Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue

I had left another great mountain pass of life behind me.
They say ten years make an era.
Then my birth became a thing of ancient times—so ancient upon ancient times.
Yet while everything still felt like yesterday or today, when had so much time slipped away?
Was a lifetime truly this brief?
Was this enough?
But it must be precisely for that reason life holds its preciousness.

Therein lies the loneliness of those who yearn for eternity.

Looking back, I wrote many poems.
Truly I continued writing like this all along.

That poetry—yes, whatever its quality—when I consider how this single thread connects my life’s journey—truly, truly—it is no futile thing.

Since ancient times, many who wield brushes indulge in flowers to the ruin of fruit, while those who prize fruit forget refinement.

This was one of Basho’s reflections, and truly, it was just as he said.

He also said:
"One should love flowers."
"One should indeed eat the fruit."

What a childlike greed—and yet, could there be a voice of real nature this profound?

Even for me, now at last in these days, such things have come to be deeply realized through and through.
It might be the effect of age.

A life without art cannot be endured.
Art without life cannot be endured.
Art or life?
Thoroughness will not let one avoid choosing either.
And yet for me—both together—neither can be discarded.

For my former self, there had been great torment there.

If asked, "Then what of your present?"—what should I do? Dogen's valley voices and mountain hues remain far too profound.

When I eat it like this, I am merely one who clasps hands in reverence before potatoes tumbled out from the earth.

The more one becomes unable to write poetry, the more a poet becomes a poet.

Because my poetry grows gradually worse, I am unbearably happy.

Rather than writing poetry, tend to the fields—so they say.
A good maxim.
But that is all there is to it.

A good poet does not embellish poetry.

A true farmer does not drown in the rice fields.

This is not rice fields and poetry.
It is not poetry and rice fields.
It is not the poetry of rice fields.
It is not the rice fields of poetry.
Poetry is not rice fields.
Rice fields are not poetry.
Even rice fields are not poetry.
Even poetry is not rice fields.

What can I say?
Truly, it is the rice field as the rice field.
It is poetry as poetry.

――It is said that art is expression.
That in itself is fine.
But true art is not limited to that.
There must be something beyond what is expressed there.
This is a crucial matter.
Something.
That is, a belief in religion that corresponds to acts of love and truth―what it is, as with the essence of belief itself, cannot be clearly stated.
If they interpret it as some purpose or allegory, that would be disastrous.
That alone is what makes art truly art.

The presence or absence of innate talent in art resides solely there.
Whether a work is entirely grounded in some narration or expression or not depends entirely on that something.

Do not let that apparition escape.

That, however, seems to be something that cannot be captured except through long experience on the path of art.

It is, above all, about a good life.
Even if lonely or painful, to enliven that good life, we must strive and strive diligently.

Isohama, Ibaraki Prefecture

Yamamura Bocho

Spring River

Brimming full.

The spring river—
Is it flowing?
Is it not?

Floating.

Because the straw debris moved.

It was thus perceived.

Likewise,

Spring’s, the countryside’s

The joy of seeing a great river—
That joy—
Leisurely as clouds—
Radiant—
Flowing unceasing—
And delighting still in its watching—
Likewise—
Brimming full.

Spring—
Even the small streams—
Overflowing.

Overflowing.

Butterflies

Deep.

Deep.

Inexpressible.

Where am I?

“Ah, butterflies!”

Likewise,

High in the blue sky

Higher

On and on, endlessly—
Butterflies that fluttered up and away—
Those two butterflies—
Just those—
Had they never come back?
Field path.

Facing this way.

Young women.

The field path was so nice.
The floral hairpins were so nice too.
The wheat ears were fully formed.
Suddenly—
if they turned around,
it must have been dazzling.

Wearing large butterbur leaves

Inexpressibly nice.

Likewise,

On the field path

Two farm women met—
Chatting—
Neither yielded, their weather-beaten faces—
Huge loads—
One carried a burlap sack—
The other held a baby.
Adding to that,
The weather was splendidly fine—

Both of them seemed supremely happy.
They were guffawing away.
Likewise,
around there,
like a Japanese tit,
a whistling figure
was hiding.
Oh.

In that distant mulberry field
Somehow, a flicker—
They flicker in and out of sight.
Likewise,

Abruptly, the child—
the child truly looked as if flowers had bloomed—
so sleepy—
larks in all directions—
sixteen seventeen
sixteen seventeen—
they went on chattering away

It was a field path.

“What’re you goin’ on about?”

The elderly person smiled gently and—
Dandelions and such—

The elderly person stealthily watches.

Clouds.

On the hill.

The elderly person and
the child,
entranced by the clouds,
were gazing.

Likewise,

O Cloud
Muttering.
Don’t you look awfully carefree?
How far will you go?
Are you going all the way to Iwaki Taira?

One time
The clouds too are like myself.
Like myself—
I am completely at a loss.
Far, far too vast
For it is an endless blue sky.

O Laozi,
This is the moment—
With that gentle smile of yours,
Won’t you show yourself?

Children.

On the mountain, azaleas

because they are blooming

“If it’s going to fall,”

“That’s probably where,”

The children were saying.

Thunder.

Thunder.

"Aren’t the azaleas lovely?"

Likewise,

Oh, I heard children’s voices.
It was the sound of the child from the house crying.
Truly.
Because it was so utterly tranquil,
Somewhere far, far away

It sounded as if carried all the way from the land of fairy tales.

What a lovely sound, truly.

Likewise,

Unkempt.

On the living hedge.
Are peonies blooming there too? I wondered.
When I thought that—

Oh, the children—
They had been laughing, it seemed.
Likewise,
Chigusa the Liar
Toutchan’s
From Toutchan’s mouth
Butterflies—
They were flying, they said—
Likewise,
Drooping drowsily, those eyes.
Those eyes that had begun to droop drowsily

They must be sleepy.

O children,

Apples! Apples here!

“They’re bright red ones!”

Likewise,

In the midst of hardship

Things that grew

Vigorously.

They were truly like bamboo shoots.

Nothing but children.

Likewise,

O children, O children

“When it’s cooked, toss it skyward!”

Corn—

“Season it with the wind and eat.”

Seasoning with the wind

“Chew well and eat.”

Likewise,

Round and plump,

Round and plump,

It appeared to be about the size of a watermelon.

But the children said.

The moon—

“The moon doesn’t look tasty at all.”

Likewise,

The children said:
“Because we’ve had our heads smacked so much...”
“Because we’ve been smacked,”
“And so,”
“That’s why adults have become clever.”

Likewise,

A single slender bamboo stood upright—
Children—
around the house—

They are running around.

It is dusk.

It is dusk.

Likewise,

Children—

Crying, crying—
“I’m back!”
When they asked what had happened,
by the wind—
they said they were knocked over.

There there, it’s alright.

This time Tō-chan caught

He’d give them a hard time.

Horse—
Amply—
Water held.

A rice field.
The paddy-leveling horse at the ridge of the rice field was eating genge flowers.
Likewise,
a horse stood in water,
a horse gazed at the water,
and the horse’s face was reflected.

Likewise,

There was no one there.
A horse.
The scent of water.
Sniffed.

Evening.

Horse,
With such a grand form,
Like a child
Even your body—
Are you being washed?

Ah, a firefly.

Morning glory

A moment—

Could something so fleeting be this sacred?

A single morning glory—

The moon of the second lunar month was out.

Likewise,

Basho, at any rate,

Basho prepared a fire.
He brewed tea.
Then, as if recalling something,
he peered into the rice tub at his side.

He smiled a lonely smile.
He splashed the tea over it.
With a dry rustle,
He ate cold rice.
Morning glory,
That must be how it was.

He had neither wife nor children.

Likewise,

“Munch, munch.”

“What in tarnation’s gotten into this brat?”

Mid-back,

“You look plumb tuckered out.”

“The brat’s tryin’ to eat the morning glory flowers, I tell ya!”

Sudden shower.

Over the marsh

A sudden shower passed through.

In that far higher place,

a skylark was singing out.

Bubble, bubble

Bubble, bubble

The potatoes have boiled.

Likewise,

The sudden shower—

It drenched them utterly—

Both horses and horse handlers—
Likewise,

Poems of the Sickbed

It was morning.

Each and every water droplet
clung to each and every leaf tip
with all their heart.

Ah, how precious.

Each and every one of them!

Likewise,

Upon closer inspection,

In those eyes,

Tiny golden Amida Buddhas

They seemed to glimmer faintly.

Reiko,

Chigusa,

Would they call me Tō-chan?

I am ashamed.

Likewise,

Ah, how precious.

How precious.

This morning too I partake of porridge

I gaze at morning glory flowers

My wife,

That we must go on living.

I think with clarity.

Likewise,

Ah, how precious.
How precious.
Serenely,

Pine needles lay scattered—
caught in a spiderweb—
those one or two!
Likewise—
Ah, how precious—
this way of living—

O pine wind

O midday moon

Likewise—

Ah, how precious.

How precious.

O cricket—

Even you—

Don’t sleep

This deep night—

Are you singing for me?

Likewise,

Ah, how precious.

How precious.

Like this—

Lying here—

To look at the moon—

Likewise,

Ah, how precious.

How precious.

My wife,

It is precisely because I am poor—

I can still see such a beautiful moon

Moon

Gently glowing,

The moon emerged.

Over the hill—slowly and heavily.

Who is that, walking out there?

Likewise,

Legs too,

The top of the head too,

Distant.

Distant.

The deep moonlit night.

Likewise,

A single bright spot—

A peony, perhaps.

That's right.

It’s a peony.

The starry moonlit night’s

It was late at night.

Same here—

Because the mist was deep.

Seemingly distant,

Seemingly near,

Moonlight.

What tree’s blossom could this be?

Same here—

Bamboo grove—

Deep night mist.

The scent of distant wild roses also drifts.

Somewhere—
It must be because there is.

The moon—
Likewise—
Had it faded in moonlight?
A single cicada.
Well now—
This pine’s uppermost bough—

The pine treetop—as if in full bloom.

Likewise,

With just a single loincloth,

Held in embrace,

Lumberingly rolled,

The big watermelon must be happy.
Those hands nearby—
All the more—
Bright as if by the moon.

Likewise,

The moonlit night, all alone—

The shadow’s side—

No matter how you look at it,
It is genuine.
Likewise,

Three fishermen

Three-bodied Buddhas.
They stood facing the sea.
Something—

They seemed to be talking—
Because the moon was too faint—
Their words could not be made out.

Likewise,

Evening garden cleaning.

Had they been waiting for it to finish?
Right behind,

The moon emerged without a sound.
It rose ponderously.

The Watermelon Poem

The farmhouse at midday—
Still.
The watermelon kept watch.
A big one plopped down alone.

In the center of the tatami room, it lies rolled.

“Hey, the thief’s coming back!”

If I were a watermelon
How could it have kept from bursting?
Likewise,

In the center of the tatami room,

A watermelon.

Pretending it’s a field,

It rolls.

Do you call it a Binbafuda?

Likewise,

In this way together—

Naked and lolling about,

lying sprawled out,

you too

are one of the family.

Watermelon!

You ought to say something.

Likewise,

It’s utterly baffling—

It was unbearable.

When tapped,

"Damn watermelon."

it went pok-pok.

Likewise,

Everyone

Gather

Gather
With the watermelon at the center
around its circumference
Now, press your palms together.
Likewise,
Everyone

Gather

Gather

And encircling

Form a circle

Now.

A watermelon that will split cleanly in two.

Candy Seller Old Man

Candy Seller Old Man

Clink-clank. Clink-clank.

Clink-clank.

In straw sandals and gaiters,

what a hurried figure he cut!

Likewise,

From early morning

Clang-clang.

Clang-clang.

Candy Seller Old Man

Surely it wasn’t just to sell candy that he existed.
It wasn’t as if he’d been born for that purpose.
And yet—somehow—that was all one could imagine.
The thought pressed itself upon me, unavoidable.
Likewise,
the Candy Seller Old Man—
You—I was...

Even at seven or eight years old—
Still [I thought],
Such an elderly man
striking the gong
was selling candy.
Likewise,

He listened intently to his gong—
the Candy Seller Old Man’s
back their landing ground—
ah—that mass of flies—
how far would they trail him?

Again on the Sickbed

When I was ill

As I lay there

A leaf fluttered.

A single leaf came fluttering in.

I hadn’t seen one in a while.

from the forest

It was a chinquapin leaf.

Likewise,

When I was ill

As I lay there,
dragonflies came and peered in.
They peered in.

Morning and evening,

sometimes even in broad daylight,

they would come and peer in before leaving.

Likewise,

flies were many.

They were there as usual,

but lying there ill like this,

one fly.

One fly.

It was a deeply familiar friend.

Chinquapin leaf.

I was in the forest.

This single tree leaf—
I had not come to gather it.
Ah, a chinquapin leaf.

One time,

Where could it be?
Could it be a toad or something?
Listen—rumbling...
Rumbling...

Rumbling...

Where could it truly be?

No matter how early spring came,

What a pitch-dark night this was.

Far and near.

Ah, ah—but it's the voice of the earth...

Faintly.

Faintly.

Something hanging from the pine treetops.

O smoke of cooking!

Morning and evening's

It was mist.

Even having become such an old tree,

Even having become such an old tree,

It never forgets spring.
Behold.
Well—a red plum blossom.

Plum blossoms.
Faint...
A deep night’s darkness.

Somewhere.

Somewhere.

There was a plum tree.

"How about this?"

It was as if stars were spilling.

"A white plum, perhaps."

Where?
They must be blooming.
Similarly—
Hey—quietly.
Quietly.

Quietly.

It's the plum's scent.

Similarly,

the high noon of the large bamboo thicket

lies hushed.

This plum’s

One small branch.

“I’ll take this with me.”

At the Mountain Path

Because the season had turned fair,

even thorns and such already

had spilled across every inch of the path.

Today on the mountain path
among those brambles I
was entangled—
my shin seized vigorously.

One time

Well, well.

How deep must this mist go?

Here and there
Trees stood like people.
At the very crown of the head,
The sound of oars persisted.
Creak, creak—
When I thought so and listened,
A skylark was singing.
Is this how it should be?
Though it was spring,
Ah—too happy by half—
I felt something like loneliness.

One time

Even the ridges of wheat fields
Billowed upward—
billowed upward—
appearing to crawl outward.

Now then.

What should I do?

One time

Though it was pale, murky smoke,
a single thin line rose feebly.
Higher and higher
from the distant,
distant
mountain shadow
aimed for the blue sky—
does even smoke have a will of its own?

Today, well...

What a profoundly tranquil day this is.

Cherry blossoms.

It’s said to be cherry blossoms.

It’s said to be spring.

“Wait a moment.”

Somewhere,
even though there must be people crying,

Similarly,

Unless I became a fool,
Truly, I could not meet spring, it seemed.
Flute! Drum!
Amidst the cherry blossoms,

Who could it be?
Was I watching the moon or something?

Old man
a small branch of peach blossoms in full bloom
gazing with drowsy eyes
He walked along, looking pleased.
That old man
Each time he smiled,
Could it be the flowers making him happy?
Fluttering down, he scattered the petals.
That old man
Like I’d seen somewhere before.

One time

A storm.

A storm.

O flowers, why not all become butterflies

Won't you just dance away?

One time.

I heard

In the morning mist
the forest crows
unable to find each other’s forms
kept calling out

One time

In the morning haze.

What I encountered was
a damp vegetable cart.
Large-backed

just awakened

The baby.

Today, somehow,

I feel like something good might happen.

One time

Above the pine grove

In an incredibly deep blue sky,

A certain spot.
There was a spot like a large peony flower.
The children's voices could be heard.

Among them.

So my child is there too.

Morning.

What a splendid morning this is!

A cluster of girls by the roadside

They stood chatting.

They laughed happily.

That spot alone was dazzlingly bright. Everyone passing through appeared dazzled. Wisteria flowers—long and trailing—hung from the deep sky. Because I was so hungry, I couldn’t even laugh,

I looked up at them from below.

Sway a little.

Truly,

A flower that makes me want to eat it, but—

Because it’s not something I can eat—

I’m lonely.

One time.

Pattering.

Three drops of rain.

……Today was what date again…

One time
A magnolia blossom
fell with a wet plop
Oh.

What a

bright, tremendous sound that must have been.

Farewell.

Farewell.

One time

Faintly aglow,

How endlessly bright the sea stretches!
Yet they made no attempt to drown themselves—
Chirr.
Chirr-r-r—

Plovers being plovers,
darting about,
they were playing tag or something.

Mr. Wild Excrement

A single bat

Impaled into the ground.
It stood upright.

There was no one at all.

Somewhere,

a skylark was singing.

"Is there truly no one here?"

When he turned his head to look,

There he was, there he was.

He sure found himself a good spot.

Right below the embankment,

That fresh green

It was the shade of a thick bush.
He hiked up his clothes around his hips completely,
and squatted down.

he was looking this way.

Hand

Firmly,
The hand that had been clenched
opened.
He unclenched it,
but nothing
There was nothing.

Firmly,

The gripping too

was loneliness.

That too

The opening too

was loneliness.

Hōhō Bird

After all—the true

It was the Hōhō Bird.

Hō hō

Hō hō

It wasn’t even the children’s mimicry.

In the depths of mountains

It was the voice of the mountain.

＊

Hō hō

Hō hō
On a narrow path deep in the mountains
I am crying
The Hōhō Bird was crying too.

＊

I was there too.

Abruptly, it felt as though I was crying.

Hō hō

Hō hō

＊

Hō hō

Hō hō

Than the true Hōhō Bird

As for me,

It seemed—
I was crying skillfully.
Because I had cried too skillfully,
the true Hōhō Bird
quietly
had fallen completely silent.
Pine cone.
The mountain’s gift.

Pine cone.

Thud.

Rolling, rolling.

Roll out.

It’s lunchtime!

“Set fire beneath the iron kettle!”

Sutra Chanting

In a grassy field
To the stray dog,
I read the Lotus Sutra aloud to it.
The dragonfly too listened motionlessly.
But that damn dog—
Was it bored, or did it feel something?
Without even wagging its tail
And then, abruptly,
It went off to nowhere in particular.
Mosquito column—
Mosquito column—
You too are there,

In that evening dusk,

Are they chanting sutras or something?

All together there
Ah, what solemnity!
One time
Again came the season when cicadas cry.
I wonder... I wonder...

I wonder... I wonder...

Somewhere,

There is a wonderful land somewhere.

One time

Pine needles were scattered.

Somewhere,
a single stream
of wind’s river flowed.
One time,
a spiderweb.
Fallen pine needles.

The spiderweb seemed quite content, clinging on.

Ah, I was startled.

Noon, midday.

One time

Corn flowers.

They were blooming listlessly.

Ahahahaha.

Who was it?

The one laughing—

Matsupiruma’s

A sandy field.

One time.

As for what they call religion—

There was never any such thing to begin with.

Delicately,

A single aster piercing the sky,

One time,

vacantly,

while relieving himself outdoors,

gazing absently,

the profound depth of the blue sky he gazed upon,

thinking nothing at all,

he squatted down in the back of the millet field and looked.

It was Matsupiruma’s sandy field, but...

A moon around the fifth day was out.

Peep peep peep, peep peep.

Peep peep peep peep.

Peep peep peep peep.

There must be quails somewhere.

One time.
The children.
They were probably scolding them quite harshly.
The top of the bamboo thicket.

From the pale light of dawn,

It would grow bright,

Then darken again.

They were truly winter sparrows.

One time

Hardship—

Rejoice.

Rejoice.

O winter chrysanthemums in the winter sun,

O lonely Bocho, O fly.

Once,
through that voice—profoundly—
“Katydid, katydid,”
I want someone to read to me.
Can’t you all sleep either?
I am—

I am

That beloved Vinaya Pitaka.

One time

Midnight.

Thoughts that came while standing to urinate

Ah, no matter when I look—

The stars so beautiful

To the children

“I want a handful.”

Hometown.
Babbling,
the Milky Way flows.
It’s fully autumn.

Far away.

Far away.

Ah, a hometown as tiny as a bean...

Timelessly,

Timelessly,

Drastically,

All joy had vanished.

All sorrow had vanished.

Even so, wild chrysanthemums—

To live truthfully—

It must be this lonely.

One time
The marsh's Manchurian wild rice—
Winter desolation.
O weedy earth,
I would inquire into things.

There!
Where did it go now?
Apple.
No matter how wide I spread both hands—
Wider and wider—

Even if I spread them wide,
This feeling I could not contain—
An apple
lay rolling in the sunlight.
The red apple.
When I gazed contemplatively at the apple,

Gradually, I too become the apple.

Likewise,

Look, it rolled.

The red apple rolled.

Ah!

Lie lie lie

That lie wasn't so bad, was it?

Likewise,

Oh, oh.

It really did roll away.

It was an earthquake.

It was an earthquake.

The red apple fled.

Even apples—

Earthquakes were surely hated—it seemed.

Likewise,

Wherever the apple was placed,

seemingly happy and crimson,

round and round,

even when rolled,

without getting angry,

with joy,

increasingly,

it glowed crimson.

That was lonely.

Likewise,

“O maidens”

“Come on, try making faces.”

With this crimson apple

Likewise,

Kiss.

Kiss.

Fear the apple.

Fall for the apple.

Likewise,

“O children,

O children,

If you eat the red apple,

say, ‘It’s delicious.’

Go on, say it.”

Likewise,

“How could one ever come to hate this?

This crimson apple…”

Likewise,

The apple doesn’t budge an inch.

Even if left to rot as it is,

Likewise,

If trampled

Even if trampled,

The shining apple.

Likewise,

The children said,

“We dreamed of a red apple.”

What a fine dream they had.

Truly fine.

Forever.

“Don’t you forget.
Once you become adults,
never again
will you have such wonderful dreams.”

Likewise,

"I’ll give you an apple."

"Roll it."

"O children,"

"You, rolling along."

The apple rolled along.

Likewise,

A lonely apple, and

Play with it.

There, there, good children.

Likewise,

Together with the apple
"It’s ’cause we slept with it."
"And so,"
"My cheeks too"
"Became a little red."
*Certainly, that’s right.*

At the storefront

Hoy, hoy, hoy

Apples lined up.
Lined up.
Sun-baked.

Saint Francis’s face
Lined up in a row.
Beautifully lined up.
Likewise,
To be bought and sold with money
They were too beautiful.
The shop’s mistress
Such bright red apples.
To people you don’t even know
Didn’t you feel reluctant to sell them?
Likewise,

The weather was splendid.

And again,

It had been some time.

"Hmm, where could it be?"

That certainly just now—

It was the quince's voice, but—