Pathway to Japanese Literature

Solitary Chanting Behind Closed Doors: First Collection, Begun in July of Dingchou (1937), Concluded in October of Xinsi (1941)

[Shōwa 12 (1937)]

The Rustic Elder Cherishes Young Grandchild

On June 15th of this year, I was released from Kosuge Prison for the first time.

Gazing at the sleeping face of my grandchild cradled on my lap, I breathed in the shade of garden leaves—July seventh.

I received a visit from Mr. Hanada Hirosi.

How precious! Reuniting after seven years, your face resembled my hometown—July seventh.

Leaving Prison: Three Poems

Leaving prison, I walked through the town; in the summer night, the people coming and going appeared beautiful.

When I left prison and lived in seclusion, those who came to visit bore hearts of many kinds.

How grateful I was—this quiet evening found my wife and child seated before our simple dining table: July twentieth.

Miscellaneous Poems at Tanigawa Hot Spring: Seven Compositions

Laying my weary body in the deep ravine, I saw summer snow lingering in the mountain recesses.

Though people said the kajika frogs croaked, with aged ears in the babbling water, I could not hear them.

The worldly dust would not reach this valley; I opened the window and gazed upon the moon over the peaks.

In the deep mountains, conversing with a friend who came to stay—the loneliness after envying youth (Received a visit from Mr. Miyagawa Minoru)

Though I was now a person with nothing left to do, I would live on and see the world to its end.

Soaked in the deep mountain Ideyu Hot Spring, I fretted over this self with nothing left to do.

Though people said to let days pass in nothingness, from late July to early August I found myself with nothing to do and no way to go on living.

Mourning the Misfortune of Mr. Ōtsuka Kinnosuke

On an autumn evening, as I thought of you sending off the coffin of your tender mother, how it rent my heart—October twenty-second.

Gyokuzan’s “Washing Bamboo Poem” Translated into Japanese

Original Text: 世上風塵事何嘗至此間欲窮飛鳥処

Washing bamboo emerges from the front mountain

May the worldly dust never reach this shore; peering through bamboo, I longed to see traces of birds flying toward the mountain where I dwelled—November twenty-sixth.

Secluded Life: Two Poems

With sunlight on my back, putting up shoji screens while contemplating verses—how tranquil was this midday in seclusion!

On a clear day, holding my grandchild on the southern veranda as I basked in the sun, an airplane passed by.

December 11th

Memories from Prison

Unable to drink tea or speak a word, how lonely were the winter days in my prison cell as they faded away—December eleventh.

Yuzu miso arrived from my hometown.

Since this yuzu miso had been handmade and bestowed by my mother, I reverently partook of it.

In the scent of roasting yuzu miso—handmade and graciously sent—I smiled softly again this morning: December twenty-first.

The Ogikubo Amanuma residence had expansive fields to the north, and for one released from prison, suburban strolls were especially enjoyable.

Along the sun-drenched field path behind the house, he walked back and forth as his heart desired.

As he walked on and on, when he grew weary, there was a small bridge where he could sit down and smoke tobacco.

The water in the small ditch amidst the fields was crystal clear—how beautiful the swaying water plants!

An Inari shrine left behind in the ever-expanding suburbs.

In the middle of the fields, on a small hill under pine shade—who could be the master of this Western-style house?

There were thatched roofs intermingled with white-plastered houses, red roofs, and blue roofs—December 22nd.

Year-End: Two Poems

Though I wish to bring joy to my elderly wife, with no money coming in, the year draws to its close.

Ate white gruel with yuzu miso—a frostbitten morning when his back tooth ached.

December 27th

[Shōwa 13 (1938)]

Indulging in Post-Imprisonment Ease

I

If I stretched my knees，my legs stuck out，

If I stretched my neck，the pillow fell，

Through the peephole，the wind howled and howled。

Truly，the winter night’s

The prison bed was harsh。

II

Now wrapped in a blanket,

The silk floss quilt lies soft,

With a hot water bottle, my legs are toasty warm.

Truly happy—

This year’s winter is Yayoi’s spring.

January 9th

Secluded Life

Throughout the day, no visitors came; throughout the day, no visitors came,

The tumult of the times was heard no more; the tumult of the times was heard no more.

Leaning against the stove, he contemplated bygone days;
He raised his head to gaze at the floating clouds.

January 13th

Secluded Life, Part II

After a carefree morning slumber,
Taking his grandchild along, he settles into the noon sunlight.
When reading books, he laments his meager talent;
Dragging his cane, he cherishes the long pond;
Crimson flames brew fresh tea; crimson flames brew fresh tea,
Blue lamp dreams of homeland; blue lamp dreams of homeland.
The inaction, illness-free elder; the inaction, illness-free elder,
In leisure’s realm, a quarter bustling; in leisure’s realm, a quarter bustling.

January 16th

Winter Night Impromptu

The inkstone pool froze as snow threatened;
The inkstone pool froze, threatening snow;

The bedding was warmer than spring;
The bedding was warmer than spring;

He recalled tonight last year;
He recalled tonight last year;

A figure hugged knees by the dim window.

January 21st

Do Not Lament

Spared from perishing by spear and arrow,

Steal life in solitude, shun renown;

Do not lament over these troubled times;
When water arrives, a channel shall form.

January 22nd

Unaware of Rise and Fall

Having escaped the land of raging torrents—
The heart of a drifting fish that follows the current.
His discarded body light as a leaf—
No longer aware of rise or fall; no longer aware of rise or fall.

January 24th

Sixty: First Learning Poetry

Occasionally meeting times when raging torrents roared,

Having fully tasted hardships and perils—having tasted these hardships through and through—

Now he had found the golden elixir method; now he had found the golden elixir method,

A sixty-year-old declining elder begins to study poetry.

January 26th

Venerable Ryōkan

Desolate empty mountains—this is homeland;

Having built a hut, he came to rest beside an old cedar.

A lifetime with a single bowl, chanting in a humble lane,

The precious writings are kept by wealthy youths.

January 29th

To One Who Visited for the First Time

Seeking the gate of one who forgets the world and is forgotten by it—did you lose your way?

January 31st

After my release from prison, I bathed at a public bath for the first time; it had been six years since the summer of 1932.

February 2nd: Lamenting that I had not bathed in so long, I went to the public bath on a snowy evening.

I do not care for poets' songs.

Though I try to raise my voice and sing, in today’s Japan there is not a single song worth singing.

February 5th

Not Selling Writings

Keeping my principles, I wander beyond the mundane world,

Content with poverty, I do not sell my writings;

Gazing at the sky without shame,

With disdainful eyes I face the clear blue sky;

February 5th

Heaven’s Desolation

A man grows old and hides in destitute alleys,

Heaven remains desolate, not yet releasing its crimson.

A dog barks at the road before the gate—the dog barks at the path by the gate,

Clouds hang low over a sky of ten thousand miles—clouds hang low over a sky of ten thousand miles.

March 1st

The maid suddenly asked for leave and returned home; with no immediate replacement in sight, the poor dwelling felt somewhat dreary. Though the fishmonger’s was near at hand, such was our present poverty that we had to go to the market for sardines. My elderly wife sat aimlessly; with equal aimlessness, I too sat facing her.

March 31st, April 5th

Our garden was less than three tsubo, yet the cherry tree of our eastern neighbor stretched its branches and bloomed in profusion.

Over the living hedge spilled the neighbor’s cherry blossoms; how gloriously they bloomed that day!

Mr. and Mrs. Horie visited, bringing a bunch of daffodils that were blooming in their garden.

The daffodils are white indeed—how the pure white hue reflected in their green leaves captivates!

April 11th

Seeing Off Spring

All day sitting watching clouds,

A sorrowful soul alone bids spring farewell;

Fallen flowers in silken rain—fallen flowers in silken rain,

This body beyond worldly dust—one who has endured punishment.

May 5th

Bright Moon

Unforgettable, the moon of the secluded prison.

Tonight the moonlight is full—tonight the moonlight is serene.

Walking beneath the moon, one loses their way in the wilds;
Illuminating people, the moon crosses the heavens.

May 12th

Miscellaneous Poems of Early Summer: Two Pieces

Having diligently finished cleaning, I sipped tea and savored the fragrance—a morning moment.

Gazing at the rain drizzling into the four-tsubo garden of early summer while sipping tea—May 18th.

Recently, I frequently enjoyed strolling through the suburbs.

Letting my steps wander freely through village fields,

weary, I came to sleep beneath a tree.

Awakening from a dream with none to witness—

the wind swept pure across the hundred-acre field.

June 8th

Summer too is cool.

Since my heart was content, the shade of a small garden—not even four tsubo in size—was cool. June 27th.

three-room house

After my release from prison, I rented a humble house of merely three rooms. Privately finding comfort in this space just sufficient to sit, I joyfully composed a quatrain:

A three-room house accommodating bent knees—
Bending my arm over a single scroll of books.
A minor scholar’s place to nurture old age—
The bright moon alone invades the hut.

June 29th

The chamber holds no excess—
when going out, no carriage.
Having cast away ten thousand volumes on statecraft,
only the bright moon of the ninth heaven traverses—
clear light containing dew enters my hut.

July 11th

Mr. Horie Presented Me with Ten Flower Branches; I Composed This to Express Gratitude—The Concluding Lines Depict an Actual Scene

It was the actual scene of that time.

Facing Hui Shi's flowers—desiring to obtain a poem in response to Hui Shi's blossoms—

Not yet completed in ten days—time passed in vain.

After the wrinkled whites and glossy reds had withered—
Within the jar, a gardenia branch’s bud opens—within the jar, a single gardenia branch unfurls its blossom.

July 23rd

Drew a painting titled "Bamboo Grove and Solitary Moon," inscribed a poem upon it, and presented it to someone.

In my poor dwelling, there is nothing—

Merely present the poem within the painting—

The solitary moon passes through the bamboo grove,

Come listen to the lament of the grass insects.

August 10th

To My Sworn Brother in Prison: Two Pieces

A thousand ri distant—a decade-bound prisoner,
Where tall trees host cicadas’ song, autumn returns once more.

In every realm, rivers and mountains wait in vain;
Broken clouds and slanting moon grieve for you.

Through desolate gardens cicadas cry—autumn meets them again,
This aged solitary traveler leans at the gate and mourns.

Melancholy—though I have returned, you remain unreleased,
With whom now shall I speak of journeys past?

August 20th and 24th

Two Scenes from a Poor Dwelling

How fine the moonlit night—late into the hours came passersby; their footsteps on the road resonated through my pillow.

A guest arrived, climbed to the second floor, praised the green leaves by our neighbor’s corridor window, then departed.

August 24th

After one year since his release from prison, he still could not journey west.

In the capital where he had lived twenty years, his children now resided—how he longed to meet Kyoto’s autumn again. August 29th.

Random Thoughts

Though weak, blessed by fortune alone, I survive in the shadow of the fallen great tree.

(This speaks not merely of the body.) October 16th

Heaven still preserves this old man.

October 20, Shōwa 13. Having welcomed my fifty-ninth birthday, I thought of this very month and day five years ago.

On this day, I was first confined to Kosuge Prison.
At that time, the rain fell and the wind blew fiercely; clad in a thin prison uniform, I trembled from the cold as I was handcuffed, placed in a transport vehicle, and crossed the Arakawa River near Kosuge.
Even now, I find the scenes from that time hard to forget.
Then I composed a poem and presented it to my friend Mr. Horie.
The "strange book" mentioned in the poem refers to Edgar Snow's new work on China.
Today, again, it rained as it did in those years, yet it was not so cold.
In the morning, I purchased some plants and flowers and placed them in the study.
In the evening, my family cooked red rice for me.

Autumn wind, bound, crossed the Arakawa River—
The cold rain pattered—five years had passed since that desolate rain.
Now, having obtained this strange book and sitting here,
All day long, my soul flew across ten thousand leagues of sky.

October 20

Fallen Leaves

I too have grown old amidst this brilliance—
Not through spring flowers blooming gloriously,
But now in autumn's dusk of quivering fall:
Leaving treetops to blanket the earth below.
Gathering scattered leaves I bring them near—
In their dyed hues I find beauty revealed.

November 5th

Fallen Leaves

Having gathered them and examined in detail,
Fallen leaves surpass flowers in beauty—
First recognizing the beauty of decay,
Facing wind, white sideburns slant.

November 20th

Mr. Kobayashi Terutsugu had yet to return even a year and a half after being conscripted—transferred to battlefields across various regions and having repeatedly faced perilous situations. Looking at the small photograph he had sent recently, the signs of fatigue were unmistakable. It was said his weight had decreased by five *kanme* (18.75 kilograms). Thereupon, I pasted that small photograph into my diary and inscribed it with a poem.

Though a small photograph, the deep battle-weariness in the gaze was evident. December 8th.

Why Do You Not Return?

Desolate, longing for home—a ruined man; / Desolate, longing for home—this one ruined soul,

Why remain in the bustling city and lament pure poverty?

Do not blame the desolate village for its many barking dogs— / The barking dogs are many in the desolate village,

I entrust my body and love this dust of horse hooves.

December 9th

Year-End

The clash of arms raged on,

The person had yet to return,

Prices grew ever higher as the year drew to its close.

From a small house along the road came only the radio. It resounded loudly even outside the window.

A hatless old man.
He stood alone, leaning on his cane.
He gazed up at the sky and let out a prolonged cry.

December 21st

At year’s end, I recall you, Mr. Kobayashi, in the midst of battle—bearing sword and blade in their stead.

Hence, the third line employs the character for ‘sword’.

“The night when the year is about to end,

The man who has not returned from ten thousand leagues.”

Sleeping in the wilderness with a sword as his pillow,

Startled from a dream—the sorrow of parting renews.

December 27th

[1939]

Sixty-One Chant

Already having reached venerable age—this white-haired old man,
Using moth-eaten books as my pillow, I sleep and wish for an end.
A feeble steed takes no part in warfare—the weak and inferior horse avoids military affairs,
My heart resembles a mountain monk; all sounds of nature fall void.

January 1st (New Year’s Day)

In Memory of My Deceased Friend Yoshikawa Taigaku Koji

Through worldly turmoil I studied antiquity's fervor,
Long have I forgotten Yuelu's orchid fragrance.

Having endured punishment, I became an elder of inaction,
Leaning on this precarious rail, I gaze toward Beimang.

January 8th

In Response to Mr. Tsuda Seifū’s Poem: "It has been long since I last saw you; lately there has been no news—how are you faring?"

Sleeping in, mending moth-eaten books, sipping tea—thus the day passed.

People age; my kimono too wears thin, its padding emerging—what I had taken for grime was but cotton all along. February 25th.

In old age do I first attain repose.

Long have I borne the name "Recluse Who Shuts His Door"—

In my late years, this name first becomes true—in my late years, this name first becomes genuine.

Heaven bestows favor upon this old man with remaining life,

Heaven makes him one who reclines in freedom.

I had already taken the name "Recluse Who Shuts His Door" before reaching thirty, and it has remained so to this day.

March 6

Peace in Old Age

Even if my strength is meager,

The peace of mind that comes from believing I’ve given my all.

This body I've cast away—
While life still clings to me,
When hunger comes, I eat,

When thirst comes, I drink,

When weariness takes hold, I sleep.

The ancients say: "Peace is the highest nobility."

Though there are none in the world who envy me,

I alone envy myself.

June 19th

I visited Mr. Seifū but did not meet him.

Pressing the silent bell, I stood at your gate like a beggar—how lonely it was. [July 1st]

Recalling the Day Before My Release from Prison: Two Poems

Thinking “Is this farewell?” I climbed up to look—the Arakawa River’s tide must have been full, its waters flowing upstream.

Or perhaps—in that garden I thought unseen—crimson dahlias had bloomed. August 7th.

This year during the spring equinox, I requested seeds from my hometown—zinnia, balloon vine, moss rose, Korean morning glory, and others—and sowed them. Though the garden was narrow and did not allow me to do as I wished, lately all put forth clusters of flowers. Among them, the zinnias—which bloomed in profusion before the detached house where my grandmother once resided—were flowers I had grown accustomed to seeing since childhood; though rustic, they were deeply nostalgic. How nostalgic—when I thought these were seeds from my hometown, zinnias bloomed in the garden’s corner.

August 7th

To Mr. Yūshō in Prison

Ah, how brightly tonight's moon must shine—on you sleeping alone by the latticed window. August 7th.

Miscellaneous Poems from a Secluded Dwelling: Three Pieces

I too dwell by a moss-cloaked spring deep in mountain recesses—its existence so faint, it borders on nothingness.

Swayed by distant temple bells, poppies on windless evenings scatter like souls electing death.

Having aged and passing days with nothing to do, I thought I could die tomorrow without regret—August 7th.

Again, To Those in Prison

You do not come; I cannot go—this year too autumn winds blow, and soon the day will end. September 1st.

A letter arrived from Mother; her desolate tone weighs on my mind.

In the study where autumn sunlight slanted through the window, thinking of Mother and feeling lonely—September 2nd.

Improvisation

A wounded boar hides to die in its lair—as they say—and here I, by the capital’s edge, have built my hut. September 27th.

Two Poems Composed on My Sixtieth Birth Anniversary: Reflections of the Day

My body withered utterly like autumn leaves—

Having traversed ten thousand realms, I stand severed from life’s stream.

Yet I rejoice—turning my head with no regrets,
No remorse clouding this rotation—

Who comprehends the heart of this wilderness sage?

My frame pared to bone’s last persistence—

Ten thousand volumes cast aside, I scribble verses void of worth.

Pity me—this post-prison elder nearing death’s gate—

My whole life’s gains and losses—waiting for whom to know them? Who will discern the merits and failures of half a lifetime?

October 20th

Inscribing on a Self-Portrait

When I looked in the mirror，I had aged so much that I nearly mistook myself for my mother whom I had seen when young．December 14th．

When I was twenty-six years old，I first took the name Master of Thousand Mountains and Ten Thousand Waters Pavilion，

He serialized Socialist Commentary in Yomiuri Shimbun；his name became prominent．

Long styled as Master of the Thousand Mountains and Ten Thousand Waters Pavilion—Senzan Mansuirō—
Now this thatched hut resembles a skiff—
When we meet, marvel not that name and substance diverge—
Ten thousand waters, a thousand mountains—all held within my breast.

December 14th

Inscribing on a Self-Portrait with Fallen Leaves

I too live by a moss-covered spring buried in fallen leaves—its presence so tenuous, it might as well not exist.

December 24th

[Shōwa 15 (1940)]

New Year’s Day of Kanoe-Tatsu

A 62-year-old old man—a being at ease—
In dreams paints wondrous realms, delighting in pure poverty.
A secluded orchid blooms alone in deep mountain recesses—
A waning moon hangs slanting over wild waters’ shore.

January 1st

To those who had celebrated my sixtieth birthday—to whom I had presented paintings of fallen leaves I myself drew, inscribed with my own poems—Mr. Sugawara Masato sent me a poem: “In stillness I dwell—fallen leaves scattered here and there by the wind’s harshness would burn if gathered and lit,” and so in response...

I compared my aged self to fallen leaves—though I am not one to be gathered and burned. January 25th.

Inscribed on the Portrait of Venerable Ryōkan

If one wishes to learn calligraphy, one must first learn to be a person;

Forms may resemble each other, yet all truth is forsaken.
A thousand in gold procured Ryōkan’s script—
yet no means exist to sell this destitution here.

February 4th

The stench-laden wind blows ceaselessly—
The war calamity has not yet ceased; spring remains unborn—
Heavens desolate, earth splits; birds and fish seethe—
What fortune to hide this body among fragmentary texts—
The stench-laden wind batters the house but spares this body.

March 2nd

Recollections of Prison Melancholy

The pathos of a spring day’s darkening sky—gazing at it alone when I was in prison. April 12th.

Lately I had been feeling constant fatigue—was I soon to take to bed?

I had reached such a state of mind; I composed a small poem to console myself.

The weak body grew steadily weaker,

The remaining strength became ever more scarce.

Even when I visited someone, I developed a fever,

Even when I wrote, I developed a fever,

Even when I painted, I developed a fever,

Even when I played Go, I developed a fever.

I feel that my life is already approaching its end.
I may soon take to my bed for good.

But I do not particularly grieve.

In these sixty years of life—
What fortune!
The things I wished to do and the things I had to do—
In accordance with my strength, I did all I wished,
Now I have nothing left to linger on.
I, rather than lamenting my own meager strength,
Feel satisfaction in having exerted all my strength.
"You've worked hard; you may rest now,"
I am in a state of mind where I care for myself by myself.
The remaining life after emerging from prison—
So to speak, it is an appendix to my life—

Absent, it matters not; present, it matters not,
Short it may be, that is acceptable; long it may be, there is no harm in that either.

I now entrust my own body to natural decay,
With dimming, clouded eyes,

I alone savor the profundity of the world’s transitions.

April 13th

Miscellaneous Poems: Two

I do not care for poems crafted by poets; I prefer verses born of true feeling.

Having lived in seclusion without thoughts, as days passed, I forgot heaven and earth and even myself—mid-April.

Two Poems Recited on the Way to Watch a Baseball Game

Even as I age—how sorrowful—this heart withered like a paper wreath weathered through years.

When I ponder the transience of this aged body—ah, how this year’s spring is idly mourned. May 19th.

Lately, I have been frequently engrossed in Go; I composed one poem and distributed it to my Go friends.

Discarding the brush, forgetting current affairs;

A post-prison cicada’s shed skin of a body.

Lazily sleeping, rarely flipping through books;

Serenely seated, overturning Go stones often; serenely seated, I frequently overturn the Go stones.

Though I have hair, still I am like a monk;

Without money, still not poor;

Though people deride the ineptitude of my livelihood,

Heaven’s grace: spring in all seasons / Heaven bestows spring throughout the four seasons.

(This work has undergone numerous revisions to its wording; in particular, the original concluding line read: "After half a lifetime of toil, Heaven permits me to become a man of leisure.")
(Even now, I remain undecided about what to keep and discard.)

June 4th

A solitary traveler at earth's farthest reaches; ten years unreturned to my homeland.
I left that mountain village—a thousand-mile road stretching before me.
Through rifts in shifting clouds I gaze vainly toward Mother’s dwelling.
By error I became an exile amid swirling dust,
Ten springs passed without seeing my birthplace’s blossoms—ten springs gone.

June 24th

Even if I were to die now, I would have no regrets.

Even if I were to die now, I would have no regrets.

Earnestly give thanks to my close relatives,
Profoundly give thanks to good friends,
Universally give thanks to heaven and earth, and having done so,
Serenely, I shall conclude my life.

I have now grown old.

Fortunately having become one free to recline in seclusion,
I frequently felt heaven's abundant favor in my heart,
and in the stillness of solitary sitting,
would often immerse myself in such thoughts.

July 31st

In my later years I found joy in secluded living; though my body dwelled in a humble alley, my heart ever...

As if wandering through mountains and rivers, I composed this quatrain to express my state of mind:

The Yangtze follows its waves downstream;

No troubles reach the heart—no affairs come to mind.

Facing the moon, opening my collar to lie down—

Mist-laden waves bear dreams as they flow.

**[August 21st]**

Autumn Thoughts

A wanderer fallen to the ends of the earth—
Startled by autumn, I stand alone in desolation.
Pitiable, this spent force of a strong crossbow;
In vain I study the Sages of the Bamboo Grove.

September 6th

To Mr. Hara During His Stay at Tateshina Highlands in Shinshu

The land lies remote, devoid of travelers;
In autumn’s waning days, the mountain path lies clear.
Should I meet moonlight after rain—
Lofty artistry proves hard to perfect; though aiming high, completion eludes grasp.

October 8th

Pressed by the urgency of the times, malignant degenerates emerged in droves; in the heat of indignation, I secretly composed a poem.

A breed emerged; out of indignation, I secretly composed a poem.

If one can speak, one must speak the truth—

If one cannot speak, it is better to remain silent.

Things they did not truly believe—

Religious leaders preaching at the top of their voices;

Instead of bowing their heads to truth—

Scholars kneeling at the feet of those in power;

Placing themselves in the reactionary camp—

Merely with their lips—

Opinions that appeared progressive—

Writers spouting off—

These teeming masses of society’s frivolous youths—

They rode the tide of the times and hastened along—
Like rootless water plants floating in a rapid stream—
They kowtowed to authority—
Like ants drawn to sweetness.

Even if there was something sufficient to protect themselves through momentary expediency,

they would surely all enter hell after death and receive the harshest punishments.

If they can speak, they must speak the truth,

they must speak the full truth,

if they cannot speak, then silence is best.

October 9th

He departed for Shanghai with Yoshiko and Junko.

Having parted from the departing grandchild and child—the loneliness left behind made it impossible to read anything—October 10th.

Having completed the manuscript titled "Grandfather Kawakami Saiichirō"

In seclusion - before birth - when writing for its sake
the father’s lifework becomes visible

Having written of that lifework I never knew, I yearn for my deceased father—

The young ones encircle the one-room house; when I think of your resting place, how sorrowful—December thirteenth.

Showa 15, New Year’s Eve

Now there is but one wish of mine: to fall ill without pain and die in peace.

[Showa 16 (1941)]

Composed a Poem to Express Gratitude for Dr. Taniguchi’s Gift of a Kaya-Wood Chessboard

Entrusting you to depict this gaunt immortal for me,

A sixty-three-year-old man alone finds joy in heaven;
His spirit and frame, gaunt as an ailing crane;
Amidst piled moth-eaten texts before the chessboard.

February 18th

Mr. Hatada Invites Me to View Plum Blossoms; I Respond with a Poem

This decrepit old man adds three more to sixty,

Do not wonder that I still dwell in my hermitage though spring has come.

This ailing frame, scattered and broken, can scarcely bear to walk,

By the sparse window, using books as a pillow, I dream of Jiangnan.

March 4th

Mr. Aizawa Shuichi Took Up His Post in Kōjō

Spring comes, yet no guests arrive,

The chessboard gathers dust of its own accord.

You departed, and all refinement ceased—

Living secluded, I vainly long for companionship.

March 9th

Current Affairs

趄逡次暮江前 趄逡次、暮江の前、

It is as if we were back in the Man'en and Genji years.

The old man of the fields does not concern himself with military and state affairs;

Having eaten my fill of simple fare, I sleep embracing my koto.

March 11th

Go

Weary to the marrow of this world's tumultuous strife,
Yet keep guests gladly facing the catalpa board,
I never ask from where they come -
How laughable, this solitary old man's forlorn heart; truly pitiable, this recluse's lonely sentiments.

March 12th

Casually Composed (Facing the Mirror, Resembling a Farmer)

My form withered, eyes dim with rheum,

Between my brows linger traces of pent-up fury—

Though my heart, like an old horse, knows the path,

My body resembles an ailing frog, unable to endure running.

The turning line borrows from Fangweng's poetry.

March 14th

Friendships looked back upon are thin as smoke.
Vain fame fades away—this decrepit old body,
Now I begin to discern truth from pretense in human hearts.
Last night by lamplight sat knee-to-knee with a guest;
This morning finds him transformed into a roadside stranger.

March 24th

In the early spring of 1941, when the lingering cold had not yet departed, Dr. Hyōdani traveled to Shiga.

Kōgen: On Receiving a Poem About Lingering Snow Sent by [You] (*Lingering snow— / where worldly winds have yet to reach*), I composed verses seeking your correction.

Composed verses seeking your correction.

In those years, we were both men of letters;

Today alone do I vainly lament my aged self.

On Kōgen’s plateau treading snow, you seek verses,

In my narrow lane, huddled by the stove, I await spring.

April 9th

Casually Composed

My body clings to Kinkō Bay's bond of rebirth;
My heart mirrors Xiangshan's year of releasing courtesans.
Grand plans like a dream—an evening of falling blossoms,
This aged, frail scholar—who will pity him?

Nanshū and the monk Gesshō cast themselves into Kinkō Bay.
In his later years, Bai Juyi resided at Xiangshan and styled himself Xiangshan Lay Buddhist.

April 9th

Mr. Hara presented me with the complete works of Lu Fangweng; overjoyed, I composed a poem to express my gratitude.

Fangweng's poems—ten thousand verses;

Each one worth a thousand gold—

I hang them in this thatched hut,

Let them proclaim the moonlight's depth.

April 24th

Heart at Peace

My heart serene, free from loathsome dreams;
My body tranquil, blessed with virtuous friends.
Cherishing this evening of late spring,
I wait leisurely for the moon to rise.

May 11th

Spring Colors

When I look up at the sky, the sky is azure like the sea;
When I look at the clouds, they are white like waves.
Light fills the ground, flowers fill the trees—
If I dwell in sorrow, what can I do about the spring colors?

June

By nature I have always loved literature.
By nature I’ve loved letters—a karmic bond from past lives;
Mistakenly grasping a long sword, I made grass my mat.
A post-prison pillow amid moth-eaten books,
The Creator restores to me this self attuned to wind and moon.

July 3rd

War clouds fill the world.

My heart has long forgotten worldly affairs;

As for my name—again, none know it.

Alone I dabble in poetry at the bottom of my humble hut,

When war clouds filled the world.

July 2nd

Reminiscences on a Rainy Day

On the twentieth day of the tenth month of Kiyū (1933)—my birthday—I entered Kosuge Prison on the eastern bank of the Arakawa River.
On this day, a cold wind blew rain; the rain was like snow.
The prison garments were extremely thin; goosebumps rose from my flesh.
To this day, I still cannot forget.
A single dream has already spanned eight years; once more I compose a seven-quatrain poem.
In this poem, both the opening and development borrow lines from Lu You.

Rustling wind and rain—autumn by the small river—
Even those untouched by sorrow must now grieve.
To this day I still recall Arakawa’s rain—
Handcuffs clanking eastward as the white-haired prisoner passed;

July 6th

Summer Day in Secluded Dwelling

Cannon fire shakes the earth’s axis;
What purpose does my humble hut serve?
Welcoming the wind, I open the paper windows,
Dispelling the stillness, I set out the catalpa-wood Go board.
I rest my head amid moth-eaten books;
The sentiment of a thousand mountains veiled in misty rain.
Even now, should I die, I would have no regrets—
How then would that hinder long life?

July 10th

Expressing Sentiments

Like duckweed upon water—

I drift west then east with the wind.

This is the way of a humble man—

How could scholars ever comprehend?

When a stalwart man commits to learning,

Pointing to my heart, I vow to heaven's expanse.

All I require is one thing: to be without shame—
Why must I ask of poverty and prosperity?
The old man with weary eyelids in drowsy haze:
Though my ears have gone deaf, my heart remains undulled.

To the frivolous ones of this world—
Do not presume to deceive this old man who shuns the world.

July 16th

I am grateful for this encounter.

In late June, based on correspondence from the Tokyo Probation Office, approximately six hundred forty volumes of domestic and foreign books belonging to so-called leftist literature were confiscated by the authorities; my surroundings grew particularly desolate, yet with Lu You's collected works here, I pored over them day and night without weariness, finding slight consolation in myself.

After the rain ceased and the wind subsided,

A mountain village where even the moon shines,

Seeking to dwell in stillness,

The outskirts of the Imperial Capital where a penal survivor dwells—
Renting a humble hut beneath a single roof,
Having closed my gate and turned visitors away,
I had now lived here for five years.
By chance, here—
A man of the Song Dynasty from a millennium past—
I encountered Lu Fangweng.
Weinan Wenji in fifty volumes,
Jiannan Shigao in eighty-five volumes,
Over ten thousand poems.
What fortune!
When cannon fire shook the earth's axis,
In the midst of teeming streets veiled in worldly dust,

Here I sat alone in attendance upon my predecessor,
Riding a donkey along the plank road,
Cherishing the dawn of early plum blossoms,
Roasting a rabbit at the station pavilion,

Cherish nights of slight snow.

How serene!
My heart resembles that of the people of antiquity.
The lines “Roasting a rabbit at the station pavilion on a night of light snow” and “Riding a donkey along the plank road during the early plum blossoms” are among those I cherish from Fangweng’s verses.

August 2nd Night

Aging and Lamenting Meager Talent

I too

A memento from the past in this distant world—

Though I wished to leave something behind—

Forty years I have wielded the pen.

Only fragments of writing lie heaped high.

The day I enter my grave must be drawing near.

Stroking my bones, I lament my meager talent.

By chance, I read Sato Haruo's Anthology of Chinese Women Poets Through the Dynasties and Chariot Dust Collection; seeing how a seven-year-old girl had still managed to leave a poem preserved for millennia, I felt a wistful stirring within and composed this small verse.

August 6th

Lamenting Meager Talent

Half my life I served brush and inkstone,

I gained but a heap of mulberry-paper dust,

A dying soul grieving autumn—

Caressing my bones, I lament my meager talent.

October 1st

Not a single character have I ever sold.

Half my life I’ve followed brush and inkstone,

In vain have I become a servant of silverfish.

Only delighting in a hundred volumes of books—
Not a single character have I ever sold.

October 1st

*Solitary Chanting Behind Closed Doors: Second Collection (1942)*

Showa 17 (Mizunoe-Uma, 1942)

The previous December, he had moved here with his household; after twelve years, he once again resided in Kyoto.

At Honen-in Temple

Exactly thirty-odd years had passed since he first visited here.

When he came and saw—over thirty years had passed—yet the sacred flames still flickered just as they had in the past.

In the form unchanged through thirty years, having waited for me—this tranquility!

The beauty and nostalgia of Kyoto seen in this twelfth year were something limitless.

The bell of Chion-in tolls—how nostalgic! Listened to faintly by my aged ears.

After over a decade of wandering journeys, when I gaze upon them—how beautiful! The hues of Mount Hiei. January 4th.

Though I am now a defeated remnant—a petty scholar of no use to the world—I rejoice that there are still old friends who occasionally think of me, and thus I have composed this song.

Since I am one who forgets the world and is forgotten by it, I rejoice in friends who come seeking me.

Since I am one who forgets the world and is forgotten by it, friends without merit have naturally departed.

Dr. Takeda, whom I met after over a decade, had acquired an added layer of gentleness to the bearing of an elder scholar, evoking a genuine sense of reunion with an old acquaintance.

Having returned from my wandering journey, when we meet—your visage resembles my hometown. January 12th.

On the third day of the first month of Kōgo (1930), I moved with my family to Tokyo; at that time, my heart secretly held no expectations.

Having survived and returned, twelve years had now passed; having recently rented a house, I returned once more to Kyoto. Each dawn and dusk as I faced these ancient hills and streams, moved beyond measure, I composed a quatrain:

In those days I secretly yearned to follow the ancients' tracks,
Staking my solitary form, I forgot ten-thousand-household fiefs;
How could I have foreseen that over ten years later,
My aged eyes would once more confront Hiei Peak?

February 4th

On the 27th day of the first month, wishing to see Seiryū Rōshi, [I] visited Sai-ken Zen Temple in northern Kyoto.

The temple stood silent with no human shadow visible; having failed to meet [the teacher], he returned home. Only days later did he learn—at that time,

At that time, the venerable teacher sat alone in the deep courtyard, where this work remained; the temple stood at Kami-Takano Mizu.

Kurumamachi—the stream’s roar rang powerfully; waterwheels could be seen everywhere.

With my lone staff, I visit the monk, treading frost as I go—

The empty temple lies in profound silence; straw sandals lie scattered.

I listen solely to Seiryū’s expansive teachings,

The pine winds across all mountains harmonize with the stream’s voice.

(Note) From Su Dongpo’s poem: *The stream’s voice is the Buddha’s expansive tongue; / The mountain’s hue none other than the pure body. / Through the night come eighty-four thousand verses— / How shall I ever convey them to others?*

February 5th Composition

Secluded Life

Kyoto's cold pierced to the bone; secluded, I huddled by the stove to endure the harsh winter. Yet morning and evening, I heard Higashiyama's distant bell—this became my greatest solace.

What joy lies in closing the gate?

In some small measure, I trace the paths of ancient sages.

I mourn the fading echoes of azure-bound texts,

While cherishing evening bells by my crimson stove.

Though my dwelling was poor, the rice held sweetness;

With visitors scarce, friendship grew profound.

Do you recognize this realm?

Long have I relinquished thoughts of ten-thousand-household fiefs.

February 11th

February 20th: Visited Suishiken in northern Kyoto; engaged in refined conversation for half a day, staying until

At dusk he took leave; for days the light snow had not ceased; on the return journey he composed this verse extemporaneously.

A leisurely guest occasionally seeks Suishiken Pavilion,

Worldly dust does not reach here; it resembles a solitary village.
Boiling tea, gathering round the stove—an evening of light snow.
White heads facing each other, we forget heaven and earth.

February 23rd (Finalized)

When Uncle Suma saw my poem “The Cold of Kyoto Pierces to the Bone,” he went out of his way to mail me padded leggings with silk wadding, and now had again sent a servant from afar bearing charcoal; deeply moved, I appended this poem to the edge of my thank-you note.

Having chosen a secluded dwelling to lodge my aged body,

Sweeping away hoof-dust traces before my gate,

Do not lament the severing of withered old ties,

In the snow, the kindly granted leggings are new.

February 23rd

Ten Rhymes on Honen-in Temple in Northern Kyoto

They say: a thousand years ago—

Honen founded this temple here—Honen who laid its cornerstone.

For ten years I've dragged this cane,

With three sighs compose these verses,

The city's dust has never reached here—never once arrived.

Profound silence—nothing can be added;
Tall bamboo covers and lines the path,
Gaunt pines, cloaked in moss, tilt askew.
At the pond's bottom red carp sleep;
White clouds flourish on the mountain ridge.
Deep courtyard—daytime still dark,
Buddhist lamps glow like fireflies;
Remote the land, pure the stone's resonance—
The mountain near; the moon rises late.
Not a soul to be seen—
At times, a secluded bird peers in.

Spring rain—the camellia falls of its own accord;
Autumn wind—the owl grieves alone.
I ardently love the tranquility inherent in the nature of things.

In this place, I wish to bury my remains.

February 26th (Finalized)

When I composed this poem, I believed Honen-in Temple had no cemetery.
Later, when I found several new graves of distinguished families there and heard the Mitsui family cemetery had also been relocated to that place, I came to think burying my remains would still be best done in my hometown.

Shōwa 17, December 30th: Postscript

At Dr. Takeda’s invitation, together with Hide, I watched Osaka Bunraku-za for the first time.

Bunraku—puppets sob convulsively on a spring night.

At the puppets’ weeping, even I—a stalwart—wept.

The art destined to perish does not even appear as art; the fragrance and vigor of the three arts fade away—spring evening, March 13th.

Dedicated to Mr. Fukui

Come again to this ephemeral human world—

Since spring’s span is brief—

The Kyoto where I dwell belongs to bush warblers—

Their song rings lofty in this capital,

A moss-adorned capital,

Spring at its zenith—blossoms scatter upon lingering waters,

A capital pure and fragrant.

Today I see cherries already smiling,

Their full blooming day draws near—

How I lament these petals scattering ere your arrival.

March 25th

Mr. Hara sent a letter discussing Wang Anshi’s poetry; consequently, I spent days perusing the Linchuan Collection.

By chance, spring waned yet flowers filled the city.

To old age I committed myself, dwelling hidden in a humble lane;

Name and surname—the world knew them not.

The spring night’s moon pierced through the lattice.

Who answers Ban Shan's poetry?

April 1st

The small garden south of my window measures just over six square meters. These days, moss has nearly covered it completely. I adore its velvet-like appearance. Whenever weary from writing, I descend to sit upon a stone, meticulously plucking stray weeds until not a speck remains.

After the misty rain of a spring night,
Lushly fills the garden moss.
I diligently plucked weeds—diligently plucked them,
And gently brushed the dust from the velvet-like moss.

April 1st

Kyoto’s new abode—abundant comfort

This land where once I dwelled,

Rivers and mountains—sentiments for old acquaintances; rivers and mountains—sentiments for old acquaintances.

Taking medicinal airs on Futei Embankment—

The declining willow sweeps the stone and welcomes.

April 2nd

My brother-in-law Ōtsuka Yūshō, imprisoned for ten years, had been released from prison but not yet ten days,

when he suddenly prepared to depart for Manchuria; we were ultimately unable to meet—I composed a poem to dispel my feelings.

Ten years since we once parted—

On this day you return home.

I ask again: To what place do you now turn?

I could not bear to face the fallen blossoms—to confront their scattering was beyond endurance.

April 5th

A brush crafted by Tenmuryū Koji and titled *This Gentleman*, I respectfully presented to Master Mamiya Seiryū.

In my poor dwelling, there is nothing I possess;
I can only offer a single brush.
Rely on this to shatter the Crouching Dragon’s dream—
In this season of spring’s languid weariness.

April 14th

Visited Seiken Zen Temple in northern Kyoto; this temple was founded by Master Seiryū,

Although the master has always professed private admiration for Ryōkan Shōnin, the temple buildings stand grand and majestic, bearing no resemblance—

Gojō-an lies distant; thus I present a quatrain.
The halls and cloisters, grand and resplendent; the temple gates stand new,
The Master said: "Seeking poverty, yet failing to attain poverty."
This fallen petty scholar finds scant solace;
In twilight years, naturally one is of lowly and poor station;

April 19th

Kyoto’s new verdure—peerless in beauty—composed while strolling

The spring hues of Higashiyama stand untainted by finest dust;

Willows lush green; maple leaves fresh.

An old tree beckons me earnestly;

Vainly I become one who reclines upon the stone bench beneath its boughs.

April 24th

Mr. Jugaku Bunshō kindly gifted me fresh bamboo shoots; their flavor was exquisite, inspiring me to compose three poems.

My household poor; my body first hale—
I particularly cherish wild vegetables' spring.

Tender bamboo shoots like yellow calves,
Their sweet savor rivals eight delicacies.

And another:

Having aged and shed fame's burdens,
What remains? Only appetite for food and drink.

Spring light—bamboo shoots thrive,
One full meal contents this heart's sovereign.

And another:

A healthy body stems from calm mind—
Its vigor born of mental tranquility.

The sweetness of food brings balance to one's qi.
Bamboo shoots often appear on the dining tray.
Their beauty rivals the mackerel of the Five Marquises.

April 25th

Recently, my emaciated body was quite healthy; each day brought its own pleasure—three times daily, morning and evening.

These simple vegetable dishes—their sweet taste rivaled the eight delicacies.

The old man's daily pleasure:

Drumming his tongue over coarse fare.

Heaven pitied this petty scholar,

Granting health to this man of leisure.

April 26th

Recently sold my old copy of *The Wealth of Nations* and exchanged it for Chinese classics—no small pleasure.

Moth-eaten books I barely managed to buy,
Blue volumes lie scattered across the empty bed.
Who knows that within this poor alley—
There is also a village of white clouds—who could have imagined another realm of white clouds?

April 28th

Fangweng

Day and night I devote myself to poetry and books; though I read extensively from various poets' works, ultimately I love Jiannan Shigao most.

Encountered within moth-eaten books—encountered within moth-eaten books,

The poet Lu Fangweng. The poet Lu Fangweng.

Embracing passion beneath the moonlit song fan,

Forgetting the world—the wind through tavern banners.

A thousand-mile steed lies in its manger—

A nine-autumn wild goose kicks the sky—

Loving to chant yet never sated; loving to chant yet never filled—

In tranquil twilight, joy finds no bounds.

May 7th

This body still lives.

This morning, a telegram arrived informing me of the eternal sleep of my old friend Dr. Kawata Hyōdani.
Dr. Hyōdani was five years my junior—a man who had always been in good health, who had never once contemplated his own death, and who had striven until his final moments to keep living.
Yet I, who never even in dreams expected to outlive you, now instead mourn your death.
A poem formed naturally.

Turning my head—a journey of ten thousand li,
I marvel that this body still lives—
A hundred heartfelt wishes and connections come to fruition—
The emaciated stream awaits only parching.

May 21st

Mourning Dr. Hyōdani

One Poem, Two Lyrics

On March 22nd of this spring, I met with Dr. Kawata Hyōdani at Suishiken Hall in Ichijō-ji Temple, Rakuhoku. At the suggestion of our host Mr. Kaneko, the three of us sat side by side beneath the eaves of the southern window and took a commemorative photograph. We then visited Yase together, where Dr. Hyōdani treated us to a meal at Heihachi Tea House—facing the mountains and overlooking the stream, we engaged in serene conversation for half a day. During this gathering, I said to the doctor: “Flowers scatter easily; people age swiftly—you too must soon simplify your affairs and join us in enjoying the modest comforts of our twilight years.” He agreed and added: “Yesterday I happened to attend a reunion of my university classmates from the same graduating year—half have already returned to the dust of Beimang. Now I understand why the ancients celebrated reaching sixty.” His calm voice from that day still lingers in my ears—who could have imagined that barely ten days later, you would suddenly fall ill and pass away on May 21st at dawn, becoming a guest never to return for a thousand years? Thus, our photograph of three has become your final empty portrait—you departed without awaiting your sixtieth year—truly like a fleeting dream—and so I compose these lines in sorrowful reflection.

Under the lingering sun, I wandered among flowers at the waterside pavilion;
I share with you the sorrow of flowing water and falling flowers.
Who could have foreseen that spring would depart and you too would pass away—
The Declining Sage stands alone in the tower of evening sun.
Also: To the Tune of “Remembering Jiangnan” from the *Yuefu*
The place where we wandered together,
In the desolate hour when I remember you,
A solitary shadow, stooped with age, pulls an empty staff—

All flowers have fallen, leaving a single stream behind—

Water sobs, wind grieves—

Also: Double Tune “Remembering Jiangnan”

Spring has already departed—

Flowers fall, splitting the sorrowful heart.

People age easily; mountains and rivers do not grow old—

How faint, how faint—the village of purple mountains and clear waters.

“Mourning the past, I sit in the thatched hall.”

Our bond has long endured—

Thirty-five years—thirty-five years.

You who never once contemplated death have suddenly departed,

I who await my end instead mourn your lingering fragrance.

The rain darkens; the willows of the evening river.

June 6, June 10, June 26: Final draft.

The Joys of Idleness

The Joys of Idleness
How good it is in idleness—
Azure-bound volumes lie scattered across the empty bed,
This essence—no one comprehends,
White clouds encircle the thatched hall.

June 10th

Playfully Made on a Summer Day

Whatever I ate—such delicious things—

I ate, thinking there might never be another chance.

Mostly, he spent his days untying the cords of book wrappers and reading the poems of ancient poets.

When weariness came, he sipped tea; when fatigue arrived, he lay upon the pillow.

The house was narrow, but breezes passed freely from north to south.

Without spending a coin, cool winds came through.

Such a pleasant feeling in one's very being—

One wondered if such a feeling could ever come again.

I keenly feel there is worth in being alive.

Yet again, I think it would be fine to die at any time.

To go on living is well; to depart in death is also well—

Could there be any circumstance in this world better than this?

June 13th

Summer Coolness

Although the lower level of my thatched cottage comprised no more than three rooms, summer’s arrival brought notable coolness.

Lying beneath the moon, I chanted poems in my thatched cottage’s shadow;

North window and south casement opened toward the wind.

Clear breeze and bright moon—why would they lack an owner?

Once I staked my entire being and claimed victory through.

(Dongpo’s *Former Ode to the Red Cliff*: “Between heaven and earth, all things have their owners. Only the clear breeze over the river and the bright moon between the mountains—these may be taken without restriction and used without depletion.”)

June 14th

菩薩蠻

Clear breeze, bright moon—chanting poems while reclining;

Who says wind and moon were ever without worth?

Trampling furious waves and mad thunder,

“Having cast my body aside to gain through exchange.”

The house resembles a raft upon the river,

This body is a snail in mountain valleys.

Beside imperial avenues and ninefold crossroads,

Alone he dwells in white clouds’ realm.

June 14th

Thatched Cottage

What joy resides within this thatched cottage? What pleasure does this humble dwelling find?

Late Spring’s Frequent Verses
As spring deepens into twilight, verses flow ever more abundant.

The modest courtyard—boundless delight;
This small garden—inexhaustible wonder,

While morning sun reveals bamboo leaves renewed—
Fresh verdure gracing dawn’s first light.

June 14th

June 19th: A Dream

On the night of June 19th, in a dream: I found myself compelled to abandon my tranquil life once more; thinking I must part from my family and separate from my poetry books too, my heart grew desolate. As I agonized over what course to take, the dream first broke—and for a time afterward, I remained doubtful whether it had truly been a dream at all.

I desired once more to stand before the Yi River,

The dream shattered—goosebumps rose on my skin.

Once I lay beneath the moon in a dark prison,

To this day, dreams remain easily startled. Even now, dreams startle easily.

June 21st: Composed

Self-Portrait (Age 64, Summer)

Cease reproaching me for becoming a book-moth;
I love only the poems of ancient sages.

A thatched cottage—one shelf of volumes—
I take up and open a hundred blossoms.

Heaven grants both leisure and vigor—
Coarse rice tastes sweet as malt candy.

I do not grieve over a single basket of food,
Nor seek lavish feasts' richness.

Content with my lot, I delight in what lies before me—
When no guests come, I overturn the Go board alone,

When weariness came, I dragged my cane,
In between, I visited the shrine of the ancient Buddha.
There existed another solace—that which consoles beyond this life.
A small boat's tide-rider,
Rising and sinking through thousandfold waves;
"I merely hope the moonlight understands."
I merely hoped for the moonlight's understanding.

Though old friends lamented my poverty and lowly station,
Poverty and lowly station were what I had originally sought.
I felt no shame wearing a loose hemp garment;
"I do not envy those who sit on tiger pelts."
I did not learn the baseness of feces-tasting;

I do not heed the tether of fame and profit—
Harmoniously keeping company with neighbors,
Secretly I rejoice that my aspirations remain unchanged—
Secretly I rejoice that my aspirations remain unchanged.

Others pity my solitude—
What grief does solitude warrant?
A thousand-mile youth's dream—
Loving stillness, the old horse wearies.

Inviting coolness under the north window—
The absence of a pond in the garden poses no hindrance—
Sparse bells sit in evening rain—

The most cherished time in a hundred years—
My heart’s desires have already been fully fulfilled—
For now, I retain the form of withered bamboo—
I do not refuse to be covered in frost and snow;
Two or three branches entrust themselves to the wind;
Serene and expansive is this twilight of life’s intent—
I have no regrets for half a lifetime’s delusions.
Truly a man of contentment—
Cast me aside—who else remains?

July 9th: Finalized Manuscript

Observations Along the Way

The setting sun poised to sink—
When crimson stains the empyrean—
Toying with shades, the Western Mountain glows;
Heaven and earth lay bare their jade flesh.

July 10th

Unversed in Worldly Matters

When saving the people's lives permits no respite,

Why then do I serenely compose poetry alone?

Cease reproaching this sixty-four-year-old withered man—

Deafened, I have long been unaware of worldly affairs.

July 15th

Bright Moon

The vast sky holds not a single star; the moon hangs round. Though this body abstains from wine, it yearns for Takadono.

Because the perfectly round moon draws too near, I come to Takadono and approach the bridge.

Having aged, I now detest both cold and heat.

On hot days he pined for autumn; on cold days he yearned for spring—his body growing old by July twenty-ninth.

Inscribed for the Poetry Collection *A Single Bell Stroke*

Of poetry collections that had recently come into the world,

I bought someone’s poetry collection, brought it home, and read it.

The Japanese paper of the binding retained its wood grain.

The movable type’s ink seemed freshly fragrant.

Forty-odd short poems

The margins were amply occupied,

In a deep mansion with a spacious garden,

It harmoniously resembled where nobles dwelt.

My heart was tinged with envy

On sleepless summer nights

How fleeting—at dreams’ interruption

It was my lot as no poet that I resented.

August 9th

Lamenting my meager talent—

That my heart's desires had all been fulfilled—

I myself had written in poetry,

Only one wish remained unfulfilled,

Unawares, I must have departed this world.

Strangely, the poems of old endure—

A semblance of envy stirring within

On this desolate day in the autumn of old age,

Alone, I—

I stroke my bones while lamenting my meager talent.

August 13th [Finalized]

Mid-Autumn

Throughout my life, what I have loved most— / Throughout my life, that which I cherish most—

A bell beyond distant clouds— / The bell beyond clouds, so far-reaching—

One day deaf, another day—

Pure tones are hard to meet again; pure tones are hard to meet again.

Tonight, the sky is as if washed; tonight, the sky is as if cleansed.

Wind and dew thicken autumn’s essence;

Gazing up at the moon, I lie by the south window
On a single mat, I listen to crickets by the steps; on a single mat, I listen to crickets by the steps.

September 25th

Murderer

When I was in Kosuge Prison, the convict who worked as an orderly in the solitary confinement wing to which my cell belonged was a stuttering epileptic and a repeat-offense murderer.
There was no way he should have returned to this world, but today, just as I was about to step into the bath at the public bathhouse, I was truly startled to see that man soaking deep in the hot water.
Of course, it was a case of mistaken identity...

I suddenly encountered a murderer I once shared quarters with and entered the bath while wondering if it were a case of mistaken identity.

Suddenly seeing the murderer’s face before me, I stroked my chest upon realizing it was a case of mistaken identity—September 27th.

There were days when I passed time in gradual inaction.

Unawares having aged, I spent an autumn day kneading writings—September 27th.

Mr. Sugawara Masato advised me to read the poems of Saitō Mokichi.
Therefore, I borrowed Mokichi’s poetry collections one after another from my acquaintance Mr. Mitsuda and read them.
I, who had previously held an aversion and had not even glanced at Mr. Saitō’s poems, through this came to feel an interest in tanka poetry for the first time, and since then have reached the point of reading poems daily.
However, among Mr. Saitō’s poems, those with ideological content or that address current events—almost all of them—I still did not like very much.

Though there were poems I found beautiful, there were also those I would spit out—Mokichi’s poetry collection, October 10th.

Alone.

Staying home, while peeling and eating an apple, I had a thought and sharpened the kitchen knife again.

Growing weary of things in solitude at dusk, I strike the autumn fly alighting on the shoji.

Arranging pure white dahlias, alone I sit and gaze upon the autumn sunset through the window.

The slightly chilly sky has clouded over; the large dahlias arranged in the vase stand out white.

Alone, I cooked oatmeal—likely sent by my child in Shanghai.

The slightly chilly evening faintly darkened; the old temple’s bell passed through the town.—October 10th, October 12th

Honen-in Temple in Eastern Kyoto

In this Kyoto stood one tranquil temple; at dusk I came to listen to its bell.

In Takamura, at the darkly enclosed old temple gate where one crouched, frequent mountain showers fell.

In the bosom of this mountain where Hōnen once dwelled in his hermitage—had it grown moss-covered?—from ancient times unto now.

Dead leaves fell into a desolate pond; a carp, growing thin and lying still, seemed to have become a mere shadow.

‘Meat and alcohol are not permitted beyond the mountain gate’—carved thus in stone by someone—yet the temple’s head priest seemed to love money. (Upon hearing that after our agreement, they had raised the price again for Dr. Hyōdani’s grave.)

Since ancient times, it being a temple I have admired, today too I came to see where my friend was laid to rest (the grave stands ready, yet the bones remain unburied).

October 10th and 11th

Thinking of My Hometown

The world shifted into one where savory things went uneaten; my mother aged, and I too grew old.

We stained our mouths eating red mulberries; not a single childhood playmate remained now.

Aosei had turned into a shallow stream—in my hometown’s river, even loaches were nowhere to be seen.

The Aosei that had cut into Matsuyama—had even the traces where trout once dwelled turned into shallow streams? The above, from October 10th to the 14th.

When my mother deigned to come up to the capital, it was at the height of spring.

In the spring when my mother came, the great alder tree that had sprouted had already begun to scatter its leaves—October 12th.

Miscellaneous Chants from a Secluded Dwelling

A friend came from Sakai bearing fish; at this moment I keenly felt divine favor.

The taste of the mullet I shared with the elderly wife—a flavor forgotten for over a year.

In idleness receiving many things, I felt ashamed as a monk who chants no sutras.

Having known village mountain doves since youth, here on Kyoto's outskirts I lived listening to their calls.

The tranquility where worldly visitors never glance back—people seemed to deem it a lonely thing.

The two of us, hiding ourselves on Kyoto’s outskirts, resolved to end our days with tranquil hearts.

This house where I nurture my old age—its stillness scarcely feels like a world engulfed in great war.

What purpose now in clinging to life? I loathe this self that begrudges its own persistence.

Autumn mosquitoes drew near with spiteful intent—without faltering, I struck them dead.

A thousand-fathom wave now looms imminent; clutching a plank, I would ride across its crest.

“Tomorrow I shall quit tobacco”—so I vowed at bedtime, yet at dawn’s first light inhaled Satsuki’s smoke anew.

When I eat rice, my heart finds contentment; my life resembles the tranquility of ancient peoples.

Since my tender youth—when I surpassed others in vigor—have I borne half my inherent flaws here?

Why do we immerse ourselves in livelihood's means when human life is so brief?

Gazing at sunset-lit clouds, even now I yearn for the sky beyond someone's window.

Gazing at those sunset clouds, I realize how long it's been since I saw the sea—these ten years come to mind.

How detestable—the manner of those presumptuous souls. For a time, I too must have carried myself thus.

A guest came, soiled the toilet, and left; I watched my wife cleaning it.

Since my remaining years grow swiftly short, may I leave good memories for my wife.

Taking up my brush—"Without this, could I even go on living?"—there were days when even my wife regarded me with suspicion. The above, from October 10th to the 17th.

Observations Along the Way

When he stopped to see what someone was doing，an old woman released a fart and walked away.

The red-edged flag of the teahouse fluttered；the time had come to serve sweet sake—October 10th.

My Wish

Having grown old,

I do not desire beautiful houses.

I do not desire to see beautiful maidens

Only beautiful poems

I am worthy to recite sonorously

I wish to behold beautiful writings

October 14th

Draft Titled "The Eighty-Four-Year-Old Hōō"

Sifting through ancient words,
Seeking to understand distant hearts—
Is it because this body has aged?
New poems prove hard to cherish.

October 14th

At the wind’s whim
When I read poems, poems naturally take shape.
As I gaze upon songs, songs are born of themselves.

At the wind’s whim

At inspiration’s whim

Kiso Again Today

October 15th

Gazing at Nyoi-ga-take in Eastern Kyoto

With eyes grown dim through years, I face Nyoi-ga-take.

On an afternoon stroll during a certain Dontaku

Dusting off my robe and swinging my cane,

Parting the underbrush as I tread the Ōmi Road,

The days I crossed were still those of youth,

People grow old easily; mountains and rivers do not age.

Ah, the long-yearned-for Nyoi-ga-take

Envoi

With knees held close where I sit facing, the twisted pines of Nyoi-ga-take appear so distant.

The moving clouds, still youthful, now appear to cross the mountain ridge I once traversed—October 16th.

Clouds: Two Themes

Last night from Kunlun Mountain they raced forth; this morning they brought rain upon this Ōyashima.

The Northern Seas' dream shattered; today here they hastened past Kanto Hasshu.

October 24th

An Autumn Day

In seclusion, having thought it a precious day—the dawn could not endure, and the autumn sun clouds over.

To ready the electric light, I leaned against the brazier for a fleeting moment and smoked tobacco.

October 31st

To Mr. Hara

Autumn when I recall the broad leaves of Tateshina’s crimson-first-dyed grape vines that were bestowed—same as above.

From Tokyo, Mr. Hatada and his wife were making a special visit.

The friend coming to visit closed their eyes and lay down, thinking they were being shaken by the train.

How bittersweet—friends come visiting from afar, yet in this world there is nothing to offer them. October 31st.

Finding Joy in Seclusion

While shielding myself from the autumn sun and administering moxibustion when time allowed, I grew old in tranquility.

The mayfly's heart lay calm, seeming to play within Amitabha Buddha's garden.

As I aged, a light desk suited me well—I moved it morning and evening to avoid facing the sun.

Having seen every sort of dream in this ever-changing world, I found the waking years that followed equally good.

Looking back—the sixty-four-year-old me now remained as immature as in days of yore.

In every way they bloomed with all their might, flourishing wildly even as they declined?

Has it all become a dream—those warriors of old whipping their chestnut horses as they departed Kyoto? (My relocation to Tokyo had occurred at the beginning of January 1930; now it had already transformed into a dream thirteen years past.)

Wondering if staying warm exceeds my portion, I endure the cold while dressed lightly.

White hairs kept falling onto the edge of the paper as I read letters by the Minamimi window.

In a corner of the garden not four tsubo large, nandina berries reddened—how poignant they were.

In the cool, clouded autumn dusk, he arranged go diagrams while letting someone wait.

Were the friend who plays go—weary of books—to come now, would that bring joy? In autumn’s dusk.

Day and night attending to all cherished things, my impoverished self lived briskly—November 3rd and 4th.

Birthday

My innocent self was cherished beyond reason by Father—he who now strives to outlive his years.

Handcuffed and transferred to Arakawa Prison—that autumn-rain day remains unforgettable.

October 20th

Kiyomizu-dera

To gaze upon Nanshū’s poetry monument, today again I climbed Gojōzaka.
How many times had I thought to rest here—and drank sweet sake at Chūboku Tea House.
At Kiyomizu-dera, where I had once accompanied my father on a pilgrimage, though red spider lilies bloomed—

The image of Father—who graciously smiled at Otoha Falls’ humble simplicity despite its famed name—November 3rd.

Playing in Ohara: Thirty-Two Linked Poems

With my wife and children, to see the autumn in Yase and Ohara, on that clear morning I left home.

To Yase, where this spring I had played with my mother—again in mid-autumn, I was led by my child.

Riding the bus and gazing at mountains moving like a film being watched, I entered Ohara.

On the country path of Ohara, I encountered an ox pulling a large garden stone toward Kyoto.

Ohara was beautiful in every aspect—the rows of houses nestled in mountain hollows were beautiful; the persimmon fruits glowed red.

Nameless great trees stood throughout the mountains, yellow and crimson as though crafted by hand.

How might I convey to you Ohara's autumn air—that chill which pierces to the marrow?

In Ohara—meeting a winter drizzle, I bought an umbrella; along the path between fields, I saw mountains veiled in rain.

After the winter drizzle, the fallen leaves’ vivid hues—reluctant to tread upon them, I walked the valley path.

Maple leaves fell gracefully; taking them into my palm, their deeply dyed vivid hues were worthy of admiration.

I gathered and brought back maple leaves dyed in the rich hues of first frost, intending to show them to you.

In the rainy sky over layered mountain depths, Hira's slopes appeared dusted with snow.
At Manakai Peak, a rainbow rose as sunset rays pierced through; westward clearing shower clouds.
Yellow-ripened rice fields—half already harvested—saw a nun return along their paths.
While life remained in me—I who had only heard Jakko-in Temple's name in Ohara—this day I came to see it.
Having climbed to stand at Jakko-in's precincts, I heard bamboo water fountains clack with crystalline clarity.
The young nun guided us through Mi-dō's dim-lit hall—her voice ringing pure.
The sacred image floated within candle flames flickered by this guiding nun.

Kenreimon-in, who once followed the august footsteps of Osanami Palace into the sea.

When I reflected upon it—Kenreimon-in, her tears of the Juei era pooling endlessly—she must have still sat weeping in this hall’s courtyard.

Like rough waves roaring through night air came pine winds howling—a floating bridge of dreams.

At deep mountains’ edge where Toyoaki overflows with abundance, people grow old while being filled by moonlight’s measureless grace.

There in that final dwelling having slept away life’s span—a person’s existence becomes but poetry’s fleeting breath.

The wooden statue of Awa no Tsubone in prayer—said still to wear Emperor Antoku’s sacred robe...

The stone Buddha stands embraced by thirty thousand small Buddhas pressed close against its breast—eight hundred years now passed since first it rose in silent vigil here.

The maple leaves dyed in three bands of red, yellow, and blue—such deeply saturated hues had never been seen.

Gaze upon antiquity and reminisce—by the pond where dead leaves fall, the silverleaf flowers.

At the tea shop before the gate, I rested and ate ohagi—sweet rice cakes unknown in Kyoto—praising them as I partook.

I waited for the bus and crouched for half an hour—yet being in Ohara, my heart did not grow impatient.

Autumn deepened—the mountains crimsoned at their brilliance's peak; there I spent the day.

O splendid Yamashiro Province—where green mountain fences layer themselves about this capital! (Returning home, I sang Kyoto's praises)

This morning I looked—the maple leaves I had gathered to show you now left no trace to be seen. (Composed the following morning) November 5th.

Songs Praising the Ephemeral Beauty of Fallen Leaves: Six Poems

The fallen leaves I gathered yesterday—today, not a shadow remains to be seen.

This morning I looked—the maple leaves I gathered to show you now left no trace to be seen.

Maple leaves fell gracefully; taking them into my palm, their deeply dyed vivid hues were worthy of admiration. (The above two poems appeared earlier)

Maple leaves fell of their own accord in their fleeting moment; the peak of splendor marked the beginning of withering decline.

The maple leaves’ splendor at its peak; of their own accord they fell—the fleeting moment’s life was brief.

In the fallen leaves that had descended, life still lingered; within the fleeting moment, the soul could not be summoned.

Gazing intently, I saw beauty in fallen leaves surpassing even flowers—who could know it? (In Sasaki Chikafusa's poetry collection were several poems about fallen leaves, all expressing disdain; Ōnishi Sukemichi's verse in the Shika Wakashū—"Since they did not fully crimson on the boughs/I leave the maple leaves scattered thick upon the garden unraked"—also seemed written by one who had yet to know fallen leaves' beauty.) November 6th.

I wrote this on a postcard and sent it to a friend.

The tranquility of autumn in Ohara that we praise—how it must have permeated that photograph.

Consider how alluring it remains—Kyoto's autumn where a thousand years of history lies tranquil. November 8th.

November 9th Casually Composed

There are nights when I dream of beautiful mountains and rivers—a sign that I am forgetting the world.

Even strangers now call me “old man”—so aged has my shadow become.

I stood in line and finally managed to buy ham; with a triumphant look, I spent the day. (November 9th)

Strolling Through Kokedera

Under autumn clarity, taking my grandchild along, we walk the field path—the abundant life of this single day.

The distant mountains haze faintly white; near the rice fields, a cow grazes in view.

The pale autumn sunlight sheltered by trees grows faint; while faintly glimpsing the moss’s blueness, continuing to gaze.

The garden’s surface—every nook and cranny of tree roots and rocks buried in moss—is the soil of Kokedera.

The broad garden lies buried in velvet moss, the path clasped by cedar moss and grass moss.

Shimenawa ropes with white-haired moss cling to half-rotted cedar trees in a corner of Kokedera.

In the dim-lit Kokedera Temple, Iwakura Tomomi once hid and likely ate gruel (Iwakura, Lord Kuni, having altered his appearance to evade peril, took refuge in this temple on September 15, Bunji 2 [1186]).

I who spent decades in Kyoto's streets without ever seeing Kokedera's moss—(having lived in Kyoto over twenty years, today I first saw Kokedera)

At the moss-covered old temple deep in the mountains, they stacked sandbags by the corner (everywhere one saw signs of war).

At the udon shop, even elementary schoolchildren lined up for udon—could it be the rationed rice fell short?

Having come and seen Arashiyama that people praise—the bayoneted rifles lay prostrate in Kawahara (detouring to Arashiyama on the return journey) November 13th.

Dr. Hyōdani’s Burial Ceremony

At Honen-in Temple in eastern Kyoto

At the foot of Daimonji Mountain in late autumn’s end, we send you off as you enter the earth.

This evening when clouds descend upon Yukinazumi Mountain, sleet falls upon your remains.

Having become one wrapped in white hemp cloth, you now enter the earth, my old friend.

In the bosom of these densely wooded hills at dusk, your remains were now buried.

On an evening when autumn mountains drizzled, I stood watching over your remains entering the earth—November 15th.

I soaked in the public bath; it was so pleasant that—

In the public bath, I stretched out both hands and feet, feeling as though in a mountain hot spring—November 17th.

On cold days, the time I spent soaking in the public bath surpassed that of kings—so I thought. December 24th.

Having finished writing my manuscript "Daiishi Ichiban",
When I remember days gone by, I find dear the figure of my younger self.
The figure of my younger days, who ceaselessly sought without rest—how dear it is.

Having finished writing my manuscript “Kinoshita Naoe Ō”,

The memory of one I met—dwelling like transient dew—lingers faintly.

On the day I resolved to revisit my youth’s memories, I encountered you—November 24th.

Having finished writing my manuscript “Prison Food”,

Others and I, thinking only of food, spent our days like prisoners.

The scarcity of food these days—more fearsome than the enemy.

Morning and evening, people dug up sweet roots; all had become like udon makers tending their pots.

The prison that once gave us red-and-white bean cakes during imperial festivals—better to be there now, perhaps.

If there were a land governed by capable hands, there were days I wished to move anywhere—December 6th.

Miscellaneous Poems

Taking them out one by one from the wooden box, dusting them off, and arranging the red persimmon fruits (A box of Shinshu persimmons had arrived from Mr. Hara) November 10th.

As I scratched my head while reading, half the hairs that fell onto the paper were white.

On cold days, my elderly wife would stay all day in the kitchen and serve me meals—November 18th.

In the small garden of a lodging not even four tsubo in size, little birds came and pecked at something.

November 27

There was a mouse clamorously scurrying in the ceiling—what did it eat to survive? November 28th.

The brief half-day when my elderly wife went out shopping—oh sleet clouds, do not congeal yet awhile.

Having passed sixty, with voice and vigor withered, I think of food morning and evening.

Freedom Diary: This aged body with ample time—for the first time this year, the margins vanished.

Having swallowed the sun till its hues deepened on western hills—there I found jeweled flesh of heavenly maidens.

The sun set, mountains purpled, sky reddened; along main streets and alleys, lights began to appear.

December 10

At the kotatsu, bending my legs into position, I remember my deceased father’s habit.

I gazed up at their beauty; the maple leaves settled, drying up as they were blown together. December 11th.

Military uniforms trampled broadly; fearing them, I avoided the road.

Climbing a deserted slope, I found an imperial mausoleum where a lone guard kept ceaseless watch. (I had visited Emperor Hanazono’s Jurakuin Imperial Mausoleum)

In the cedar grove along the gravel-strewn slope of Jurakuin Imperial Mausoleum, a flock of thrushes took flight.

Having finished writing, these countless memories—with none to behold them—appeared pitiable indeed. (I had completed transcribing the second volume of *Memories*)

My memories remained ephemerally in writing with no means to be printed.

They advised praying to the gods for victory; that day, there was a secret imperial visit.

The voices of "Beware of fire! Beware of fire!" can be heard; in the middle of a sleety night, I rise to use the toilet.

December 12th

When I saw the old pine clinging tenaciously, sorrow arose; my deceased grandmother's figure came fondly to mind—December 13th.

Rejoiced at having been sent mochi once more by Mr. Aizawa of Yamaguchi.

This mochi I swiftly ate—what my departed friend could not obtain even through his ailing—(recalling how Dr. Hyōdani, already gravely ill and without appetite, had desired mochi but could not acquire it in these times) October 31st.

This mochi—sent to me before I could give it to the young children—

This mochi held the hearts of my comrades—how grateful I was, praying and rejoicing.

When the arrived wooden box was opened, mochi came out, mandarins emerged too, and potatoes also appeared—December 14th.

He visited his uncle in Suma who was soon to celebrate his 88th birthday—impromptu verses composed during the round trip.

A house with its bamboo thicket cut down, under whose eaves daikon radishes dried—plenty of sunlight there as well (viewed up close from the train).

When I saw a house that basked in sunlight, I somehow found myself gazing enviously—I had entered old age.

With age, urination became frequent, forcing me to disembark the train midway (unable to endure the urge, I got off at Nada).

The letter had said my uncle was declining, but when I met him today, he remained hale and hearty.

When I visited my uncle who had reached eighty-seven years, he talked ceaselessly and listened to no one's words.

My aged uncle spoke endlessly of olden times, as though unaware of the present world.

Even as I repeatedly asked "What day is today?" my uncle declared I had gone senile.

"They arrived just this morning—only two," he announced while presenting the wrapped yōkan.

The heavenly sun shone radiantly; upon the sea's surface, ships came and went here and there (Sumaura Observation—though said to have no ships, not yet entirely devoid of their traces).

As I watched the boats swaying gently while being rowed away, it did not feel like a day when battles raged.

When I stood at the seashore unseen in so long, Marifu Bay of my hometown rose before my eyes.

The setting sun illuminated only the peaks with faint crimson—mountains grew dark as if smoldering (Observed on the Return Journey). December 15th.

The thought of the great man Lenin comes to me often.

There was once a person who earnestly wished only to be vanquished in struggle.

December 16th—the Lenin collection I had resolved never to look upon again now pierces me with regret.

Seeing Off Mr. Suekawa’s Southern Journey

Beneath the vast sky where raging sea gods dwell, you gaze—now off you fly to Minamijima's shores.

Even as I send you off to Minamijima, this battle's uncertain course weighs heavy on my heart.

Whatever may become of the struggle—before departing, let us first share this fine sake.

Pouring choice wine for Takadono and Yumiharukasu—across the boundless sea's eighty isles.

Crossing these waters, may fortune favor your passage and swift return to Kyoto's east—December 17th.

I attended the Minami-za's seasonal debut performance by invitation of Mr. Shiraishiwa.

Like a faint remnant of ancient times—a ghostly presence of today—I entered Minami-za.

For two years prior, I had lurked in the earth, morning and evening avoiding even the sunlight.

Having been taught and gradually come to know them, I had now forgotten both the face and voice of Kaisha.

Once-burly Kōshirō had grown gaunt—had even his voice’s strength waned?

Is this the one I met on dream paths of distant worlds? I watched over Umewaka, whose name too had changed.

I suddenly recalled—the great drum sounding as Matsuo made his entrance at half past two had marked someone’s evening meal. (Though prison dinner was regularly served at 3:30 PM in December, on Sundays and holidays it had been moved up by an hour to 2:30 PM. From then on, there being absolutely no warmth from fire whatsoever, with wintry wind blowing through window cracks into cells where we couldn’t even drink hot water, wearing unlined hemp leggings directly against bare skin while sitting on chamber pots waiting for bedtime—the coldness of those hours, their interminable length—even now I cannot forget them. Each time I enter realms of comfort and feel my body warmed and fed, I am instantly reminded of those days as if by habit.)

Having not seen for fifteen years what I had not seen, today I gazed upon it and spent a day of this abundant life (From the winter before I resigned from the university in spring of Showa 3 [1928] until now, exactly fifteen years had passed). December 20th.

Miscellaneous Poems

My poems are like my own children; even those born unsightly are all too dear to discard—December 6th.

Though hearing each dried persimmon cost ten sen, I ate three in a single day.

How splendid life’s lot must be—all that makes the old wife tilt her head seems splendid too.

Past nine o'clock, saying "Well then," came the clatter of geta as she left for the public bath.

As night deepened and the city's clamor faded, cicadas kept crying in aged ears without cease.

As if hearing insects shrill nearby—through deafened ears they resounded throughout the night.

Eyes grown dim, ears too distant, and heart also far away—I ponder this remote land.

Inserting both hands and feet into the kotatsu fire, I pursue the ephemeral thoughts that surface in my heart.

In an instant, the sky clouded over as snow fell; in an instant, the sun broke through—Kyoto’s winter sky.

Waiting for my wife standing in the shopping line, I prayed for the blizzard to cease.
Shop signs had all turned into lies—mochi shops with no mochi, soba shops with no soba—December 20th.
On December 22nd, joining a serpentine queue to buy ham, I waited two hours and finally made purchase.

To Mr. Kobayashi Terutsugu

The long-awaited letter from you held little vitality.

In struggle-gained illness slow to mend—do you dwell alone in loneliness?

Hearing you dwell alone in loneliness, I too grow lonely—separated by a hundred ri.

If only I could hear your noble laughter as we share this meager evening meal together.

Were you here, we might watch those in favor from afar and pass time playing go with smiles.

If our bond remains, come visit—this humble dwelling where I live with my elderly wife by Kyoto’s edge. December 23rd.

To Mr. Hara Kanae

A long letter arrived after many days; I heard this year’s solo exhibition too achieved most favorable results.

Like one consumed by fever—consumed by painting—three months you spent without stepping out.

Gladly, as you would tell a parent of your solo exhibition’s success, so you tell me.

Even now there remain connoisseurs in the world—joyfully seeking your paintings.

One of the baby rabbits sleeps gazing up at the rising moon; I long to see the painting where another stands.

The painting of flatfish—meticulously rendering each and every scale with mica—

When spring arrives, come visit Higashiyama—where flowers fall into lingering waters.

Please come visit Rakuto at least once—while I, growing old, am still alive.

On days you come, bring rice to feed us; even rice grows scarce in my hermitage now.

While eating the meal my elderly wife prepares with her characteristic tilt of the head, let us talk through a spring night.

December 24th

Year-End Poem Fragments

Again I dreamt of wandering here—yet upon waking，I knew not where it was (Time and again I have dreams of roaming that same land; though within the dream I believe it real，upon waking it becomes vague and uncertain—do others too have such experiences?).

From Sakai came a friend bearing a dressed chicken (Mr. Fukui visited).
These days，obtaining chicken meat had become extremely difficult．
Though the official price ceiling for meals was stipulated at five yen per person maximum，there were rumors that one could always eat chicken meat for twenty-five yen at certain restaurants，or that paying fifteen yen per bird would allow one to obtain a whole chicken—yet ultimately，these matters held no relation to me．
On this day，Mr．Fukui had a chicken dressed，arranged it on a large plate，and kindly brought it all the way from Sakai．
This kindness deserved gratitude．
(Then made sweet red bean soup and treated him．)

Hometown red beans and Yuyama mochi put in, carefully made—flavorful sweet red bean soup. (December 25th)

Morning and evening, the temple bells that had resounded “All is impermanent” now became cannons.

The Japanese who had once mocked lining up to buy now formed lines themselves—

Scholars who flipped sides at power’s command—how pitiful they were, like prostitutes!

Generally, wealthy households remained coldly composed, while poor couples often quarreled (since Mr. Hara had written in his letter about marital disputes, I found myself reflecting).

Arguing with my wife over peripheral trifles, I in anger became unsightly to behold.

Let one not lament a cramped dwelling to inhabit—a narrow heart deserves true shame.

Yet even a poor and narrow house grows rich when its dweller’s heart expands wide.

As goods grew scarce across the land, thieving hearts multiplied daily (having heard shirts were often stolen at public baths).

December 26th

The rationed mochi being only 1.8 liters, the Yuyama mochi brought joy (Mr. Kitamikado of Yuyama in Mizuyama Village, Kumamoto Prefecture, sent us mochi yet again).

At morning’s dawn, the water pipe froze; Kitayama became a winter mottled with snow.

Into old age where one rejoices more in food than in reading did I enter (in response to Suzuki Yasuzō sending his own work).

December 29th

At someone's house, he ate Shinshindō's bread that day—the bread he had been hearing about for eight years.

The bread from the bakery his friend had once praised as the best in Japan had now become pitiable.

People formed lines to eat but a single piece of bread, overflowing the streets as they waited—December 30th.

Though it was New Year’s Eve, that night no one heard the temple bells—all had become weapons. December 31st.