Pathway to Japanese Literature

A elle,

Tu es mon guide…

Dante (Enfers, II, 140)

Author's Preface

This collection combined over a dozen pieces from my two previously published poetry collections—*The Sun's Child* and the entirety of *Unblessed Goodness*—with all works subsequently released individually that remained uncollected; as for these yet-uncollected pieces, their first half largely shared *Unblessed Goodness*'s stylistic approach, while their latter half diverged from these predecessors by taking on a classical tone.
If we consider the tender sentimentality of *The Sun's Child*'s early phase and the raw passion of *Unblessed Goodness* as two periods marking my poetic career's evolution through lyricism and realism respectively, then this present moment bearing classical tones had to be deemed its third transformative phase—the classicism period—and accordingly, this anthology was divided into three parts mirroring these stylistic transitions.

As for classicism, given that Japan has its own established interpretations of this -ism, I—with my limited knowledge of national classics—fear making such declarations myself; yet by boldly highlighting how my current style bears distinctive traits and juxtaposing these with the two preceding periods’ equally characteristic works, I hereby lay bare my entire poetic journey.
To present all characteristics of my works before readers in one comprehensive view—this became the guiding principle determining this collection’s structure.
My work—I, an unpopular poet—my debut publication *The Sun's Child* sold barely a hundred copies out of seven hundred printed.
The publication of my second collection *Unblessed Goodness* was issued through a special edition of my privately published magazine—the poorest-selling of all—and even this reached merely twenty or thirty readers' hands.
Do I dare say this merely to lament my own misfortune?
No, I confess.
I never fully believe in my own works.
Nor do I possess equal enthusiasm for publishing them.
The public?
What is the public?
Is art work for the public?
I deeply understand Cézanne’s state of mind in constantly discarding the paintings he had painted into the bushes of his home.
For me, creation is a noble fragment of life's activity, enjoyed as fully as possible in that very moment.
For this joyous activity, I devote myself to creation with a youth's fervor.
Even the pinnacle of sorrow finds solace through this activity.
This natural, perfect consolation born from life's activity—that is the reasonable reward we who follow art are perpetually granted through our practice.
I do not desire popularity.
I am always receiving life's rewards.
And I am always cheerful.

If I dare publish my works to the world，it is because I think of hidden unknown brothers and sisters in this world who share my heart—those who would grieve what I would grieve，rage at what I would rage，delight in what I would delight，rejoice at what I would rejoice—and because I believe these people might skillfully grasp the true intent within my stammering words even in the clumsy parts of my works，through our shared psychology.
I feel that these hidden unknown people await this collection of mine.
The reason I now gather my works—which through fate’s adversities and my own lack of zeal failed to reach wide publication—collecting them from their earliest iterations and dividing them into three parts for practical presentation to readers，arises from this smile-worthy rationale：that such people exist.
I do not think about the value of art.
Even if I were to consider it，in this perilous and clamorous era it would likely fall on deaf ears；moreover，I question how much of such value my own works truly possess.
Artistic creation is one of the most subtle activities granted to human life，and the works born from this process are complete embodiments of life.
We have not encountered an era that delights in perfection.
It is time to contemplate that hidden realm of sentiments.

Taishō 8 (1919)—one year in which I poured my heart into living,

On that Christmas night,

Tokyo Tabata

Fukushi Kōjirō

Prelude

Prospect

Ah, having traversed the paths of countless mountain passes,
now upon the shining rocky fault of black-and-white hail,
gazing down from this mountain pass of mine,

A prospect of mountains and rivers spanning tens of miles; the green plain spread whitely directly below,

A silver river like a snake barely opening its eyes,

In the direction where the metropolis's belt wrapped in gray mist could be seen in the distance,

At earth's edge,

glistening from below—the earth’s rounded undulations, scattered forests, the polychrome map of clustered small cities,

stitching its way far, far, far into the distant horizon……

Ah, that edge—the edge of the horizon wrapped in silver-gray mist,

there lay our homeland’s young capital,

The crimson breath of our remarkable era,

Budding green emotions,

Resplendent eyes of life peering forth,

A chest of jewels where hearts loving life form rainbows,

The young, valiant, and pure soul of youth—

All lay enveloped in the great city of mud and rags,

Not yet born, not yet cried out,

Far in the distance, at the edge of the horizon,

At the horizon's edge where black smoke rose and muddied,

O sea and plain, sky and land—at their boundary,

Showing black protrusions above the silver-gray mist, dragging a black band,

Far away, quietly, the metropolis was breathing…

Ah, the season is now early summer; the sun hazes the steam-choked sky with faint clouds,

The luminous scenery below invites admiration and blends harmoniously,

In the solemn midday that deepens contemplation,

Heaven and earth seem to speak to me—this one who ceaselessly dreams of the future—

that monochromatic and rough-textured world of his lying ahead—the world of reality, not dream—

Just so, it seemed to speak there.

Ah, our capital of mud and rags,

The city where my piteous life had been driven onward from its meager beginnings,

The land of my half-life's struggles, the land of my half-life's stains,

The earth interring memories from my teens onward,

O, my grave lay everywhere throughout that city.

In that primal era when youth's sacred beast-eyes gleamed,

Then came youth's epoch - those shadowed eyes of despair,

Eyes of frenzy and brutality in the age of vaulting leaps,

Now joy, now discouragement in the era of self-construction,

O, my grave lies everywhere throughout the city.

Ah, my grave lies everywhere throughout the city.

The island jutting out from the pleasure quarter into the sea of mud—

It was a grassy nest where we middle school students hid and rested.

The three-story old school building with peeling blue paint,

It was the workshop where we in our twenties forged our grievances and burdens.

The wide river that pierces through the city's east—
the unsociable widow with a death-mask visage who had taught life's monotony and loneliness since time immemorial.
Ah, my grave lies everywhere throughout the city.
The main avenue of the bustling tram district piercing through the city’s center—
there were gold and white plaster, bronze and glass, tiles and marble—
large and small buildings standing lined up in rows, their eaves and roofs at varying heights, continuing endlessly—
horses hastening, clamorous automobiles, dashing trains; crowds brushing past, coming and going, racing by—
there, though the red morning sun shines over golden high rooftops,

Road dust whirled up，filled the air，and churned the midair into murkiness，

It drove and drove，crammed in that gray-white clamorousness，

The feverishly intense capital’s prosperity took shape upon those plane tree-lined avenues．

Ah，in my youth，I was astonished by this startling metropolis’s activity．

O my light and satisfaction—there too lay my grave，there lay the worship of my innocent past．

But now that I thought of it，above this prosperity hung a large black banner of rags．

Ah, granite bridges, moat-divided canals, tree-lined roads, the throng of people and horses—
There, the beauty of humanity’s magnificent activities remained unfit for viewing.
Only the blue-black-browed crowd dashed about, came and went, brushed past,
Busily swallowing the resplendent light of the half-murky metropolis.
Ah, in the city where I was born and raised—where was there a glorious spirit?
That moat-divided canal where asphalt-hued foul water gleamed,
Shade-scarce parks on level ground,
The various government ministries like red-uniformed sentinels,
Grove leaves, a white shrine amidst earth and dust, grand temples, universities...

A low-slung body crowned by a red dome—a theater that evoked a courtesan’s coquettish pose and ornate hair ornaments,

Factories, companies, banks, arenas,

Our capital surrounded these large buildings,

It merely spread its leaden hands far and wide in disarray—made waves undulate；filled valleys；connected to hills；
encircled moats frenetic yet unchanging；unceremoniously；monotonously；monochromatically；
Ah! created an expressionless metropolis with hearts that vainly extol nature.

Ah, I grew up within this.

Here, in this merely vast citizens' settlement,

I grew up.

There on rainy days, roads spreading far into muddy swamps,

And on windy days, outdoor sand and dust—with brown hands—pummeled the town,

O wind-combed, rain-drenched beggar’s market!

We were raised in a metropolis powerless to contend with nature.

Ah, the land of my half-life’s struggles, the soiled land,

Now gazing far from this precipice,

When I turned to look back at those mountain-pass roads traversed,

The sharp pang of remembrance heightened the clarity of my vision,

O the denizens of the city of rags running before my eyes—the poor man’s taverns, the towns of lamplight, the shadow-cloaked secret paths,

The life in which I too was once a member of that company—

O the communal life imbued with this corporeal existence—

Now I could vividly grasp the forms of all past truth and falsehood,

My future dreams floated anew in the sky.

8. Ⅶ 16

Part I

Pathos

After parting,

Tears of compassion endlessly spill.
At the parting path—clover flowers bloomed.

Clover flowers were blooming.

The trace of those flowers

The shadow of a nun ever wearing a black hood,

When clouds veiled the sun, in that vicinity,

Gray hail quietly coursed,

When the sun shone, unseen,

Yesterday’s snow melted away.

2 X

Weathercock

The wind-harried weathercock,

In the grassy spaces, a crimson shadow creeps over the ruined house,

A child of about ten in Dutch-style clothes,
the glossy jewelweed's
at those glossy black beads

Silent lips—a wisp of breath.

The weathercock restlessly,
Upon metal petals casting bright winter light,
A wind—distant, distant—sending forth the day.

Taking a solitary walk,
Contemplating winds that blow beyond,
The whirling metal rooster—
That metal rooster!

5 Ⅰ 5.

Day of Bliss

Days of inexpressible torment passed endlessly,

Happiness, like a tarnished lead doll, erased memories and shadows,

Once more, the one-string zither lamented...

On that slope, the young cypress grove emitted the fragrance of its leaves.

The unceasing monotone of the koto reverberated through my past,

It lamented more quietly than insect wings rustling through grass heard as they are...

Landscape

Sleet—a landscape where prayer strikes the heart,
The snow-laden wild stream soaked ice,
Prayer that made bodies tremble in cold gray...
In the piercing north wind, prayers cried out,
The wilderness forest drifted through fog...

MEIJI 41――

Part II

Light Illuminating the Soul

Ah, I have swallowed mud too,
I have swallowed dirty water,
My stomach is black,
My throat is burning.
Ah, within this—something beautiful,
Ah, within this—something that permeates through,
Ah, within this—alcohol where the soul shines,
Making that muddy water into oil,
Making those intestines into oil jars,
An eternal lamp illuminating the dark night,
Imperishable lamp,

Become the light that illuminates your dark spirit.
Hell and Paradise,

Lamp of night,

Demons and devils',

Lamp of night,

Ah, shine,

Shine,

Guide the way,

Shine!

Coma.

They bestow wisdom upon a man,

They bestow a golden sword upon a man,
They bestow fire upon a man.

The man slept unconscious,
his hair had grown out wildly,
just like a drunkard,
like mud.

Birds sang in their nests,

The wind blew through the forest.

Ah, the sleeping days were muddily stagnant—

Now it traveled along the ocean’s horizon.

They bestowed a voice upon this man,

They roused and awakened this man,
They bestowed a flash of insight upon this man,
Made this man stand!

**Unblessed Goodness**

I desire goodness.

I desire goodness.

Goodness unblessed by anything,

A wan smile,

A bird weeping in the distant ocean,

A ship without sails or rudder, asleep,

On those black lips,

The teeth are white and exposed,

Like a fish traversing the eternal seabed.
Ah, wave-cutting prow,
Waves reflecting sky,
Wind ceaselessly creaking yardarms,

Like an invisible black flag.

Ah, what entity—

What entity—

Within this power-bestowing vacuum,

Not a single sound—

Not a single sound resonates.

Song of Death

“Where have you come from?” whispered the leaves of night.

“I came from beyond winter’s horizon,

“From a land where night has yet to break,” whispers the wind.

“Ah, your voice is dreadful,

Your voice is frail,

Faint, but,

“It never leaves my ear,” whisper the leaves.

“That’s right,”

“I came from the land of death, from those seated in death’s shadow,” whispers the wind.

“I came from a land where light never exists,” whispered the wind.

They gazed at each other,
The leaves rustled,
The wind blew softly.
They pressed their ears together.
They kissed.
Then the wind flew off, unaware of its destination,
The leaves trembled without cease.

“Ah where have you come from,

where have you come from?” After a moment’s pause, the leaves rustled again.

“I’ve come from afar,

from a land devoid of light,

“‘I came following after those who arrived before me,’ whispered another wind.”

“Ah—your coming knows no respite,”

“they keep arriving endlessly,” whispered the leaves.

“That’s right,”

“I am eternal will,

“Going and going without ceasing,” the wind blew softly.

“Where you arrive, a chill lingers,”
“Where you arrive, there’s no pleasant shadow,”
“Where you arrive, all living things,”
“they end up withered,” whispered the leaves.
“That’s right. But look at that,” whispered the wind.
They cast their eyes into the darkness,
the star shone brighter,
in the distant depths of darkness, it spread like tears and shone brightly.
That star did not grieve,
did not lament,

In the eternal darkness, it intensified its radiance,
shone,
In the cold sky.
They remained silent for a time,

And once again, they pressed their ears together.
They kissed each other.

The winds blew softly, endlessly onward,

The leaves once again shook themselves violently.

Nocturne

To Her Afar

In a tranquil world,

I speak to you.

May you stay forever young,

May you smile eternally,

May you remain forever serene.

Though you sleep,

May you see good dreams.

Seeing good dreams—by trifles,

May you not be roused.

May you not be roused by trifles.

Ah, a fly droning at the glass window,

The crimson, thickly oozing western sun,

Ah deepening night,

Ah eternal night,

May you keep grace within that gloom,

May there be a star of beauty,

May there be a star aglow from the depths,

May there be a star beloved.

Ah, I forget not the sea you once gazed upon,

I do not forget the shore where you played,

Like a star that reflects on that sea every night,

Like a star casting its shadow upon wild swells,

I recall you,

I recall you.

Happiness

Happiness is like a bird,

It dwells within this vast field.

To hear its voice remains tolerable,

There come moments when both voice and form grow utterly indistinguishable.

But were one made to catch this bird even once,

This time, he who caught it became that very bird.

No matter what might come forth to hinder,

It was no use.

Having grown as small as a mustard seed,

I had long since been flying toward the beyond.

In the storm.

The human battered by the storm says,

"I am in the storm,

My surroundings are pitch dark,

What of this wind—"

But above that sudden gust,

Above the storm clouds,

A single golden bird traces a flat circle as if flowing.

A star afflicted by fever—

"I am an unparalleled star in the heavens,

A beautiful star.

Yet I am tormented by myriad maladies,

This sweltering celestial pestilence!

Ah, poison gas!

But swirling within this poison gas—

Behold this agony."

I am being struck by poison gas,
In this black-red encircling air.
Ah, can you see my crimson, suffocating light,
Can you see the red light scorched by fever,

That is me.

I am silent.

I remain silent.

But this is fine.

I would likely be increasingly tormented by high fever.

However, compared to when I had not suffered until then—
I was better.
I would likely fall ill,
I might develop an even higher fever than before.
I had walked through cold skies until then,
I had merely reflected the sun’s light,
But I could no longer remain without emitting my own light,
Ah, how cold my surroundings must have been.
Weep.

I permit you to weep,

I permit you to weep,

Ah, weep, weep,
Thy soul shall be washed by those tears,
Thy heart, for that reason,
Even if drenched by rain like a star in the abyssal depths,
even if it contracts,
And through that, the light shall grow.

Ah, weep,
Weep,
Draw out from the depths of thy heart,
Weep until thou hast no tears left.

Thy tears shall never dry,
Thy tears issue from the sea,
Thy tears issue from the limpid sea after rain.
Ah, weep, weep,
Weep for thy nature,
I do not love those who do not weep for what deserves tears,
I do not love those who do not bear a countenance like a pure field after the storm,

Ah, weep, weep.
Who knows?
Thou art a dull tree.
The leaves grow thick,
The treetop grows,
When spring comes,
Flowers bloom,
Birds come and sing.
But thou art a dull tree.
However many flowers may bloom,
Even if birds come and sing,
Even if the leaves grow thick,
Even if the treetop grows,
Thou art undoubtedly a dull tree.
But this tree,
That this tree gazes upon that single star glowing deep in the heavens—

Who would know.

That this tree gazes upon that awe-inspiring star glowing from the depths—
Who would know.

Gnarled tree.

A certain tree was made to drink a numbing drug when it was a sapling.

He grew tall and spindly his whole life without ever blooming a single flower.

So passersby deemed it an altered tree,

they gazed up at its tall treetop.

However, through some miraculous turn,

A single flower bloomed on the treetop.

It was a mere small flower in form,

And there, the miracle began.

He rebelled against the old poison blood,

And he began to writhe free.

He now needed one of two things—

Either vomit forth these spectral remnants of the past,

or drink an antidote stronger than this numbing drug...

But while he was thus engaged, winter arrived,

And then snow fell,
It fell relentlessly,
Fell so fiercely one couldn't keep their eyes open,
One month, two months...
He felt pain as if every joint froze from the old poison's lingering effects.
A pulling ache began near his marrow.
But in his heart, he gravely thought:
O exuberant nature,
O this magnificence of snow falling relentlessly!

The Abused

In the biting wind, I met several debt collectors.

Every one of them was a ravenous hound,

They wrested the wallet from me,

Took my kimono too, leaving me in nothing but a single undergarment.

Eventually they took that undergarment too, leaving me completely naked.

(O fierce miserly lot,

Fiends who know nothing but taking!

You lice pickers determined not to let even the last one escape!)

Now here I was, completely naked and at a loss about how to move.

Somehow, the usual order of things had shifted, leaving me momentarily bewildered.

Then—since there happened to be a river nearby—I abruptly plunged into it.

The debt collectors were startled and momentarily stunned into silence.

During that interval, I swam steadily onward.

Eventually, they suddenly cheered from behind.

They waved the undergarments, loincloth, and garments they had just taken from me and cheered.

But I paid no attention to such things and swam steadily onward.

(If what I'm doing looks so amusing to you,
Why don't you lot try it yourselves!
Or in this biting wind,
At least try being truly naked yourselves!
But keep this in mind,
What I'm doing is serious,
the fact that when you do it becomes drunken revelry!)

Ah, with river water cold enough to cut through flesh aiming for the opposite shore,
Aiming for that snow-buried opposite shore,

I swim onward.

Ah, how beautiful that opposite shore is,
How vivid the scenery across the way is!
My heart, from the cold and the violent movement of my limbs
and also due to the emotion of seeing this beautiful scenery,
feels like it might give out.
Even so, I swim,
I swim on and on.
Whether I drown or ride it out—that I do not know.
Just as I—like the heart pulsating in this chest—
with a force that, once set in motion, will not cease, I swim onward and onward.

3 XII

Wintering Pasture

Stacking a thousand years a thousandfold, I ascended back through our ancestors.

I dreamt of the ancient cave-dwelling era.

Thousands of years had passed in an instant, in a cave where stalactite walls glittered,

I had finally found—ah, that single blade of green grass!

Now I was in the actual outdoors,

There, wintering green grass persisted—faded and lacking any charm.

Yet sensing that one day this grass would bloom with pink flowers, I leaned against the pasture fence—now and forevermore...

Warmly blew the spring wind,
Melts away does the snow,
Red glows the sun.

3 X 10

Small flower

Gray season,

Lead-colored clouds,

Snow like white powder flutters down,

And in that snow-wrapped field

A small red flower blooms.
Oh, a small red flower blooms,
To that flower I speak,

When were you born,
When did you grow,
When did you form buds,
And when did you open that small flower with a yellow pistil at its very center?
I am a wayfarer,
I am alone.
I greeted this long gray season,
Crowned with leaden clouds above,
Upon my body, powder snow fluttered down.
Ah, the red sun was drowning in the mist.
The wind blew, sighing as if weeping.
In the midst of this, you bloomed like a pupil.
5 VI 13

Celestial Love

Upon the true indigo sky of dawn,

A single strip of red cloud floats.

On the ground, a storm was raging,
People had yet to awaken.

I lay sprawled out,
I was smoking tobacco.

I lay sprawled out on the futon,
It was as though I were lying in some meadow.
Roof after roof was gray,
The sky was deep blue,

Within it floated a single strip of red cloud.
At that moment something like an insect was shrilling ceaselessly within my heart.
——Ah——this was love,
The most agonizing love!

That must be it,

Dark,
Blind thing,
A shrill buzz drones ceaselessly in my ears.
——Ah, love,

Love!
I—this beautiful storm-wracked indigo-tranquil heavens,
the heavens like the eyes of a hysterically beautiful woman—
now I love…

5 VI 21

I pine for the guard’s daughter.

Let me carve into your heart—
the characters from the depths of my heart…

Would you read that?

Ah! Dark dreams of my nights—
my dreams each night expound those cryptic words’ meaning!

Ah! These countless nights heaped upon nights…

One evening, I opened the window,

I looked at a star shining in the distance,
I looked at a tree swaying in the darkness,
Your house beneath lingering moonlight—
I saw the lingering light of dawn.

Ah, come to this dark garden and cry out,

Lovely doe.

Ah, come to this dark garden and cry out,
Lovely doe.
Leaving behind the light that guards your night,
Come to my garden and cry out,
You, lovely doe.
Ah, how happy, how happy,
Let me engrave upon you these characters of the heart.
Ah, the characters that appear in nightly dreams,
The characters of my heart stored away in its innermost depths,
Let me engrave that into your heart.

Desolation

In turbulent clouds

The hidden moon
beheld
the gray metropolis of late night -
what did it see?

The thunderously swirling gale
swept down toward the distant horizon.
There lay a black sky,
at the desolate ends of slumbering roofs.

Ah, the world below resembled
the silver-gray gleaming back of some primeval creature -
this scene evoked remembrance of a world
bearing a historyless history.

Within this, I am.

In my chest I stored a crackling fire like that of a bellows-fed forge,
What I heard were roofs resonating in the wind,
The occasional bark of a dog in the distance,
Ah, that dog! What a clamorous yet lonely voice it had.

5 Ⅹ 20

A solitary traveler
Without thinking of you, I became autumn—
Now unwittingly love,
Jealousy!

The brilliant early autumn's intense sunlight,
The trees beyond the deep blue roofs,
An afternoon swayed by a cool breeze.
Time passes on,
Fluttering shop awnings.
In the direction I go,
Stern yet beautiful winter’s,
waiting for me,
Like a panther it peers.

Ah, am I but a solitary traveler,
continually walking along thoroughfares deserted by people,
the silver clouds coiling in the far expanse of sky,
walking toward them,
A solitary traveler?

Hunter

Ah, fallen leaves spread upon the ground,

A towering old tree, gaunt and sparse-branched,

Now I hold a gun,
Neither dove nor copper pheasant,
I think I'll shoot that bunting singing in the treetop,
For some reason, I am aiming the gun.
Ah—why am I shooting the little bird,

Why shoot the owner of that beautiful voice?
Because that voice is too splendid,
because it has utterly captivated me,

A field existed,

Clear puddle water existed,

There were trees, there was a grove of old trees with enormous branches intertwining,

A serene lapis lazuli sky visible among white clouds existed,

A bed of withered grass gleaming in the sunlight existed,

In that scenery, because that bird's song was too piercing and so pleasant,

The mischievous heart that had raised its head within my heart

Made me aim at your throat.

I would not strike you,

Only you breaking the silence blanketing this field,

when you suddenly burst into song,

I was drawn by that piercing pleasantness,

I mindlessly aimed the gun’s muzzle.
Ah, the piercing morning scenery of the autumn field,
Why must this world be so achingly beautiful?

5 Ⅷ 26

Sailor's Song

The Queen of Prajna, her golden eyes bared,

Neither petty nor malicious,

With the magnanimous spirit she was born with,

Side waves drenched and struck the ship’s side,

The ship thunderously beat like a drum.

As if soothing us while we slept,

As if singing us all a lullaby!

If I truly considered it, last night's storm might not have been a storm at all,

It might have been nothing more than that one’s violent caprice.

A gale lacquered the gloom as it blew wildly through,

Rain lashed sideways,

In the midst of it all, I saw waves washing over the deck,
I saw a human figure swept away by the waves,
I saw sparks scattering from the chimney,
like the praying hands of a patient in their death throes,
I saw two masts being mindlessly tossed about in the gloom.
Where have they all gone now,

It was a dream,
It had vanished yet remained—a nightmare persisting ever real within my chest.
Dreams exist,

And life is nothing but a constantly changing dream.

Even remembering makes me sweat,

That sweltering heat,
The vermilion-lined India route,
The Red Sea’s scalding bath,
That too was a dream,
Only what remained,
The sensation of that sweltering atmosphere embracing me to my heart’s content,
An embrace surpassing even French prostitutes!
The sea embraced us,
Shook us,
Kissed us,
At times bit lips,
Strangled throats,
Madly, ferociously!
But now it calmed again,
A sea of sorcerous slumber,
A sea in a dreamlike state,
Quietly soothing us,

Quietly shook us,

Quietly estranged us,

Quietly ushered us into deep sleep.

In the becalmed sky, even God seemed to be dozing off,

merely expanding blue and luminous, overflowing the cup with light,

the golden daytime sun shining vacantly in the mid-sky,

I saw not only that gold,

I also found the daytime Venus shining nearby.

There, let us sailors expound one philosophy.

The land world was stiflingly rigid, was cramped, was oppressively heavy,

For us sailors, life had neither good nor bad,

It was another entity of unknowable essence,
A charmless virgin queen surpassing men,

The beautiful and fearsome Amazon was our master,
Our mistress changed the weather according to her whims,
Moreover, whatever the seductive wiles of a harlot,
whatever the cruelty of a poisonous woman,
Whatever the cheerfulness of a prostitute,
Whatever the expression of a majestic queen,
The one who possessed transformations of miraculously fluid mastery beyond compare,
She was our mistress.

Storm,
Scorching wind,
Savage summer storm waves,
The windless zone’s oil-slicked sea surface,
The cold current washing away unmanned white towers,
Those triangular waves washing the polar coasts,

Our mistress roams even amidst these scenes.

In the human world on land, there is order; there is fixity,

The most fearsome thing for us sailors is this.

Life flows ceaselessly.
The past is a chronicle of dreams.

The future is mist,

Therefore our lives too were lives of adventure.
If humans wished to remain forever youthful in spirit they must not become fixed,
Emulate the sea queen limitless in transformation,
Cast life’s entire sum into the offering box,
Make it your guardian deity.

We were tormented by the sea but did not hate it,
Yet on land—though blessed by laws—we hated those very laws.
On land there were no teachers,
The sea had splendid guides,
The storm was their whip,
The waves were their kiss,
The wind became the cradle’s white hand—or the comb they used to groom our salt-matted hair.
And the calm!

The calm was the gaze of beautiful eyes brimming with benevolence,

I hated the meddlesome vain moralists of the land,

Life is neither good nor evil,

Such prying inquiries hold no sway here,

Here flows life itself—
A reservoir of tangible dreams—
A longing for what lies unseen—
The benevolent sea embraces us—
Shakes us—
Kisses us—
Bites our lips—
Constricts our throats—
With madness—
With ferocity—

But now it calms once more.

Enchanted-soporific sea,
A sea in a dreamlike state,
It gently soothes us,

It gently licked us,
It gently alienated us,
It gently lulled us into deep sleep.

In the radiant sky, even a god seemed to be dozing off,

Merely blue, boundlessly shining, overflowing into a goblet,

The golden midday sun gaped vacantly in midheaven,

I was not only that gold,

I also spotted Venus shining nearby in the daytime.

5 Ⅻ 14

Where does this cruelty come from?

I don’t know where I saw it,

I saw it on a distant journey.

A wind exposed to winter's chill thudded against the ground as it blew onward.

Low clouds smothered the open sky.

At that moment came a baby's cry flaring like kindled fire,

A woman with disheveled hair thrust her face from the window.

Oh, that visage with eyes rubbed crimson from weeping,

the infant dangling from her hand,

The infant, battered by the icy wind,

wailed shrilly.

The woman raised a shrill voice and slapped repeatedly at its buttocks.
She struck again while urging it to die already.
Exposed fully naked beneath wind’s lash,

The infant wailed as if to dissolve both self and world.

In this frigid land where snow refuses to fall even at winter's snowy zenith,

The morning scenery, cold to the viewing eye,
Nourishing at the land of the dark lower world,
Heaven bared its icy breast,

Winter raged savagely.

Ah, a solitary house at the wilderness' edge,

Under this frigid sky where tears froze,

On roof ridges where winds howled onward,

Ah, whence did this cruelty come?

Ah, whence did this cruelty come,

As once more winds roared fiercely,

As once more voices wailed.

Madman's Monologue

Love is sharper than death,

Upon sorrowful glass—the floating pattern of a grove,

A bright sky, small birds' chatter mingled with tears,

“Good morning… Another fine day today…”

Silence thereafter, a glass flask,

From the unexpected musings that a chemist felt one night when he saw a purple star,

he placed a single vermilion-speckled killifish inside…

“Ah, why this vermilion?”

the blackened discoloration of playing-card hearts,

the red rust on foreign derelicts in Shinagawa Bay,

this unspeakable anguish lurking deep within my chest,

death’s rapture…’

When the morning wind blew and garden branches creaked,

you, I thought, came flying down from heaven like a celestial maiden…

Part Three

Rapture

Vain days' spring-taut spinning wheel,

The antiquated 'Philosophy of Life' coughed hoarsely, hackingly,

Now a gold-rusted hoarse voice,

Rapture is a myriad of fiery blossoms, I say.

The Orient's exposed hairy-shinned ant nation

Cultural conservatism that bent to authority,

Within our imperishable imperial soil

Oh! Ah! Our lives were perpetually drenched through and through!

Youth, youth, faith in fire, pure heat,

My eyes shall survey and penetrate this fallen nation like a great bird soaring through the sky.

My guardian deity, radiant heavens, white clouds.

All things are spring's fresh budding,

Though my heart has dried and withered, when I consider this,

it never perishes.

Gratitude.

For us too, the final hour would eventually come,

If we were to part with this life,

Let us bid farewell by saying "thank you."

Gray powdered snow; wandering clouds with intricately furrowed brows,

The clouds muffled every sound from the world below,

Old age and silence and remembrance—

A solitary exhibition of ancient art,

Ah, deaf old scholars of this world, widows sworn to silent teachings,

Ah, grieving parents outlived by your children!

Though your regrets and lamentations remain as they are,

I pray that when death comes, you might take leave of this life with gratitude.

That was indeed life's virtuous tolerance.
This was goodness repaying evil with golden radiance.
Life stood so noble,
so strong,
so bright -
With passion,
it should end like a mirror.

Etiquette

A MME. GOFFOUSIEUX.

O Heaven, clothe my naked heart in a green ceremonial robe adorned with beautiful flower crests—

"My sincere heart had until now failed to notice this noble 'Etiquette'."

Ah, May!
May is the month when deutzia’s white blossoms bloom in field groves,

In the sky, clouds already displaying summer’s vigor faintly revealed the shadow of Warriojs’ helmets,

A vista of airy adornments befitting early summer,

That blue sky resembling the eyes of a fair-skinned person...

With her leading the way, holding a parasol of sky-blue silk embroidered with matching sky-blue lace,

watching that dear figure from behind as we advanced,

As we walked modestly along paths through green wheat fields, hedgerow paths, cliffside paths,

My heart—which had lately sunk ceaselessly into thought and grown taciturn—now began to glimpse this "Season's" attire; gradually opening its chest of admiration, it paused time and again—O you beautiful fields of May!
When I reflect—through all these long years, the raw wood of my heart was ever kept bare, easily wounded and prone to agitation—
That which deemed bareness virtuous, which deemed starkness good—the raw wood of my heart,
Ah, henceforth bestow upon this heart of mine your green ceremonial robe—

O Heaven, O beautiful May,

To emulate your form and approach you with a heart beautifully adorned—

This is the good 'Etiquette' that people ought to perform.

O, to emulate your form and approach you with a heart beautifully adorned—

This is the good 'Etiquette' that people ought to perform.

Elegy

Just as cranes themselves formed long lines across the sky, singing their elegy as they went,

Dante’s *The Divine Comedy*, *Inferno*: Canto V

Lips, embrace—ah! Untimely hail-laden clouds assail August’s flowers!

The flowers were shaken off in an instant, leaving two grief-stricken trees drenched entirely in white petals—

resembling the skeletal trees of hell…

Ah, Francesca and Paolo,

Parched mouths with fiery breath,

Closed hearts surge with passion,

You died,

Jealousy’s black steel sword.

That is perhaps what I dream—a tableau of heartbreak...
Through hell's sky where gales whirl,
Two shadows exchanging glances and leaning together.
Ah, Francesca and Paolo,
The ash of love's fire,
Pouring rain,
You do not perish,

In this present age too, it exists…

Knight

Ma jeunesse ne futqu'un ténébreux orage,

Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;

Le tonnerre et lapluie ont faitun tel ravage,

Qu'il resteen mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Charles Baudelaire.

The moment my bare chest first received your crimson lips and had them pressed against it—
The black iron chest of my twenty-odd years of solitude, hidden deep in the abyss—
Miraculously blazed with a golden cross emblem, like an apostle dazzled by rapture staggering through baptismal waters to crawl ashore,
I was thrust staggering toward my manifold future land brimming with light.
I dyed my tattered banner anew, marking it with a cross emblem ablaze in gold—

Now I am a naked knight kneeling piously before you,

Love is not pleasure; it is the radiance of the heart—O do not release this deity from my breast!

When this spark of rapture flashed in my breast, did your lips perceive it at the pit of my pulsations?

Now the world lowered its black flags and raised the blue sky’s curtain, urging all to gaze upward at its zenith—
The world illuminated the day spilling light as if to rend—ah, this first kiss.

The wild swan,

Gazing from afar at the maddeningly alluring sea beyond,

the diamond-like radiance of the sky's light,

(There lies a good country...)

Ah, this land of my old nest below my eyes—now compared and lamented in sorrow,

There lay the rolling swells of mountains and rivers spanning hundreds of miles,

A land of fear where frolicking beasts and the shadows of playing birds were nowhere to be seen,

Ah—in this land where even red-webbed feet could not alight—now a voice gentler than the sky descended,
and I would pray for your noble hearts—O swans—

Ah, let them pray, let them pray, that my frail heart may not again be blown down by life’s headwinds—

Ah, let them pray, let them pray, that life—missing a wing yet flying with life-and-death resolve—might again break through its perilous path—

(I want a smile…)

And heaven stirs, traverses the blue sky above you all,

Let snow fall upon the fire’s cry hidden in this breast—such is my wish…!

Night Tales

“Well my dear, that’s like something out of a fairy tale, you know—a world neither I nor you know,” he murmured. Snow fell beyond the windowpanes while candlelight glowed crimson-bright within. The whole household gathered for the New Year’s Eve rites…

(In the log cabin breathed the year’s dying moments.)

“Well my dear, that’s a tale from a land far, far away—a country neither I nor you know,” he continued. Silver-foiled twigs glittered under cotton snow tracing bamboo-leaf patterns along their edges. The family laughed and chattered over roast turkey and souvenir ale.

(In the log cabin piled the year’s deepening snow.)

“Well my dear, that does not exist in our country—”

"The local customs we've both heard about in stories—"

And as night deepened, the entire village sank into sleep,
A chimney in the howling blizzard.
(In the log cabin during this season slipped in that old man in red attire.)

“Well my dear, that’s the interesting human sentiment of that country... interesting human sentiment...”

“A world where both I and you smile—”

Now, the people of that country were fighting,

And ah, their one-night celebration,

Enemies and allies embraced in the snowfield,

The bustling fraternization of soldiers in overcoats.

(In the log cabin: an elderly couple; crickets that began chirping around midnight.)

Author’s Note.

This work was written recalling how during the European War, German-Austrian forces and Allied forces specifically ceased fighting on Christmas night, mingled as enemies and allies, held gatherings throughout various locations, and celebrated that night's festival together.
The phrase 'toshi no se toshi no yuki' (year's threshold and year's snow) was employed from European customs where that night's celebration felt akin to Japan's Ōmisoka New Year's Eve observance.
Moreover, crickets in that land appear to inhabit hearthsides until around that night.

Torment

My heart, like a demon, tears everything asunder and dishevels my hair,

I stand to confront this life, oh!

The day of ecstasy; the day lips first met lips; a week later—
I plunge into the heart of this perilous storm.

Oh, what force does this to me, does this to me!
O rain, strike—become my whip,
O wind, blow—make the night’s black ichor undulate endlessly,
And comb as you will the disheveled hair of this youth sinking into anguish.

Ah, life—behold! It has become a gate too high for me to climb.

Ah, lover who sleeps quietly afar, O lover,
The body lurches forward, the soul dies,
On top of that, the wolf
Plants its foot and howls into the darkness!
8 Ⅰ 2

Past

Nature taught me that my heart is like a blue, hard fruit.

My current period was, ah, the early summer season when that fruit reached out to the sun from lush leaves.

That spring, brief for my sake—to storms' howling and dark sleet's assault—

In cold days' unbroken succession,

Several clusters of flowers were plucked away,

The remaining ones bore fruit unbeknownst to when...

Oh, count them on your fingers—these delicate tokens of life,

Peering through leaves at the boundless blue ceiling of sky with lonely heart,

Now I face it like an innocent prisoner in a stone chamber,
This splendid July day!
Oh, the countless despairs from childhood to youth—the rough wounds of my heart—those memories of black vomit—
Now, under this beautiful sky, uneventfully,
All stands clear and bright—myriad things bustling—
The wind under the trees blows heedlessly through...
And riding upon that gentle breeze—the tender fluttering sound that comes resonating—

My delicate, luminous lover—a honeybee with its tail of black and yellow bands,
The rough swaying of nature now becomes to me but a song…

8 IV 17

Setting Out

My life began.

Yellow dandelions blooming at the forked road in the field,

There lay my past's changing room,

There lay a bed of grass where my bare feet should stand,

The season was spring, white clouds drifting through its bright midday sky,

Because of these clouds—ah, because of these clouds—I resolved to keep my mouth shut my whole life,

And choosing one of these two paths, I would dash forth like an ancient Greek youth.

The calamities of life that imprisoned people and hurled them into the abyss of heinous acts—

I would leap lightly over even that.

My unparalleled life—youth and brightness and boldness…

With that, I would dash forth across this spring land.

Consolation

This wild rose I now offer before you—this crude yet lovely red flower akin to a country maiden—

O gravestone that was once the blue sky,
O small nameless roadside gravestone,
On the first day of my humble spring journey, allow yourself to become a silent adornment at the knee—O small nameless roadside gravestone, O gravestone.

Before you who stand as death's marker, spring shone once more,
I, a northern wanderer tormented by dark winter nights' moans,
Now shed that garment of snow and mud,
Discarded my old cane,
Piercingly bright like a poem, like the solemn solo that sends off a lone warrior,

Under this spring day I think of you—O small nameless gravestone, O gravestone.

O spring day, O spring day,

O Death, O Sleep,

Your open-hearted radiance,

shows above me a path pure of passion,

O, and and—this nameless roadside gravestone—the gravestone—
It gives deep comfort for my life…

8 IV 3

Recovery

Life was a garden of hardship and love,
Gentleness wrapped around rough hearts,
On lush leaves red fruits dotted,
In autumn’s parching light—the row of black pines’
Their moss-green trunks stood sturdy-footed.

Winter came, leaves fell,
Branches splintered,
That steep glaring snow-laden night sky,
Cold rain,
The frost-laden dawn when ground froze,
Your groan shook slender branches and howled at low sky.

The dark emotion of lack,
Eyes filled with pain and oblivion—
What was the source of suffering that befell this self?

Eventually，the pond’s ice blackens，
The wide fields crack，
Lonely too，little birds sing，
At heaven and earth’s transforming seasonal boundary．

Do you not see it then—ah, do you not see—the dark and solemn, lonely yet bustling boundary where spring parts from winter!

The sky was dark, the wind hung low, the day grew short,

Yet somewhere, the hope of recovery harbored within the breast…

8 IV 4