Pathway to Japanese Literature

My Tanka

My verses always come out jagged, like editorial phrases roughly strung together.
Scarcely any depict scenery.
What could possibly explain this?

Though I always profess fairness and presenting things as they are, what emerges in my poetry amounts to nothing but Ainu advocacy and apology.
True, many personal sentiments factor in—but ultimately modern society's flaws force this outcome.
It happens because my ardent wish gushes forth: to make Hokkaido a livable land, to forge a conflict-free world.
I refuse to craft lies that willfully trample individuality.

Though a vulgar Ainu in the Land of Rising Sun
I know this fortune of being born here

Ainu rising for Ainu facing extinction
Iboshi Hokuto's eyes glitter

I need only be aware I am Ainu
Need only tread the righteous path

Each time I read Ainu articles in newspapers
How fiercely my thoughts agonize!

Today's Ainu have lost their purity
Now I lament the Kotan I yearn for

With this wish to live and die as Ainu
The lonely heart painting Ainu scenes

Grow toward heaven and earth! Prosper! With sincerity—

Shall I rally spirit for the Ainu?

In the profoundly deepening midnight, here I was—
Thinking of Utari, I wept.
Utari are brethren.
The faintly chirping insects' sound—Utari—
Was I not the one who weeps in longing?

With the money I earned selling Gatchaki medicine,
I surveyed eleven provinces.
Gatchaki: Hemorrhoids.
Without eating lunch, I walked through the night.
The hardship of traveling with unsellable medicine.
In this world where so many medicines exist,
Why must I peddle Gatchaki medicine?
The technique of applying Gatchaki medicine—
Hokuto’s fingers moved right and left.
Both I who sold and those who bought—also Gatchaki’s
A face red as the medicine’s hue.
Disguised as a medicine peddler,
I studied my own physiognomy intently.

“How about some Gatchaki medicine?” where there are no people.

At the mountain pass, I tried shouting at the top of my lungs.

I’m the fresh-faced Gatchaki medicine seller.

Don’t bark, Kuro—you’re a good dog.

“How about some Gatchaki medicine?” I called out at the gate.

I forced a laugh and was turned away.

I sold to satisfy country folk’s curiosity.

Lately, he'd finally grown accustomed to the rhythm of breathing.

Putting it charitably, he’d grown adept at survival.

I can't call it bad—this sadness of mine.

Next time, I would be off to inspect Karafuto.

Thinking this, I gazed out at the sea.

In this world where Gatchaki disease exists,

Why can't I sell this Gatchaki medicine?

He crossed the snowy pass on an empty stomach.

They pitied Iboshi Hokuto.

“I wonder where Hokuto is now?”

There must have been people talking about him.

The North Star was hidden in the gray sky.

As for north—which way? People lose their way.

Today, peddling feels absolutely detestable to me.

Even though the lack of money troubles me,

That act of insulting the ancestors through my own lack of self-awareness

Now I realize was inexcusable.

The heart that resigns itself out of helplessness

The mentality that destroyed the pitiable Ainu

“Strong Ones!”
That was the name of the Ainu.

Shame on your past! Awaken, Utari!

They had preferred bravery and cherished sorrow.

"Ainu! Ainu—where do you dwell now?"

"Only shops profiting off the Ainu"

"Grew fat while Kotan withered."

They went out in the morning with rice balls hung at their waists.

The cry of a black kite echoed through Kotan's sky.
Though the banks were reclaimed and bridges spanned the rivers,
the decay of Ainu houses stood heartbreaking.

Ah, the Ainu are indeed a shameful people.
Their drunken stupors—
When I see drunken Ainu, even I—
Righteous indignation fades away, and hatred wells up.
For the first time in my life, I tried wearing a suit.
The collar felt constricting.
When I tied the necktie, that face peered back.
The mirror still declared me Ainu.
I stroked my own face—that of a mountain man—
I turned the mirror face down and offered a wry smile.
Clad in Western attire—how sorrowful!
I could not even show this to my mother in the afterlife.

Setting aside my ferocious countenance,

The weak, lonely Ainu heart

Encouraged by my brother’s powerful words,

Parting from my tear-prone father

Journeying from Kotan to Kotan—how delightful!

A journey of paintings, a journey of poems, a journey of legends

Even without calendars, they marked spring by the herring's arrival.

How dear Kotan’s past seems now!

After so long, a bear was caught—but its meat,

How delicious it was for me to eat after so many years!
Rain fell on the quiet valley’s charcoal kiln—
White smoke rose from the charcoal kiln．
A wind scattered autumn leaves upon the door mat．

The hut filled with smoke.

In the secluded valley where wind howled through yellow autumn leaves,

Stepping on moss as I went, yellow leaves descended upon me.

A single leaf fluttered down—cold.

The evening in Kotan where autumn had once lived

The leafless treetops of the katsura pierced the sky.

In the Hidaka mountains, winter approached.

If I return home cheerfully, the loneliness

It’s because poverty overflows.

Even as the cold grows piercing, there are no shirts.

In my thin clothes, I catch cold yet again.

There is no charcoal, not even oil, no rice.

It has come to this, but there isn't even any work.

Even with no food or money—don’t whine.

My heart was such a carefree thing.

"If I took employment at the herring grounds," I thought, "it would be 100 yen."

My heart stirred with longing for money.

Emotion and reason were always at war,

making my heart seem almost comical.

"If I don't do it," I mused, "this work brings neither money nor honor—

who would do what must be done?"

To those who asked, "Will studying the Ainu make money?"

"It'll make money," they often declared.

Those who wouldn't do anything unless it was for profit—

those who passed judgment blamed me.

"Unless you're a complete fool," I reflected,

"you'd suddenly feel disinclined to compose poems."

I wished there were some great work to do.
Something that would make me forget this loneliness—
People who had saved money—merely that much—
The people of Kotan were impressed.
Even amidst foolish talk came moments when thoughts arose—
Would start speaking only to clamp my mouth shut—
This world overflowed with nothing but wretchedness.
Should I cry? Should I laugh?
Drinking sugar water suddenly brought back Tokyo—
Miyoshino’s sweet red bean soup and millet mochi
Though having a sweet tooth now ate them rarely
Tokyo remembered through confections
The Tokyo where once stood eating ramen—

Last year around this time was fun, wasn't it...
Desperately harvesting kokuwa to go to Tokyo
The money from selling just wouldn’t accumulate.

I want there to be productive work for me.
Because I feel ashamed to live in idleness.
I don't even have money for postcards—this isn't what I want.
My poverty that keeps me from writing.
To the empty ink bottle, I add water.

I'm using it—a bit diluted though.

To announce a bountiful catch, the Gome came.
People's hearts finally settled.
Gome are seagulls.
If this year’s catch was poor again, it would be disastrous.

The Ainu of Yoichi would no longer be able to remain.

This year marked the brink—would they rise or fall?

They waited poised for the herring catch.

At times, a Gatchaki medicine peddler.

Now worked as a herring ground fisherman.

This year, may there be a herring catch at last—I prayed.

White seagulls flew across the watched offshore expanse.

With talk of Tokyo, today too has come to an end.

In early spring, during the wait for herring—
Living in the environment I had sought, even loneliness—
Joy as it was—even tears brought gladness.

To quit being human—like that—

I want to fly away with Gome—

A child sang “Gome! Gome!” at the top of their voice—
The Gome being sung of—how dear they both were—
If one mimicked crying “Cuckoo,” the cuckoo bird—
It paused mid-cry—“Caw! Caw! Caw!”—then resumed calling.
While calling the lost child “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

Menoko’s single-minded resolve turned her into a bird—so it’s said.

Menoko is a girl.

“A parent’s heart surpasses even a child’s heart that yearns for them,”

When we heard the cuckoo, Mother would say,

Bakkei and Akanbe flowers have bloomed.

The snow on Mount Shiriba melts.

Behold, the herald of red things!
As if to proclaim,

The Akanbe flowers bloomed crimson.

Nameless flowers were blooming too—evening primroses,

Kotan blossomed in the rainy noon.

This town, starved for commotion,

Surged with life at traveling performers' shamisen.

Whether from drink or ignorance—I couldn't tell—

Ainu paraded as spectacles

The Shiraoi Ainu became exhibits once more

They went to the Exposition—Outrageous!
Outrageous!!

Shiraoi's fame lay in its native school,

The wellspring for Ainu news stories

Lacking artistic pride or religious

Ainu spectacles lacked even solemnity.
Those Ainu who performed in spectacles—they themselves—
Perish by the name of those bound for extinction.

“Listen, Utari—must there emerge Ainu who poison their own from within?”
Was it permissible for poisoners to arise?
In every desolate Kotan deep in the mountains
we found plenty of empty liquor bottles.
They now wept at this state of degradation—
children who teased Ainu beggars,
the Ainu beggars crying when mocked,
people turning their faces away in shame.
Rather than lamenting no great figures among us,
it was our disgrace to have spawned even one beggar—
we who were defined by having none!
Had our age truly come to this?
To my people on extinction’s brink—

At least live on, this song of mine.

Utari—why cling to vanishing fantasies—

A night when I awoke from a dream and wept.

Taking our simple ethnic nature so seriously—

Carving Ainu craftwork with a makiri

Among the Ainu are those who wrestle bears—

Among their number, there must be some—

Better to perish with honesty than thrive through villainy—

Will the perishing Ainu emerge as victors?

Those who couldn't bring themselves to badmouth the Ainu before me—

The absurdity of their flustered manner

They carelessly mocked the Ainu before me—
then awkwardly rephrased their words.

This new, noble concept of "Ainu"—
I wanted to impart it to mainlanders.

I'd thought no one would ever understand,
yet found joy in friends who comforted me.

All night we talked together after long separation—
I witnessed my friend's ideology maturing.

We soothed our loneliness in the bath's embrace—
I saw my submerged friend's flushed face aglow.

While discussing Kamchatka, we split an apple—
halved it cleanly, ate in shared harmony.

The friend now arguing with mother and child—
years of illness had left his heart desolate.

No respite in sight—only crushing loneliness.

How pitiful—my friend suffering from lung disease.

Gentle Sojiro-kun with his booming gong of a voice.

“In Kamchatka, you see…” he continued.

My first rough work in a long time—
My palm filled with painful blisters.
The taste of rice I devoured hungrily after labor—
I slurped down truly delicious sanpeijiru.
Backbreaking work had become familiar—I wolfed down an issho of rice.
They were amazed at me wolfing it all down.
"I've become a man who can wolf down an issho of rice"—
I informed my friend of news from the fishing grounds.
Look upon my recent vitality.
If you grabbed my wrist, you'd find I'd gained a bit of weight.

Chasing from work to work across Hokkaido—

Rough men—I too stood among them.

Snow, fly! Wind, pierce! What of it—

This was the hour that tempered men’s courage.

On Horobetsu Beach, beach roses bloomed fragrantly.

Mount Isan's distant reaches grazed the horizon.

The Saru River’s waters had muddied from yesterday’s rain.

Kotan's past whispered on.

Biratori—the Ainu’s old capital—evoked nostalgia.

At Yoshitsune Shrine, he played the shakuhachi.

He streamed Oiwake-bushi melodies through the shakuhachi.

He crossed the length of Biratori Bridge.

He finally heard news of the emperor’s passing two full days after the fact.

The astonishment of this mountain Kotan.
As it was New Year during the imperial mourning period, mourning flags fluttered.
The wind appeared as if it had no force.
The imperial mourning too had now reached its height of sorrow.

The lonely New Year of Showa 2

He awoke to the sound of leaking rain on an autumn night
Pushed aside the bedding and placed a barrel
Thought of poverty as if it were some theatrical performance
Composed illness into poems only to forget
One rain brought loneliness; another rain—

Ezo’s September ushered in the cold—
When he played his shakuhachi—the Kotan’s children
They listened with rapt curiosity.

Illness is fine—sadness and suffering, those too are fine.

I even think it might be better to just die.

If I were to die of illness now—
I’m fine—but it’s hard on Father.

Comforted by my mentor, I teared up—

In that very state, he reverently received today’s letter.

Haiku

A seagull rode the ice floe, drifting away.

Spring arrived—somehow joyful, the mountain village.

Flags of bountiful catch still flew—spring night.

Early spring—herring bay—five feet of snow.

Herring boats shed their winter covers—early spring.

He played Oiwake-bushi on the shakuhachi—summer moon.

The summer moon shattered in the outdoor bath.

Frogs croaked—Kotan darkened as rain drummed on.

At the legendary swamp—a lonely frog.

Children sang "How grand!"—the summer moon.

He read even newspaper advertisements—ah, the long nights.

The long night—

In a foreign land, seeing wild geese—ah, how I think of home.

Wild geese descend—that forest has darkened.

The first hail sweeps through eleven provinces—already.

First, I must record the first hail in today's diary.

The snow shelter—receiving the newspaper outside

The flowing water freezes even as it flows.

With the old frontier man’s horse, this year too has drawn to a close.

A single star in the snowy sky—withered trees stand.

Dead leaves all return to the earth, seeking to be held by the ground.

[From the Showa 29 edition of posthumous manuscripts]