—
and now—cleverly caught—O locusts!

The power of love

The power of love that makes grains bow their heavy heads is great.

Crimson autumn sun

Expansive grain field.

Expansively.

The aged farmer gazed at it entranced.

While brushing the ashes from his pipe

What was he saying to the mischievous sparrows and crows?

The abundantly fruited grains hung low their golden heads.

He listened silently to that.

The power of love that makes grains bow their heavy heads is great.

On that farmer's brass-like head

a dragonfly glinted.

What profound serenity this held.

The god of humanity

gripped a large hoe in his hands,

and gazed contemplatively over the expansive grain field.

O aged farmer's face!

The divinity of that face!

The farmer is the soul of the world.

The farmer was humanity's god.

Through fierce labor since dawn,

The cliff-like chest streamed with greasy sweat.

By the human love stored in that chest,

the grains hung their heavy heads low.

Behold, the day was just about to end.

Crimson sunset sky

He forgot even to scrape the mud from his large hoe,
The farmer gazed ceaselessly upon the expansive grain field.
In the distance, glowing crimson,
The sun now peacefully began its descent.

A Poem of Autumn's Joy

When green bamboo was bound to the ceiling beam of the barn,

The large millstone began to turn of its own accord through powerful hands.

Rumble rumble.

That sound was exactly like the sea.

The golden grains were violently thrown into that millstone,

There, they were made to listen to the whispered conversations of friendly young men and girls.

Rumble rumble.

That sound was exactly like the sea.

Rumble rumble rumble rumble

What a wonderful sound this must be!

When such sounds came to be heard here and there,

The Moon became perfectly round.

And there were no longer any who hungered.

Ah, the joy of harvest!

Rumble rumble rumble rumble

Spreading from one end of the world to the other.

Rumble rumble rumble rumble

The Poem of Blades of Grass

Bathing in the golden light of late autumn,

Blades of grass wildly clustered like the bristling fur on a beast's spine

Even a single blade of grass

Possessed a beauty beyond human attainment.

Across those blades of grass

There ran one barefoot.

To this barefoot runner

What did the breeze whisper?

That even such things could startle

Ah, how vast is human anguish.

When one ran barefoot across them,

Blades of grass rustled.

A Certain Landscape

Look!

The world ravaged by the great storm

This unadorned cruelty

Perched atop the skeletal tree,

Piercingly, the shrike screamed.

A serenely clear late autumn day

Serenely cleared, this blue sky!

Look up humbly to this vast blue sky and feel shame.

When the great storm passed over your heads

What were you doing?

What was it that the great storm tried to awaken in you?

You did not know.

That which lies deeply sleeping within You

And then You trembled in fear and covered your ears with both hands.
What a wretched spectacle!
Had you forgotten what it means to be human?
Because you are human—feel shame—
Clear away completely!
A fresh sky cleared until it hurt,
under which you forgot even storms,
forgot everything.
Fruits rolled tumbling across earth.
They gathered mud-caked blue fruit.
Snowfall Insect
Swiftly

The child found
the flying snowfall insects
And yet I still
am thinking of one thing.

Winter nears

Your eyes were deep.
They resembled an abyss.
Winter drew near.
Within those eyes, a solitary flicker...
Contemplate the lone lamp kindled by that spark.
Live through this truth.

It was now twilight.

Love this solitude.

Crickets.

Remember

That night—
That storm—
Even through that storm, they did not cease singing.
They sang faintly yet resolutely.
The crickets harmonized their voices,
they sang with a metallic twang.
I was listening to that.

A Certain Day's Poem

Grass blades sway.

Those leaves stir faintly.

The storm somewhere—

Now passing through—

Is it passing through now?

This hushed stillness

Dragonfly, dragonfly

Come alight on this fingertip

A Certain Day's Poem

Alone is lonely

Lonelier still amidst the crowd

Not only myself—
No,
O desolate humans,
Is life so desolate?
Live by this truth.
Leaves fall.
Fluttering down they fall

Autumn twilight

Behold, now the world burned golden in sunset,

This day came to its end.

Fluttering down fell the tree leaves.

Memory's Trees

Trees stood slenderly, two or three

Where had I seen it?

That memory was rocking me…

Bathed in the setting sun, they turned yellow.

The Last Leaf

We waited unobtrusively for that leaf to fall.

It fluttered down above us

The winter day grew desolately dark.

Windy days still persisted for those trees.

The rasping voice of bone-like treetops

Mountain

I dashed into a certain café.
But enough of that—hot coffee,
A cup in urgent haste.
Even while the woman was arranging the silver forks, I couldn’t wait—

I was starving,
dipping my fingertips into the sauce
on the soapstone dining table like that one's skin

He drew a mountain where snow falls.

He could not forget that mountain.

Path.

The path was not before me.
That was my footprint.
This was the world’s path.

This is the human path.

Say that dragonflies too travel this path.

Poem of Early Winter

The city was gradually growing beautiful.

And human eyes grow harsh.

Early Winter

Soon your hand will burn hot

It will turn into fire itself.

Street Observations

Wind roared through the main street.
A child’s voice shouted toward it.
The wind snatched away that voice.
But already forgotten were its sharp claws—everything—by that child.

The child is walking toward the opposite side.

Dedicated to a Friend

Friend,

Tend to that swelling on your leg.

That golden swelling

A throbbing pain

The flowing pus of love

Evil wind

At the street corner I

I encountered an ill wind.

It was a wind I felt I’d seen somewhere before.

That's it.

It was in a rice field once—

The wind snatched the child's kite and ran off.

That damn wind!

Snow Poem

Fluttering down they came,

Snowflakes' multitude

From the distant reaches of a leaden sky -

Is this winter's adornment?

Is this a gift to the world?

The city of pure silver and villages

Does it fall upon these freezing people?

Snow makes humans resolute.

Snow accumulates strength.

And unites humans with the gods.

Bless.

The children were like lions in their joy.

Snow fluttered down

The cruel soul of snow

Stuffing and devouring this beauty

Devour!

Snow, dance too!

Snow-like children

Ⅷ

Poem Dedicated to Those Who Witness the World’s Dawn

You who awoke to the rooster’s cry.
You awakened before crows or sparrows,
And you rushed out to the fields.
You were thoroughly drenched in morning dew.

Even though the sun had not yet risen,
your foreheads already glistened with sweat.
You stood upon the vast fields,
witnessed the world's dawn.
Only you saw it—
that sun rising from the edge of this world—
how you must have startled it!
You wouldn't know.
You wouldn't know.

Think of this young farmer!

I sense this dawning.

I am feeling.

In the depths of this ice-like darkness, eyes piercingly clear
Winter's dawn
Roosters' voices calling out to each other from near and far
That voice which calls forth humanity’s new day

Night air piercingly clear as glass

On the withered remnants of grass leaves lay an aching heavy frost like snow.

Everything distinct: the world's awakening
This eternal dawning—
I felt it keenly.
How I longed for it!

And yet the night is long.

Think!
The winter field glowing in the morning sun
Within the earth: leeks and radishes growing plump
And think of humanity
The great
Greatness is not cannonballs
It is arms like oak trees
Nor is it gold coins
It is a stomach pouch with steel teeth
And above all
It is this will

The Poetry of the Strong

Humanity’s greatest sorrow—

Is it said to be born into this world of suffering?

Nay!

Is this not humanity’s joy?

Can you not grasp this beauty?

What sublime beauty this is!

This world of suffering—

To live in this suffering—

Behold

The sprawling fields of autumn—

Grains with heavy drooping heads

Those gallant reapers

The horse carrying those grain bundles

Bathing in abundant sunlight,

There and here,

Poor farm women gathering fallen ears

Are even crows and sparrows part of this?

Know this fellowship.

What of this beauty?

What of this great beauty?

Those who know this beauty are strong.

In this world of suffering alone
There exists the joy of human existence.
O joy of human existence!
This world is beautiful only to the strong.
Thus begins the severe day.
Thus ends the human day.

Be strong

To the Afflicted: Poetry as a Gift

Something more beautiful than apples

Something softer than castella

It is this love I send to you.

This love

This love, like snow

Like falling leaves, fluttering down,

Flutter down upon you

How do you see it?

My love within the wind...
What cold hands you have.
What desolate eyes.

O afflicted one

For you, pure white snow
And I am like fire
Within this love, take in exchange a strong life like grain seeds
Feel the light
Live in stillness

A Poem of a Certain Sunday

When I gazed at distant mountains crowned with pure white snow,
a sharp cold rose from my fingertips.
Camellia and oak leaves shone with greasy glare.
Withered grass rustled in bitter wind,
prostrate on frozen earth,
moaning through winter’s throat.

The trees were like skeletons.

The hoarse voices of those treetops, like living creatures.

The ominous sky seemed restless.

The tracing of clouds.

Shadows raced across the fields.

A honeyed sunlit pool.

The park I came to see after so long had fallen completely into ruin.

But today was a good Sunday.

Children were playing at something.

O children like fallen leaves.

A honeyed sunlit pool.

That light was just like honey.

Poem of the Morning

He stood at dawn’s moatside—
the ice stretched taut—
this feeling of staring—
this freshness!
Hands like glass grabbed
a single pebble—
all his strength poured—
struck onto ice—
wobbling unsteady—
chirping bird-like glide—
(O sun!)

O with this feeling,

I will leap into the town of humans.

Like that pebble.

Poem of the Gale

This day too, this day—

The gale blew from morning.

The gale blew me.

Together with that gale,

I spent all day.
I was pulling radishes in the field.
Poem of the Farmer
[The land] waits for me.

Toward that mountain's shadow
Today again I went to plow the rice fields with my horse.
That place was a harsh barren wasteland, but
How eagerly the land waited for me!
Even when plowed thin, still darkly—
There, a frog that had been hibernating had its nest destroyed and went hopping frantically about.
Sparrows and crows gathered from all directions.
My horse is the hardest worker in the household.
How I love being with my horse!
When I take care of my horse,
The horse takes care of me.

This was how we lived on together.

Lord Sun

Ah，this happiness of that very day!

What an immense blue sky!

And when I started singing，

With its ears pricked up sharply，

Snorting with absurdly wild vigor，

The hand gripping the plow grew perilous—

My horse had gotten a bit too spirited.

Poem of Humanity

I love humans.

Be human.

That is good.

That alone is enough.

Is that not good?

I love humans.

Be human.

These eyes

These ears

This mouth

This nose

These hands and feet

How to speak of this magnificence?

With a vast blue sky crowning their heads,

Treading firmly on the earth with two legs,

Humans standing tall like trees upon it

Pedestrians like cows

Aerial gliders like dragonflies

Contemplate this human

The beginning of this world
Imagine when it was still creation's dawn.
What existed there?
A wilderness boundless and endless
The same sky above it
The sun of that sky
It was humans who discovered this.

All was discovered by humankind.

All belongs to humanity.

Winged beings

Finned beings

All crawling beings

All grasses and trees

Loving all things,

Humans who gave beautiful names to all things

All value

All meaning

All laws

All existence depends on what humans ordained.

Is this not a world shaped by human presence?

Believe in humanity.

This magnificent human

The earth thrust forth its living child onto the soil.

Be human.

Believe in humanity.

The iron-hardened human will

The beast-raw human love

And the divine-human freedom

Ah! How glorious humans are!

Air and water and grain

and sunlight

and there—humans multiplying

There humans grow large.

That is where Human grows strong.
Ah, how splendid Human is!
This Human lives.
This Human strives to live.
Be Human.

Contemplate being human.

Humans are splendid.

I like humans.

What I love most—no matter what—is humans.

Be human.

Be human.

Be human.

Be human.
Where did this human come from?
Where is this human going?
What does that matter?

Such things don't matter.

Look closely.

And think.

What new world will this human create?

What new era will this human create?

What great beliefs

What grand ideology

What kind of great art

What will this human give birth to?

Look at humans.

Look at humans.

Look closely.
Fix your gaze and look, O sun,
At humans living eternity in a single moment -
Thy beloved.
May the gods too behold
This living human.

Ode to the Pregnant Woman

The agony of birth

For this agony

O you who bear life
What do you perceive, O noble one?
The terrifying tempest of the womb
Contemplate the tempest.
Endure the tempest.
Those who bear life are humans.

What comes from eternity’s edge

The sun's cherished one

The agony of birth

Your agony, O noble ones

That is the world's joy.

Where a single human multiplies in the world

This joy

Contemplate this joy.
With feelings like crisply cleared azure skies,

In time, you will find it, O noble ones.

What the storm forgot and left behind
Upon their laps
Sucking at that breast
Endure awhile
Endure the storm
O noble one, you are humanity's creator
Through you, O noble ones, humans came into this world
Receive all creation's praise

O noble mothers of humanity
O noble ones pregnant with humans
Bear forth.
Multiply.
Look upon the earth!
Come forth victorious, humans

To My Younger Sister

From beneath dead leaves, water grasses are abruptly putting forth blue buds.

Gracefully stretching trees

Fluttering were the tender leaves of those trees.

Siskins and wagtails chirped in the vicinity.

From the hollow, snowmelt water trickled and flowed.

The purity of that water

The purity of that water

Younger sister,

That is like your love.

It is your love that melts and flows as a kiss hidden from others.

Cross.

The weight of the Cross sank its teeth,
cruelly biting into flesh.

The Cross beloved by those who suffer:
O you who suffer,
humanity itself is the true Christ.
And the road stretched long.

This Path to Golgotha

How far must we go before it ends?

The Cross upon our shoulders

Planting staggering steps, we advance.

Steadfastly enduring suffering, we advance.

Behold.

Lord, this strength of humans...

Poem of the Bellows Festival

My will glows red-hot
Behold, it lies beautifully scorched
The will upon the anvil
This will like steel
Strike!
Brandish the iron hammer!
What scatters is the exhalation of sparks
What scatters is my exhalation
Agonizing
Because it is agonizing, it is beautiful
Life's suffering
Does that condense within humans to become strength?
Dawn of the world!
This honed edge
Air that would cut if touched
This will of mine, like steel
The power of mine that tempers it

Endure.

Endure.

Temper on the anvil.

Clang!

With this fine resonance, consecrate winter's essence.

Poem of the Crow Festival

Great Crow

A crow fashioned from straw and rags

Consecrate that crow.

You are farmers

They rushed out into dawn's vast field.

They sowed the seeds earnestly.
The seeds, each grain,
The seeds were good seeds.
They covered them with soil.
They hid them from the sun.

You are farmers

From that time onward,
How much they had thought of nothing but the fields!
Unaware of such matters,

Unaware even of such matters,
those blasted crows came and pecked it away.
Consecrate that crow.

Poem of the Poor

Behold, those rags.

This beautiful winter's adornment

And then the red tip of a nose

When humans become willful,

Frost is pure white.

Fingers on the verge of tearing off—this indescribable intensity.

Love winter.

From here and there on those rags

The flesh gazes upon the world.

A simple morning meal
Soup and bread
And a few vegetables
What a simple morning meal this is
Morning, pure morning
At the start of this new day
The aroma of soup
The aroma of bread
And above that, the aroma of the blue sky

A family of three
What a beautiful morning meal this is.
Sparrows too, come down from the roof.

This dining table is meager, but

Behold.

This child,

The spoon clutched in that small hand,

Endured hunger in silence,

Head bowed low in gratitude—

Bow your heads like ours.

Do you not wait quietly for my prayer?

Let there be blessings upon this dining table!

IX

At the very top of that treetop, a single siskin is singing.

A crisp blue sky

That high place.

At the very top of that treetop, a single siskin is singing.

Until yesterday,

stretched taut like bones

the treetop sliced through the wind with a whistling rush.

At the very top of that treetop, a single siskin is singing.

That, due to last evening’s fine rain,

now the treetop glistens completely,

this morning: light

stretched and spread out like smoke.

At the very top of that treetop, a single siskin is singing.

What does that matter?

If you keep talking about such things, you won’t be able to eat your meals.

People are hurried.

People's suffering
Suffering blankets the earth.
But high places remain quiet still.
At the treetop's crown, a lone siskin sings.
Rain speaks through falling drops.
The day had drained its light entire.

It was now night.
After dinner，I stretched my legs out at length and lay sprawled.
As I lay there，
the rain spoke drop by drop—
the sorrows of humans，
the suffering of living things，
and the coming of the swallow.

the child was already fast asleep

The wife was sewing the child's kimono while

As the rain gradually grew stronger,
worried that the sown seeds might be forced out from the soil,
under the dim electric lamp,
she and I worried together.

Wheat field.
This green.

Ah, this green.

The color of life!

The melancholy beauty of the wheat field.

As I gazed upon the wheat field,

Human passions bore down on me

This kernel of strength

Humanity's strong truth

This surged precisely from the depths

A strength welling up in billowing swells

And through this vital soil's love

How immense a health these wheat stalks sensed!

Ah, this row of wheat stalks

Ah, if only this day - even azure heavens felt made for me

Somewhere too a skylark sang

Ah, this green.

Immersing my hands in this wheat green.

I am teary-eyed.

Morning.

When I slid open the rain shutters with a clatter,

What came leaping in there was sunlight.

Ah!
Blinding.

as though my skull had been struck a single blow

And so my vision blurred.

I stood upright there.

Ah.

But my resolute morning awakening—

How long had it been waiting outside?

This fierce sunlight!

At last, I gingerly managed to slit open my stinging eyes just a crack.

I saw
I saw

I saw

There

A magnificent grand day

It had cleared crisply.

Everything was filled to the brim with strength.

The dawn of a new day

Human suffering.

No matter where I turn

Humans suffer terribly.

Ah, humans alone—

Not just humans—

Because I am human—precisely so—I too suffer this intensely.

Even along splendid city boulevards

Even in these vast blue-green grain fields

Everyone shares this sameness.

Everyone suffers.

But seeing everyone's suffering

I grow increasingly tormented.
I must suffer together with everyone.
Even though I say we suffer together,
We are each alone.
Value the individual!
No matter what they say, I suffer.
I alone will bear suffering.
I will suffer in everyone's place.
Load all suffering onto this shoulder!
O people,
And may your bodies too be light and free.
Be like the birds of the sky.
The multitude within a single self

I will live for everyone's happiness.
I will live in everyone’s suffering.
The vast sky I gazed upon with this thought—
This dripping-deep azure—
This magnificence—
I feel with such indescribable sharpness
Humanity's fierce will—
Now, the earth's strong power—

Our small field.

If even a slightly heavy rain began to fall,
From beneath the soil where we had hidden them from the sparrows,
The seeds seemed ready to burst forth at any moment.

How we worried about them!
And how we loved those seeds!
They had—unnoticed—
spread their roots firmly in the ground.

Sprouted adorable buds toward the blue sky.
Thus even in a small field at the garden's corner,
those buds gradually became stems and leaves.

Some of them—

suddenly began to lengthen swiftly,

as if human, extending vines like hands.

It was only then that we realized they were ingen beans.

When we set up wooden stakes for them yesterday evening,

by morning they were already clinging joyfully to everything in sight.

Besides these, sorghum and cucumbers and—

there were several kinds of autumn blossoms.

All of them thrived in this small field, utterly content.

And upon those, the sun cast its light.
The sunlight from the small field
overflowed across the entire surroundings.

At the beginning of day

Look

The sun was now rising from the world's edge.

This town veiled in morning mist and rows of houses

This dawn's piercing light

First from the very tips of treetops—

It bestowed fresh awareness.

O vividly quivering sky!

Crows cried.
Sparrows cried.
People awoke sharply

Arise.

And they say

Good morning.

"Good morning," they said,

filled with joy and strength, distinctly—

Oh, this word lived!

What a beautiful word this was!

In this word, human purity still remained.

From this word began humanity's day.

Our work
Our work

It was like building a single nest.

High in this sky,

Build a nest that no strong wind could bring down

And the trees deeply rooted in the earth

At the very tip of those branches

The bird attempting to hatch eggs

Kept working busily like that.

Every day, every day

From morning until evening.

They pick up strands of women’s hair on the streets of that city over there,

They steal a single stalk of straw from the farmers in this village here,

Ah, we are no different from that bird.
But birds have wings like those.
What do we have?
Ah.

Tidings

It was the wind of early summer passing through the treetops.

It was the wind that emerged from the ridges of the grain field.

Over our roof

It sounded exactly like the distant sea.

Beneath that, we lived.

We lived in harmony like fish.

The wind was calm.

Because it was the wind crossing that high blue sky.

Now and then, it sent swallows darting sharply through the air.

And startled us.

We live in harmony.

We are poor yet live in harmony.
We live like fish.

Gratitude.

How incredibly swift!

Right at the moment we had just woken up,
From the station came one box.
It arrived with a hefty thud.
That box had come from afar, passing through tunnel after tunnel.
It crossed a vast golden grain field,
had been carried by a vigorous express train,
and now reached us in this city.
Looking closer, something emerged from a crack in the box.
That was scallion sprouts.
And then potatoes and podded peas—

The scent of shiso leaves also fills the air all around with the joy of morning.

Laborer's Poem

The rain had finally ceased after so long.

He came out to the clearing after the rain and began singing while sawing wood.

The young woodcutter raised his splendid voice and began to sing with rapturous admiration.

What a magnificent voice!

All around lay hushed stillness.
Everything seemed utterly entranced by that voice.
Through that voice, the world appeared to gradually brighten.
Look—right above—
The blue sky newly cleared,
Morning dew glistening on every leaf:
Love all things.

Everything is beautiful.

The young woodcutter raised his voice even higher,

With that fine voice,

He summoned the sun over all things.

Poem of the Old Fisherman

I saw humanity.

I saw that in this aged fisherman.

The fisherman stood steadfast on the shore.

The fisherman loved the sea.

And until he reached this age,

How he must have gazed upon the sea!

The fisherman loved the sea.

Even now, this living sea…

He fixed his gaze intently.

A fisherman stood gazing at the sea.

Ah, this rugged strength!

The sea in its entirety?

The sea in its entirety.

No—larger than the sea.

What magnificence this was!

I saw this magnificence in humans.

O sea!

I saw a true human.

Look at these iron-like joints!

Look at this bronze-forged torso!

Look at the eyes gleaming beneath that brow.

Ah, this furrowed forehead—

Look well at these deep-carved wrinkles of power.

I saw a true human.

Every part of this fisherman spoke.

The mountain-like whale he once saw offshore,

the waves like raging cliffs,

and then he knelt involuntarily at the sight—

the beautiful and solemn dawn sun,

Ah, this endlessly deep blue expanse of the great sea plain.

Even the great sea was small before this fisherman.

The waves rush in,
break there,
and wash over the fisherman’s feet.

Poem of the Sudden Rain

What is that?

That's...
Rustling through—
That sound from the bamboo grove.
Rain.
Rain.
Oh, here it comes already.
Pattering in large drops.
Ah, good.

After so long,

The vegetation becomes thoroughly drenched.

Get thoroughly drenched.

Tormented One

What have I done?

I berate myself—What have I done?

This self that mocks me

Do I think no one knows?

I know they all know.

I understand completely.

Look at me.

Ah, how dreadful!

Don't.

Don't.

Don't.
Don't touch me.

I am defiled.

I have just now flung myself out of hell.

Do you smell it?
The smell of face powder and perfume—
the smell of alcohol I was drenched in enough to swim through that darkness
The fierce, varied stench of this evil
Oh, the stench of evil vomited forth from the intestines.
That strangles my throat.
That clings to my lips.
And then it flickers on this handkerchief.

I am still alive.

I haven’t kicked the bucket yet.

I am completely exhausted.

Forgive me.
Will you forgive me?
Did God or the world ever exist?
Did soul or money or honor ever exist?
This exhaustion—
It seems about to melt away completely.
Melt away completely.
What is with that ghastly pale face?
But in reality, my eyes are beautiful.
That arm coiling snake-like around this neck—
Ah, forgive me.

And without saying anything, let me sleep.

I am completely exhausted.

Don’t ask me anything.

Tonight,

Until tomorrow morning,
Let me sleep gently like a pig.
Though I say this, that muddy water was delicious.

And what's more, I am drunk.

These words are true.
Let this wretched state speak for itself.

And yet I still try to live.

This frustration of being unable to spit my own spit upon my own face.

Ah how dreadful.

Ah I'm sleepy.

Let me sleep gently like this.

But can such a thing truly exist in this world?

I am doubting myself.

I tested myself by touch.

And then I pinched and struck and tried to bite.

It is certainly me.

Ah, how dreadful.

I do not deny the facts.
Facts are facts.

But now everything has become the past.

From underfoot, something slithered smoothly.

And now there was a distance between myself and it.
And it was gradually moving away.
Now it had become a kind of phantom.
Memory, do not cast your net upon such things.
Oh, phantom of great evil!
Sin is beautiful.

That great sin too had been perpetrated like a leech latched onto flesh. Yet that slimy, ugly sensation lingering from the act—even so, from that pitch-dark slimy deep hole where I crawled out, I felt a wave of relief. And I had nearly let it slip from my mouth—from these lips defiled by drool and saccharine kisses—"Oh God,"

And I shuddered.

Well then, what of tonight’s clock and its sluggish crawl?

Advance swiftly!

Ah, so sleepy, so sleepy.

In the distance, the first rooster crows.

My eyes can no longer see.

How near has dawn drawn?

If I sleep soundly like this and wake up,

There lies a new human.

Having forgotten all about last night and such,

I awakened sharply

Rise up
A spine-stretch as if offering oneself to the vast sky
O strength coursing through this entire body
The new human that is myself

That is the true me.

From this drunkenness，anguish，and fatigue

Imagine the new human born from this!

The fresh air he inhaled at that moment

The morning sunlight—abundant，healthy，overflowing with the world—that he bathed in at that moment.

Somewhere a rooster crowed.

Ah, so sleepy.
I'm so sleepy I could drop.
I am utterly exhausted.

Let me lie down

Let me lie down
And this hand of mine
Align your fingers and cross them upon this chest
But do not touch me
I am terribly defiled
If only someone would say just one word to me

Anyone will do.
Speak on behalf of all humanity.
Without thinking anything, close your eyes.

That will do.

That will do.

Ah, I'm so sleepy.

With this, I can sleep soundly until morning.

Daybreak.

Morning.

A field in the morning mist.

Sorghum and pumpkin, beans, potatoes.

——And
I believe in God—
Is no one coming through yet?
This path through the field,
Caught on my face

A spiderweb caught.

The morning dew that beautifully adorned the web

How about this freshness?

——Now—

I believe in God

X

Hymn of Praise to the Agony of Creation

Is it painful?

Must it be painful?

Now is the time.

How much of this suffering can be endured?

You are humanity's Saint Mary.

Endure.
Show human strength!
Is it painful?

Endure.

That which emerges from the midst of this suffering

No, in the midst of this suffering,
Give birth from this human suffering
To the new world
Valiant ones
The lion cub.
Omi stands between life and death.
Look at myself gazing fixedly at Omi.
Is it painful?
Oh, that suffering
This suffering
I am also together with Omi.
Ah, the grand creation of humanity!
Ah, the grand birth of humanity!
Baby
The storm passed.

Storm.
Storm.
It raged and passed.
And then left behind an adorable baby,
Did it forget and leave it behind?
The baby slept peacefully on the bed,
Beside it, exhausted, the mother also slept.

What a splendid morning this is!

I love.

Landscape.

Nothing else is needed.

This alone is enough.

A single poplar tree.

Sharply defined, towering high,
The poplar stood aiming at the sky.

The Poplar on a Day of Great Wind

Howl.

Howl.

What tremendous strength it shows to humanity!

Ah, high in the sky

Just like a madman, I am.

The Gale's Verse

Scattering all things,

A gale roaring at all things

Plunged headlong through the streets.

The gale was exactly like a dense pack of wolves.

Raging forward, it collided with the post office's large glass doors.

But swiftly,

It whirled around

It turned right.
It ran off toward the station.
The street left in its wake lay desolate.
I, having been made into a rag, fluttered there like a scrap of paper.
I gazed fixedly at where the gale had gone.
How about this gale?
And yet I, a human,
Oh, fluttering like a scrap of paper

Poem for a Friend

I have nothing to say.

Live well.

Be strong.

Be strong.

And work.

Like a stonemason splitting stone

Like a plasterer smoothing walls

That will do.

Move your hands and feet.

Work diligently.

That is humanity's beauty.

Work shall grant you all you desire.

I will now declare:

Why do they rush so, I wonder?

How far would they go, I wonder?

Where might this path end, I wonder?

If this single road of life were spent somewhere

What will become of humans there, I wonder?

Oh, this path—does it not stretch endlessly onward with humanity?

Like a spring flowing through mountain stream valleys

I will now declare.

Let life be slow.
Be slow and deliberate like a snail.

And do not rest

For it is a path you’ll never walk again in this life—proceed with care.

When I resolved to go,

Walking

In the sky,

First, the sun is watching it.

The plants are watching.

Butterflies and dragonflies are watching.

The dogs are watching.

The baby is toddling unsteadily.

There was the roadside.

A short distance away from the baby,

The one clapping hands and calling out was the mother.

In this way, she taught how to walk.

In this way, the baby gradually grew bigger,

and grew stronger,

In time they would come to walk even humanity’s arduous path alone.

So unsteadily toddling

Wearing small red shoes.

The baby took steps.

The baby took steps.

“Because all your friends are watching.

Do not fall.”

This loveliness

Behold.

And yet treading firmly upon the earth

Family

My house was a yard full of weeds.

I loved weeds.

Winter had come even to my house that might as well have been in a grassy field.

In sunlight like steel,

the short-lived crickets were chirping frantically.

We were indeed living together with those short-lived crickets.

Day by day, the air grew clearer like water.

The night was now at its deepest hour.
The crickets were chirping incessantly.

I awoke clearly upon my bed.

When I looked at the child,
the child clamped onto the mother like a lion!
And then was soundly asleep.

“O wife,
can’t you sleep there either?
What of this cold that pierces through to the very marrow?
Come closer.
Until we become one solid mass.”

Twilight Prayer

This sitting

This silence, O...

And yet with its solid weight, the apple stood crimson.

Crimson apple.

As I stared intently at the apple,

It truly seemed to be breathing.

Sleep.

Sleep.
Though withered and weakened,
Sleep soundly upon this palm.
This weight,
This mass of strength,
What is beautiful is love.
And strength.
One apple.

I prayed fervently.

Especially within this twilight's immense depth,

the apple stood profoundly one.

May we become like the apple.

Let us live by this truth.

“Die Humanität erst bringt klarheit über die Menschenwelt, und von daaus auch über die Götterwelt”

―H.Cohen

To Those Who Follow

Children,

Now my head has turned white-haired,

a physique like bones draped in skin,

barely propped up with a cane,

look at your grandfather living like a fire about to go out.

Even so, he was once young and bold.

Your fathers,

just as they now swing hoes and sickles, toiling in rice fields and farmlands,

he braved the hail of arrows and bullets,

and performed valiant deeds indeed.

Children,

Be as sturdy as iron.

When your fathers come to be like grandfathers in time,

At that time, you will become adults like your fathers.

This era and world—

And you will admirably inherit it.

When I think of you all,

This heart overflows with joy!

O brave little lions!

More than grandfathers, more than fathers,

O how much stronger will you become!

Look here.

I note here with profound gratitude that this poetry collection of mine came to light through the friendship of my dear friends Hayasaka Kikushi, Hirai Kunijiro, Maeda Yugure, and others.
Furthermore, among these names I had to include that of my wife Fujiko.