Pathway to Japanese Literature

A piece of withered grass with neither flowers nor fruit—I dedicate this to my dear brothers.

Both poison and sin,

Even blooming in the grass,

Poisonous flower

All sinful flowers

Crimson-stained

Beautiful feathers

That child

If it were a sinful arrow,
It would be beautiful.
Were one to touch their lips,
They would fall.

If it were a poisonous flower,
It would be sweet.

Village Peace

Cloud-scent settles in the ariake dawn

Emerging from the moonlit forest,

Standing on the verdant wheat hill

Behold the morning of the peaceful village

In the mist, golden—

The rapeseed flowers have bloomed,

Spring rain falls upon reed sprouts—

The pouring cadence too has been heard

Dawn blowing through wheat leaves—
The wind rustles gently from the east—

For the hill lay deep in morning’s fragrance—
In beautiful dreams they must have been sleeping
The peaceful village—in the ariake dawn’s
A curtain of clouds hung in the sky.
From the fraying curtain of clouds,
A mist of dewy nectar fell upon the grass.

Sado Island

Lift your eyes—how forlornly—

Mountains of the island blended into the clouds,
In the forest, autumn floated vivid.
The scent of the sea filled the inlet—
Golden hues of wavering thoughts—
The setting sun drifted upon the waves.
And yet in the tranquil tide’s edge,
The sea’s day ended in purple—
Clouds flowed over Sado Island,
Boats and women and slender arms,
And so the gate where waves crashed—
Sado was an island forty-nine *ri* offshore.
The caged bush warbler—
The mountain temple where peach blossoms bloomed—
To the caged bush warbler,
In order to relay the particulars,
“O cunning-looking kitten,
That was last spring.”

Flowers were enveloped in the mist.

Cherry blossoms fragrant in the dawn—

A mountain of flowers veiled in fragrant drapery.
The joyous spring day in its fullness.
The hundred birds' joyful cries.
In your voice that rolled pearls,
To listen in bewilderment was itself a joy.
From that day through long days and months,

With the birdling crowned in flowers,

The long voice of transmigration's jewel—

Resonates through eternal spring.

To disrupt its own hopes,

The cunning kitten—

To the caged bush warbler

[Mokubei-san] began to relay the particulars:

“Demon Lord.”

“Let us make haste—”

“Cross that mountain.”

The Yodo’s current—

Flowers in full bloom—

Cherry blossoms bloomed in the homeland—

The moon hung hazy through river spray—

Flowers bloomed yet scattered one by one—

The waterwheel at Yodo River’s rapids—
The elder sister was fine—but the younger—
Demon Lord Mokubei-san
He did not grant even a moment’s leisure.
“Therefore, rather than address you as ‘you’—”

“Let us make haste,”
“Cross that mountain.”

Yodo is homeland.

Village of Flowers

Shrike

Arms folded in idle strolling—

The day ended in the cattle pasture.
The evening’s voices did not match the melody.

In the woods there was a resonance.
Here and there in the pine woods,
If one listened intently and stood still,
That was the young shrike at play.
O cunning one who mimicked small birds' songs!
Thou art a bird of fields, a bird of mountains.
Fields at dawn; mountains at dusk's dimming.
Peering at small birds—the snake's child—
Truly, you impudent one—young shrike—

Spring in the Flower Bed

The soil is tilled soft

When the seeds of countless plants are nurtured

Before the spring breeze had yet to blow,
though slender indeed, the buds had sprouted forth.
Before long, the spring breeze rustled gently,

When it blows, even the midday sun softens
When evening falls, white dew—
A pure fragrance too comes to permeate all.
Months have passed—already March.
Day by day, the grass grows lushly

In the shade of swaying leaves, various small buds came into view. One night’s spring rain—the grass leaves’ green hue had been richly poured—from the evening of the following day, the buds bloomed into flowers. The flower bed’s soil—beautifully—now was the time for the flowers to bloom. Under the blazing sun of a spring day, the evening fragrance of dewy blossoms would not fade. The maiden of love—who might she be?

O-Take O-Juushichi

Late Spring

She parted in tears.

Such things happen.

Even at thirty-nine, I’m still a flower.

At seventeen, still a bud.

Though I am but a budding flower’s self,

Why do I detest this fleeting world so, I wonder…

Truly, last year’s affliction—

I was asked to consult the town doctor.

Though I am a doctor, if I go to marry,

Would I be called a maiden of love?

Who is this maiden of love?

It’s not as if I’m the Buddha,

To make sweet hydrangea tea—

That’s a sin.

O-Take O-Juushichi

Late Spring

She parted in tears.

Such things happen.

Trampling Green Grass

A curtain of mist billowed forth,

Spring was Tosa-e’s mountain cherry blossoms.

You there—tread upon the green.

Come now—tread upon the green.

On a fine spring day, radiantly—

The sun burned through golden clouds—

In the fields, in the mountains, in the streams

Hundreds upon hundreds of birds seemed to cry out.

You there—tread upon the green.

Come now—tread upon the green.

If you tread upon the green young grass,
Ah, how deep the fragrance of spring must be.

Tragedy

Gazing upon the painting of Anchin, Kiyohime, and the Hidaka River, one cannot help but ponder love’s tragedy.

Evening’s sprouting love grass—
Tomorrow vanishes the flower’s dew.
Night—a beautiful ink-black
Cruel is the self robed in crimson silk’s hem.
You there—the longed-for purple—
Bind sleeve to sleeve through bonds.
Parents who dote upon their child as butterflies and flowers—
Clinging to their knees is shameful.

Love’s tragedy was the jeweled cord’s—
It became the end of all sins.
The end of sin became the bubble’s—
The Hidaka River’s tears.
Would you not let us meet?
At this river’s edge
An overnight stay was the cherry blossom.
A traveling monk like a blossom
Sea from night into morning
The foaming sea’s glittering—
Ah, the sun shone.
The night sea where treasures sank

To make hearts ache with longing
Like wiped-clean silver,
The moonlight strung together jewels.
Wispy clouds far away tinged with crimson.

The peace-filled morning sky over the sea.

As if drunk on lapis-like honey’s fragrance.

Holding an amber cup in its beak,
the honorable envoy from Hashira no Miya—
the seagull flew enmeshed in clouds.
That was deemed an impossibility.
At the bedroom’s paper-paneled door: purple
drew closed the curtain of bonds.

However much you may lament,

That is an impossibility—so it must be said.

Night was dazzling.

Upon the golden screen,
The princess wears fine garments.

And yet,

The gorge of the valley,

Buried trees'

O you who endure in this world,

Pitiable.

Thin eyebrows do not grow thick,

A low nose is inborn,

However much you may lament,

The doctor has no remedy.

If your skin be dusky—the Kamo River’s
pray bathe awhile in its waters.

For lips—Kyoto’s Downtown rouge—
apply with due measure.

Ah! How I yearn for your noble dwelling—
At the jeweled pedestal’s bedchamber door,

However much you may lament—
That remains an impossibility.

Flustered, they do not speak.

The nine-year-old celebrating the Doll Festival’s

O-Take once more pondered.

Peach blossoms, peach blossoms

What to talk about with the dolls

Last year and this year were the same.
The year before last was too—
Things remained undisturbed.
"O Gentleness!"
The day stretched long with the Dolls'
Three Days spent in yawns,
The night was brief with peach blossoms—

A sleepy-faced spring evening.
In a single night，the Doll Festival platform lights were extinguished.
O young ones and baby mice’s

Many of their kind had sneaked in.

Yet the household remained unaware.

Dolls’ dolls’

Their noses gnawed at, pitiable.

The deep red peach blossoms have scattered.

The next morning, the maidservant, flustered, did not report.

Blind fish

At sunset,

Gazing at the sky—
Always fruitless—
nothing but matters.

Pampas grass plumes—
Though it blooms on the plume,

An autumn flower—
It must be lonely.
Though love is felt—
Even if one forgets love

Blind fish—

O Akogi Bay

A maiden alone

When dawn gazed upon the eastern sea—

Though there were low ripples,

Not even the white of drifting clouds was visible.

Though seagulls flew over the open sea,

At the distant shore of the sea,

Was there even a shepherd child on that distant shore?

At the eastern shore of dawn
The morning sky alone as though a god
A maiden wandered solitary

Though in bloom of youth,
black hair draped over robe’s hem.

Cease your vain lamentations.
This morning’s gaze upon the eastern sea—
Though no clouds hang between heaven and earth

Yet again the maiden stood alone.
How she wandered.
Twelve Bridges

“Truly to Itako—”

“If you’d go,”

To Sawara Kurusu

“There lies a tea house.”

“Please come in, Sister.”

“Ah, Sister.”

The flower maiden’s morning after—

A rain of tears shall fall, oh!

A night of transient sleep—

With an arm for a pillow—

Sung of as a temporary wife—

Where tomorrow’s somewhere might be—who can say?

Early summer’s blazing sun
Plant irises as well.
Pray show the courtesan of Izumoji—

Though the rain falls, flowers bloom.

Rhyme of Darkness

On moonless autumn nights—insects chirped in a field of withered eggplants; people commonly said it was earthworms that sang.
Ah, though they derided them as earthworms—
A young girl waited for someone by the back door—

Her head hung low in the dark of night.
She heard thy lonely song.

Look—the bedroom door at twilight.
The sea of stars one had come to gaze upon,
Yet drunk on the heart's perfume,
How one mused on vain things.

Submerged in dark tides,
Though the quiet night's dream remains undisturbed—
Amidst nocturnal insects' lament,
If there lie things unforgettable—

Spring's lingering traces—
Upon time's ceaseless flow—
Crimson flowers alone—
Mourn—

The summer stream's coursing waters—
Pure white blossoms too
Have bloomed.

If one had wings to soar through the sky,
If one had eyes to perceive all things—
Which would it be: featherless wings or wingless flight?

That was a blind earth spirit—
The lonely evening's grassy door—
Star shadows spilling into clouds—
If it were an insect bound for market,
Then even its thoughts could not stay pure.

Alas, children of this sentient world—
A verse sung for solace—

As dawn's approach drew near—
Might they sleep sweetly in dust and ashes.
The morning—the quiet sun’s
Wispy clouds faintly aglow—

On grass leaves thick with white dew—
Ah, is there any happiness in this pitiful world?
Though its form be unsightly,

Touched by the sorrowful sound of things,
a slender, exquisite beautiful voice—
when heard, how the heart indeed grew clear—
the struggles of human life also—
ah, the voiceless night’s array—

The long song slumbering in prayer—
A melody bound by rhythm, darkness' rhyme—
That lasted until yesterday of last year.

On the 27th day of the 37th year's end, I wandered the sunset beach lamenting my misfortune, and dedicate this to Omoimizu-ko of Furukawa, who I hear shares the same sorrow.

The wind was a downward gust.

It must be cold.

How many nights of dreams—

It must be drizzling.

That was until yesterday of last year.

Should one fall into the vulgar world, death must follow.

A spear may rust, yet the samurai's—

the samurai's ambition to become a hawk

Whenever he gazed at his blue sky,

Without wings to span the sky,

He who would surely become a hawk—

How futile were those joys.

Poets, do not begrudge money—

They were reproached for this and that.

However, even their scrutinized livelihood—

They could not help but be aware—

To that cursed thing called money—

Struck by a hundred frosts

Ah, in vain their hands flailed—

their legs flailed—yet no poem took form

the arrow that left the bowstring’s

Though days and months passed swiftly

All ended in—

tears.