Pathway to Japanese Literature

Table of Contents

Swallow

Sand Flowers

Waking from a Dream

Dragonflies

Evening Sea

For What Reason

Resolution

Morning Glory

Clinging to August Stones

Water Flowers

Naturally, Fully Naturally

Night Reeds

Gazing at the Lighthouse Light

Dedicated to the Autumn Storm

Early Death

Foamy Snow

O smiling child…

Early Spring

The Peacock's Sorrow

Summer Lament

Galloping

Most dear friends are those of "Time" and "Fate"—

The first sake pressed from the brewing.
Behold them there.

A round of cups passed among the circled gathering, circling once more to pour,

And so soundlessly, one after another, they slid into rest and came to settle.

In this room where friends had departed, now summer flowers’
Freshly arrayed, we rejoiced and chattered,
We too sank beneath the earth’s resting place.
Would one make their own body a resting place—for whom?

From Mori Ryou’s translation of "Rubaiyat"

Swallow

Outside the gate—in a high place where the light was dazzling—there was a single bird.

It was the swallow that sang.

Monotonously, sharply, unshadowed.

Ah—now in this land—the first swallow that had arrived sang.

Thou, from distant Molucca’s New Guinea’s still farther—

From the distant sky—

Wings unsteady, small feet trembling.

When one gazed up and hearkened to Thy ceaseless singing,

Alas, alas—how many nights braved? The night’s darkness and—

Flapping its wings—it told not of the teeming sea waves.
At my gate—in a high place where the light was dazzling—it stayed.
It simply stayed—monotonously, sharply, unshadowed.
Ah, now in this land—the first swallow to arrive sang.

Sand Flowers – To Fuji Masaharu

Pine resin smelled strongly—

A grand sand gate. A little sand house.

All day long, the little boy was in the sandbox.

Inserting yellow tsuha flowers,

That was the sand flower garden.

... … … … … … … … … … … … … …

From two feet above the ground—it could not fly well.

A belated-season butterfly fluttered restlessly,

staggered and clung to sand flowers.

The little boy took aim at the restless butterfly.

… … … … … … … … … … … … …

In that strike,

The hue of the butterfly struck down upon the flowers

Ah, how fascinating!

Settling into flowers—the crafted thing.

“Dead? Alive?”

… … … … … … … … … … … … …

Pine resin smelled strongly—

All day long, the little boy was in the sandbox.

Awoke from a dream.

What presence awakened me from sleep in this late night?

Beyond the glass window—ah, tonight too on the slope of Mimihara Imperial Mound’s hill,
a fire was burning.
And as I watched it, my chest—
I felt my heart pounding violently for no discernible reason.
For no reason?
That’s right—I had been dreaming of the old house in my hometown.
I flung open the doors of the large, unoccupied house and sat in the tatami room facing the garden.
Alone, I drank sake.
The sunset penetrated deep into the eaves—
it was more beautiful than any evening light I had seen in waking days, its coldness and transparency devoid of any expression.

And in the garden, white tree blossoms were blooming in the setting sun.

Serenely composed—so much that my childhood memories could find no hold...

Ah—what awakened me from this dream—yes—that strangely beast-like
It was not the cry of the nocturnal bird from the imperial mound.
That even within the dream—
It was the sorrow of a song I had been singing.

There sat my mother in solemn grace
Under the deep blue sky
On the spring-glittering snowfield
A single tree spreading dead branches
Lofty treetop

Ah, there upon it—
There sat my mother in solemn grace—visible.

Dragonflies
The form of a dog that had been an innocent traveling companion

When I realized where it had vanished
I stood at the edge of the wilderness.

Upon that wilderness
As dawn broke, I wandered aimlessly
What flower did the sunlight seek?
To this question, who would answer?
O sky whose bowstring lay severed—behold!
Standing forth into the sunlight,
A swarm of dragonflies struck in their movements
Now already elegant to heartbreaking perfection—
I crossed the wilderness.

Evening Sea

The gradual and certain evening dusk and the ceaselessly undulating
white wave crests advanced from the gray sea surface.
At the lighthouse’s summit, a green light was lit unnoticed.
It took a long time.
Aimless—
that light resembling futile premonitions
until it was gradually illuminated by the darkness—
But before long, rotated all too regularly, tirelessly,
how bored the sea must have grown with the flickering green lighthouse light,

The sea had to lie still all night long.

Wherefore—

Wherefore amidst this year’s midsummer brilliance—

Did only last summer’s light remain vivid in your soul?

To sing of summer—choosing late summer’s dawn shadows and dusk treetops—
the cicadas’ plaintive cry—

Why does your song resonate so?

Why do I love these broad-leaved vines’ flowers
you never sowed?

How do you love the water flowers you never arranged and the goldfish you never kept?

Resolution: To Mr. Nakamura Musasaburou, Author of "The Invasion of White"

Having been released from the heavy iron-wheeled cart,

In the twilight courtyard, a tired horse trod.
And the yoke stood fixed, its tip planted in the ground.
But true rest descends only upon those who lack need.
And that pitiful horse’s
Behold the figure deeply trapped by something.
The muzzle of that one, made sensitive by hunger,
Vainly on the manger, its muzzle swayed left and right endlessly.

Ah, surely something was making him refuse.

Is that what we call fatigue?

My soul, answer without hesitation—your resolution.

Morning Glory: To Mr. Tsujino Hisanori

Last summer, when I was living in the city, in my garden where sunlight never reached all day, a single morning glory sprouted; unaware of withering until evening came, it continued to bloom, making me sorrowful.

The poem of that time,

In that unnoticed sandy expanse

All night long restless sounds persisted,

What I discovered at this dawn

the dream from which I had finally awakened—

The blooming form of morning glories

Behold, midday passes through the sky.

Vanished from human ears,

To the allure of that sandy expanse,

As my time passes, the morning glory
still clings to its flower's dream

Clinging to August stones
Clinging to August stones
The fortunate butterflies now falter in breath.

After having known my fate,

Who could withstand this fierce

In the summer sunlight, I shall live.

Fate?
Thus,

Ah, we ourselves are solitary luminous bodies!

It was a white external world.

Behold, the sun yonder—
Barely for oneself alone,
Create deep and beautiful shade.

I too lay fallen upon the snowfield, dimmed by hunger,

the blue-tinged eyes of wolves,

For a while, I shall dream.

Water flowers

There was an item called Water Flowers sold at summer night stalls for children. They were made by thinly slicing wood shavings and compressing them finely. In their natural state, they were utterly unremarkable, but once cast into water, they unfurled into reds, blues, and purples—beautiful forms of various flowers—poignantly vibrant as they settled motionless in the water of a cup. Among those raised in the city, there must have been some who never forgot the impression of those artificial flowers illuminated by gas lamps.

This year’s June appeared thus beautiful.
I gazed at the eaves as if they were breath—
the trailing ferns had sprouted forth.

No past needing concealment,
What is it that I lament?

At the threshold between June's night and daylight,

This was the hour when myriad things shone of their own accord—a moment of brightness.

The face of one I had never ultimately met—

Stand before a single hollyhock flower.

If unbearable, I hurl water flowers at the sky.
The goldfish's shadow flickered there as well.

All things turn toward me,
They say 'Die',
My June—how beautiful it thus appears.

Naturally, perfectly naturally

In the grass, the child found a writhing small bird.

The child did not let it escape.

But somehow, even the mortally wounded small bird—

It fiercely bit into the fingers.

The child, abruptly betrayed by that caress,

Hurled the small bird with full force.

The small bird kicked the air with strange force.

Flipping over, it naturally chose a branch to one side.

Naturally?
Exactly so—perfectly natural!

Before long, the child saw―
watched it fall to earth like gravel.
There lay the small bird fluttering faintly,
toppled backward where it fell.

Night Reeds

What must that moment be like—when the first star began to glitter in the sky?

Who was it that saw that, and where?

From the direction of the distant marsh, through the darkness, came the sound of reeds rustling.

And what I now gazed up at was the settled sway of stars' dwelling.

The one who had been watching the moment the first star began to glitter—

astonished by June's night darkness and its overwhelming depth as it covered the ground without notice—

must have peered through the surroundings and looked around.

And at that moment, the reeds of that pitch-dark marsh must have begun sounding toward that person’s ears—

[they] must have begun sounding distantly.

Gazing at the lighthouse light

On the dark sea, the green light of the lighthouse

What gentleness!

Flickering and rotating

My night

A single night—it wanders

And so you—

In my night

You give so many, so many meanings

Lamentations and yearnings and—

Unspeakable—

Ah, lamentations and yearnings—what gentleness!

Though there is nothing—
My night

A single night

The lighthouse's green light wanders.

Dedicated to the Autumn Storm

How delightful was the midnight autumn storm!
That nostalgic and lonesome dusk of
the sleep of one who, wearied in heart, had fallen asleep early—
to not let the futile aqua-hued dawn continue into morning—
awakened them with trees' jubilant voices and all windows' impatient rapping.

The truly solitary person—within nature’s grand interconnections—
They constantly wish to remain awake.
Through the window, their eyes do not yearn for the ocean’s far shore,

This gale that shook my house—under the starry sky where clouds had been blown asunder—
It came upon the pitch-dark sea’s surface，raising raging waves.
The willow，like a maddened woman，wildly tossed back and disheveled my hair，

The grapes left unpicked had rotted away—before my sleep could awaken—

They must have all been dashed to the ground.

The leaves of the Japanese ash, resembling birds with stricken wings, blackened and tangled one after another as they were swept away.

What must have become of the chrysanthemums and roses in the dark garden corner now.
But I

I would not deign to pity you.

They chose the season when all things decay to burst into bloom.

Ah, how could even a tempest grieve your arrogant hearts now?

How my heart roiled!
The interior of the room I suddenly glimpsed—

On the mirror’s surface illuminated by lamplight, my pair of eyes burned vividly.

Autumn Storm, farewell—speed away.
When I opened my eyes, though people said the grass turned autumn hues,
the field now stretched uniformly melancholic, faded blue in the distance.

Early Death: To Mr. N

Sharp wrinkles formed on the great river’s surface.

Last night's ice had begun to melt.

Having been bestowed the name Aloysius and the last rites,

he had gone to heaven, it was said.

The great river's ice that had formed began to melt.

A train passed over the iron bridge.

His keepsake arrived via the morning mail.

Lying down, I was thinking about dance when—
A small vermilion box chilled through to its core,
Mother-of-pearl inlay of pearl flowers.
Those who die young—

They think only of their own matters.

Where had I hidden this small box?

I had become a distant Aloysius...

As I looked toward the iron bridge,

another train came plodding along.

Foamy Snow: To Mr. Tachihara Michizou

Winter has passed. Winter has passed.
Fragrant foamy snow’s

This morning, foamy snow fell in my garden.
On the withered hedge and vegetable garden,
That was warmer than early spring flowers.
Thus before long wild roses would bloom abundantly across the fields.
The diverse flowers of trees and plants would bloom in succession—Ah, that—
On a day of purest light, where in the fields should I go and sing?
……No…no… …Incline your ear.
The droplets from trees that swiftly circled the garden and vied to fall—
The feverish song of melting snow now sang you.

O smiling child…

O smiling child, cling to my lap.

Tide, race along the water’s veins and surge away!

What I desire is not the sunrise.

A heart that calmly hears the cock’s crow.

I wandered between rocks.
I saw them summon a thousand days' daylight.
Once more, come evening, the beast would lurk by the water’s edge.

The road extends far from village to village.

Calmly I walk upon it.

Early Spring

The fields brown and pale purple,

The air above the rice paddies was faintly lukewarm.
From where do spring birds return?
Strong eyes and
A simple soul—when will they come to me?
The stream had not yet begun to sing,

But the stream glinted intermittently.

Was that fish scales?

Somehow I felt like I was floating,

But now—what was I to receive?

Peacock's Sadness at the Zoo

Butterflies flutter around my sleep.

The fiercely swirling circle shrank soundlessly.
I no longer wished for cooling medicine.
Since I had made a profound pledge,

Thus robed in radiance I walked while sleeping
Through scattered reflections...

The crystalline sky could not endure itself,

Listen!
It calls me

Summer’s Lament

I cast into the thicket my hot body and weary limbs.

Yet the grass's swelter,

more self-contained than my body heat,

my pulse disturbed the stream’s song.

O dusk—be there in mid-sky,
since the wind had already made its cool flow,
the path of the magpie's flight

The direction was gently determined.

Ah, this morning my teacher—
On that mountain summit, while eating grapes, declared:
"Even were I to be chosen as king,
I should not find it particularly strange."

Galloping

I watched.

April Morning

A certain farmhouse’s
From the stable entrance
Was led out

The three-year-old colt,

The horse's scent
tickled the throat,
seeking caresses.
Dense stomping of feet,
tail that swished—
disordered beauty.
The young man swiftly—
upon its unsaddled back—
"There! Jade-like sway—"

Before my eyes,
the flank glistened
and suddenly galloped away.
Distant neighing—
two cries, three echoes—
through wheat ears not yet fully grown
at their tips,
I watched it depart
this April morning.

I watched it depart.

April Morning