Pathway to Japanese Literature

The design of this book had been entirely conceived by Master Fujishima Takeji; the outline of disheveled hair in the cover illustration showed arrows of love piercing a heart, with flowers blowing forth from the arrow’s base signifying poetry.

Crimson-purple

O stars that whispered your all beneath night’s canopy—let disheveled locks at mortals’ temples quiver now!

Hearken through song—who in field flowers’ crimson refusal finds grace—O child who bears spring’s sin!

Were I to call my five-foot hair softened by water, this maiden heart would neither be revealed nor set free.

Blood aflame in a single night’s dream—O spring-journeying deity, do not disdain!

Camellias—and plums too—bloomed white; in peach blossoms I saw the hue that did not question my sins.

That girl of twenty—her black hair flowing over the comb, spring’s luxuriance—how beautiful!

O beloved, deign to chant sutras for this evening of low-tolling temple bells to the peach buds in my bangs.

The deity of spring evening struggled to conceal the disheveled coffer exuding purple and crimson.

To whom shall crimson speak? The sway of blood—life at passion’s zenith in spring.

In the sake cup that told of deep purple rainbows, the spring child’s reflection—eyebrows slender.

Into silk I wept navy blue—spring’s dusk in radiant layers; friends’ songs had grown too familiar.

Offer wine in this lamp-lit eve and sing, O sisters unnamed as peonies.

The crimson I clumsily melted upon crabapple blossoms—abandoning it, evening rain gazes upon these pupils; waver not!

Deign to sing at the hem of the gauze mosquito net, O deity of a single night at Saga’s great weir that lies in water.

In the land of spring, in love’s august realm—at dawn’s first light, was it hair that gleamed? Or plum blossoms’ oil.

Having declared “Now I shall go—farewell,” the august hem of the night deity brushed against me, and my hair became wet.

O returning night deity—stretch forth your overflowing hand to support this slender nape!

On a cherry-blossom moonlit night passing through Gion to Kiyomizu, all whom I met that night were beautiful.

From the autumn deity’s august robe trailed a white rainbow—vanished upon the forehead of a child lost in thought.

Deign to accept this song from the Twenty-Five Bodhisattvas of the inner sanctum on a spring evening when sutras tasted bitter.

Teach me only that the mountain retreat remained thus—when crimson was made, peach blossoms would bloom.

O pale crimson night that feared the fading of lily fragrance in the chamber of disheveled hair!

The clouds were blue—how beautiful was the morning hair of the Summer Princess who had come, flowing in the water.

The night deity returned from morning rites—capture the sheep; I would hide them beneath the small pillow.

O cowherd man, let there be song! The autumn lake lies too desolate.

Without touching this fevered blood-tide beneath my skin—does loneliness not claim you, who preach the way?

Should you not deign to forgive—behold me now! Pale purple wine holds beauty.

Acknowledge only unforgettable taste; I shall not explicate purple—those autumn blossoms.

With none returning, the spring evening’s mood—disheveled hair rested upon a small koto.

By the pillow, the sound of a temple lock breaking—heard as a small koto—in a spring night’s dream.

Wet with spring rain, you came to the grassy gate—O evening of the pensive-faced crabapple!

The little grass declared, “May you bloom in the hue of drunken tears—until then, remain thus unawakened, maiden!”

Leaving the pasture, water ran south—though its flow stretched long, how well you suited the green fields, beloved.

Spring, do not age! O children lined in the night’s dance hall draped with wisteria—do not age even for a moment!

In the rain floated leaves and white lotus; a three-foot boat offered an umbrella to you, the painter.

The Venerable Rushana Buddha grew ever more familiar and dear amidst the grove of young leaves.

Now do not blame—having ascended to heights, was it not you, my lord, who bore the eternal aftermath of crimson tears?

In spring rain wandered forth a lamb from twilight's palace—I who curse you.

The small lilies beneath the spring where I bathe—deem not my twentieth summer fair.

This turbulent heart, this bewildered heart—how relentless! To the god trampling lilies, I cannot suckle.

Upon my lips layered like crimson roses—let them not sing songs bereft of spirit's scent!

At water's edge in a traveler's lodge sits you monk-like—beneath summer's night moon I wept bitterly.

O sweet wind piercing spring night's dark—blow not even briefly through that girl's hair!

Does it not mirror—you!—the gaze of a lamb parched with thirst wandering through woods?

Who will divine this child’s fate through straying clouds upon evening Mount Ikoma’s peak?

I regret—the sword once broken within mended sleeves shall never pierce the flower of final ideals.

Through my brow I beheld dawn’s moon—the Kamo River’s pale waters dyed with disheveled algae!

O Summer’s Kamo River Deity—do you tie back your august sleeves at dim-lit railings?

Still forgive—if your distant realm lies far, O Night Deity—this crimson cup I’ll send by boat.

Flame-winged madness carried me through one hundred thirty ri of frantic journey.

Now looking back here, my compassion resembled a summons unafraid of darkness.

The god had said, "Cherish this beautiful life"—and now that wish stood fulfilled.

My young little finger faltered in undoing shell-white pigment; evening magnolias chilled the dusk.

O mountain bush warbler, sing to him this brief hour of pardoned morning's pretense!

Mysteriously through that interval, spring night's august sleeves hung upon the clothes rack—sleeves that had bowed deep.

Disheveled hair restored to Kyoto chignon at dawn—you roused me.

In the pale moonlit night, I chased after you with stealthy steps—the pattern on my right sleeve’s hem weighed heavy.

Purple shadows fell upon the small grass—a morning of combing hair in the field’s spring wind.

Someone threw a painted parasol to the grass on the far bank—O stream, your spring water ran warm.

With the wish to dye a single song upon a white wall—there had been no hat on the two hundred ri journey.

In morning’s diversion where I willfully borrowed you, Lord of Saga, into song—the mirror showed my summer self.

The bride, unacquainted with adornment, decked herself in white bush clover; tonight’s deity smiled a partial smile outside.

Were one to pluck a branch of wild plum, it would have sufficed—this fleeting, oh so fleeting parting.

The bush warbler denies it is your dream—while I lift the green curtain to gaze through.

Purple crimson droplets fell upon flowers and became—do not doubt the dream that has borne fruit.

The cuckoo—one ri to Saga, three ri to Kyoto. The clear waterfall’s water; how swiftly night breaks.

The clouds of purple ideals—torn asunder in the sky I gaze upon—have yet to vanish.

The veil of mystery has been rent by restraining the bosom; the crimson of the flowers here runs deep.

Do I not desire vast vistas upon a god’s back? Now both sleeves deepen into purple.

Is it such a heart? The god has severed one of the four strings of the morning koto for eternity.

Through a drawn-back sleeve escaped a half-smile—spring so youthful, love’s playfulness in morning’s tide.

The lingering spring’s neighboring painter—this morning’s kerria bore a voice grown young.

To the villagers—about the white wisteria flowers of the neighboring mansion—I could not even bring myself to ask.

Accompanying others in offering shikimi branches as a secluded wife—I wept at your grave, you who are a mother.

Somehow with the feeling of being waited for by you, I emerged into the evening moonlit flower field—ah!

At Obashima, bearing this body of endless thoughts, I watched the autumn wind cross the small bush clover.

After bathing and emerging from the spring, upon my skin trembled the bitter cloth of the human world.

The resonance that carried an intimate melody upon the sold koto—the black lilies of the twilight hour did not break.

The two-foot hem of thin fabric slid down; fireflies streamed in the blue night wind.

If it was not love—standing awakened in the field’s breadth; the nameless stream’s beautiful summer.

This feeling—what should it be called?—I who wandered in confusion, I who found even yesterday lonely.

Having risen with this insubstantial body that sees no peonies—restlessly through the night I journeyed to where butterflies rest.

That flute woven from tears—I never possessed it; in water’s loneliness I beheld the waning crescent moon.

Having sent the evening boat in vain across ten ri of water—how lovely the child beneath the willow (maiden).

This traveler’s self—bewildered by a single great river—slowly erased the diary’s village name from memory. (Traveler)

Taking a small umbrella to draw morning water—there I stood in the village where young wheat grows verdant under drizzling rain.

The wet nurse stood by the sound, peering into the stream—yellow kerria flowers scattered in the light rain near a small window.

Was it love or blood—spring’s passion that was spent on peonies? In the evening vigil, alone without song.

Let the long song become peonies in the evening’s hall—this self destined to be a wife slipped away.

In the third month of spring, a bridgeless koto made no sound—the restless evening I touched it with disheveled hair.

To where do you return? In the evening field, a winged child tugged at my sleeve.

Leaning against the dusk-lit door, you sang a song: “I shall depart the floating world, never to return.”

Were someone to say, “Out of loneliness I wandered one hundred twenty ri,” what then could be done?

Who knows the child that clutched sleeves at your song? Autumn’s chill pierced Naniwa’s inn.

Since that day my soul took leave—should this mortal shell be seen as fair—let all people come to mourn.

Do not ask if songs dwell within me now—these bridge-less strings number twenty-five.

The divine decree—life’s resonance—my world’s end. O god, hear the axe striking the koto!

Two souls laughed at “lack of talent” in song—love spanning twenty thousand years yet fleeting.

Lotus Flower Boat

The evening boat rowed back slowly—you, the monk—how crimson the lotuses bloomed! How white the lotuses multiplied!

In the arbor where water trickles—oh lowly pillow, let not the evening wisteria scatter!

They said it was not noble sleeves but noble hair's measure—seven shaku—that knew wisteria blooms.

The summer flowers' forms—slender crimsons straining at noon. O love! O child!

Shoulders slumped, sutras swayed—restless hair restrained; one attuned combed spring's clouds.

Oh western wind entwining disheveled hair with young branches—a beautiful rainbow not reaching two shaku.

Urged onward, I alighted from the carriage in the shore’s darkness—the faintly purple wisteria of the arched bridge.

Unintentionally stopping the shuttle’s hand—the gate’s song; how shameful lay the depths of my sister’s smile.

The hem of my bathrobe was uneven after bathing—the yesterday that had smiled at the mirror had not entirely vanished.

In front of people, my sleeve slipped down; claiming ignorance, I fled.

In a single box I stored the doves, shut the lid—a nameless sigh hesitated at the peach.

What was faintly seen—the young-leaf inn at Nara’s edge with its pale citron trees—how nostalgic it was.

On the path through the field where nameless flowers bloom crimson—do not hurry, you alone with the small umbrella.

The downstream boat began singing under last night’s moonlight; the temple walls vanished from sight, vanished completely.

To the garden of the hermitage where Master Beloved’s eyes were ailing—I transplanted white chrysanthemum flowers.

In slender characters—I did not imprint one of your songs upon the lid of a small box where jewel beetles lay hidden.

At dusk, the younger sister called birds into the cage—crabapple rain moistened fingertips.

Choosing a departing spring’s silk-lined robe of good reason—I alone inquired about its elegant appearance.

The brush I could not grasp—water’s evening; ink ran thin as layers of wild pinks.

I called Mother and asked at dawn—the cheek that turned from being called "you" brushed against willow branches.

Taking the scrap paper layered with curse songs, I pressed down a black butterfly—ah!

O holy one with pale brow—do you not see? The spring-dream vision standing beneath crabapples in twilight.

At the flute’s sound, I stopped the hands copying the Lotus Sutra—oh furrowed brows still so youthful.

The sandalwood smoke ceaselessly flows toward this side—ah, the detestable fan has snatched it away!

At the side where Mother recites the pillow sutra—those small feet I saw as beautiful.

Ten days have passed since you left—you whose eyes my songs once moistened.

As a memento, the wind cherishes the small fan—its pivot grown precarious, ah!

The young child of the spring river's ferryboat sang last night's inn song.

Hurry without crying—untie the hand restraint; the child holding ties of fate waited for evening.

Swallows cried; the sash of morning lay loose—hazy willows around that house.

By the stream—I saw at dawn in the willow shade at the village's edge: a figure that would not vanish; a child weeping.

By the bush warbler, unaffected by morning chill—in Kyoto's mountains, someone trod on fallen camellias; how intimate it was.

The scattered path wound through Western Kyoto's mountains where plum trees emerged at Rengetsu's hermitage remains.

Before you where Li Qinglian expounded—this child was not; do not blame the plum for lacking good ink.

At times I saw—a friend’s hair where incense smoke entwines—ah!
My spring’s twenty forms I imprint and see—the crimson depths of pale peonies.
Spring should indeed be poured into cups alone—magnolias wear their wisdom, and flowers.
However, your yesterday’s love tale—oh left pillow’s heartrending midnight!

On the bustling evening haori’s shoulder back—did I write a poem or the characters for ‘lotus’?

On the koto, plum fruits fall—oh inn’s midday! You sing by the nearby clear stream.

The travel bundle to your side in my doze—the love poetry collection’s old and new.

Leaning against the door, the child selling irises—a morning when faint haze carries fragrance over one-sided hair.

The early summer rain—distant as antiquity—the mountain hermitage; to those keeping vigil through the night, deutzia flowers went unarranged.

The bell of one temple among forty-eight tolled; now north of the inlet, rain clouds hung low.

"Is it sin to have made the child of man labor? My futile white should not be yielded to gods."

Looking back—grant forgiveness—sleeves folded; in the darkening wind, spring throbbed.

Evening fell as rain of affection; O traveler, take lodging by the near path.

Leaving the crag, descending the valley, breaking off azaleas—I parted from the capital’s painter at the water.

Against spring days spent leaning on love’s white wall—melancholy took the traveler child Fuji; twilight deepened.

Traces of oil—today I recognized the shape of a Shimada; on the wall, plum blossoms scattered and clung.

At the nape of my neck—a soft whisper; wisteria morning—ah! This child goes to the Traveler Beloved.

Do you regard me—who passes through unwaveringly—as the Lower Grade Buddha? The Higher Grade Buddha?

The four bamboo-leaf boats I floated, laden with red plum blossoms, lagged behind and departed.

In the inner room’s strangely rare first sound—blood rushed to a face still young.

Humming someone’s song—the evening’s chill pillars; autumn rain, ah!

If I wait for you among small lilies blooming in the grass—a rainbow appears fragrant at the field’s edge.

They declined with “kashikoshi,” so I did not lean on that mountain slope with your noble hand.

Toribeno is where my noble parent’s grave lies—at Kiyomizuzaka, there were no songs.

At the grave where my noble parent is enshrined—white plum blossoms among bear bamboo and small bamboo—twilight has begun.

Kiyoshi loads upon the monk’s hidden youth—under the moon lies life’s lotus flower boat.

In the sutra’s dim glow—the young monk’s voice; under the moon’s partial light—the lotus boat; brother rows back.

When plucking floating leaves—the crimson drops upon drenched sleeves—I shall pour them into the lotus and teach compassion.

Tentatively touching young lips—when I looked, there was cold white lotus dew.

The river at dawn was broad—Saga’s railing; water-colored summer of two, oh!

When I plucked white waterweed blossoms—in mountain water, patterned sleeves of thin fabric became soaked.

Having the calf stand in the tree shade—on your summer kimono as you sketched, persimmon flowers fell.

Whose brush dyed this fan? Was it not you who until last year admired whiteness?

At the resemblance in countenance, I was bewildered once more—how you tease, O Gods of Love!

In the early summer rain where earthen banks crumbled—at Tobadono’s Inui Pond, arrowhead plants bloomed.

Receiving spring rain dripping from swallows' wings—shall I stroke my morning bedhair?
Plucking white chrysanthemums and sketching dawn’s form—someone earnestly recorded that glimpsed moment.
With purple cords binding eight openings—should one pull them tight, these three-foot sleeves I’ll yield forth.

In the spring breeze—cherry blossoms scattering at the layered pagoda’s evening—I would dye a song upon dove wings.

The child with jealousy not unwelcome and the one I had heard of—by the fence’s kerria flowers—sang and passed.

The single sleeve of Obashima weighed heavy—the mist flowed westward over Kurama.

The silk under-robe had once enveloped a morning more fragrant than gods.

White Lily

On a moonlit night at Lotus Obashima, beloved, do not forget the noble songs of the underside leaves.

Bound my bamboo-like hair—for us two the moon grew faint; did the white lotus hue not blur tonight?

To whom did I yield half the lotus leaves? The noble poem above—took a piece of your noble sleeve, my young master-teacher.

In this moment’s undivided heart of mutual longing—are you the white bush clover, am I the white lily?

Which were you—the human world far from home? That noble hand was let go last evening.

I first declared us three as comrades forlorn by the world—the inn in the Western Capital.

Tonight I would not yield to the pillow deity; these hands would not contend—the white lily's dream.

In dreams—at least, at least—I thought, and whispered a song of lily dew to that god.

From the next room's sliding door came someone calling me—the autumn night, how long yet how brief.

That my companion's feet were cold—on the journey's morning, I spoke heartlessly to my young teacher.

Your breath escaped now and then through gaps—that night I dreamed it thickened with white plum blossoms.

Without speaking or listening—simply nodding—we parted. That day was the sixth: two and one.

Covering both wings—that too was in vain—O beloved friend, autumn in the Western Capital.

Until we become stars and meet again—do not recall—the voice of autumn heard through one sliding door.

In this world, my friend of surpassing talent—the end of your name held sorrow; today autumn departed.

Child of stars—too frail! Raise your sleeves and declare you’d conquer demons and devils!

Having let demon hands break the lily flower on purpose—was this a god’s heart that would gather and embrace it?

The white lily—measured against that person’s noble thoughts—became but a crimson lotus’s luster.

Even so—that moment blazed—the white lilies that graced summer fields.

My friend being twenty-two—I too would not prove unfit—as love I would convey this.

That lifeblood—the vow we two never spilled—beloved, seek not spring in mountain knotweed.

Autumn—three of us threw chinquapin nuts; where were the carp? In the pond’s morning breeze, hands grew cold together.

O that sky! Wakasa lies north—did I bear onward through cloudless heavens? The mountains of the Western Capital.

A single flower sought the stream itself—the crimson that endures Wakasa’s snow.

“Pray discern the mountain dwelling beyond the brushstrokes”—a letter between persons, artless in its grace.

Having written “Kyoto is a place where things are harsh” and left it—the white Kamo River gazes down.

In the bath where resentment lingers at Ori-shima—my solitary stay—you who had no song, there lies our separation.

Autumn’s quilt—my wretched morning self resented it; this cold proof could not be found in spring’s capital. Forgetting, someone descended into the valley—on slender noble shoulders, the spring sun welled up. Kyoto’s bells—on this day, at this hour, I was absent; on this day, at this hour, people wept with one another.

O autumn who said “Come—let us cross the mountains to Lake Biwa”—O three—how people stirred restlessly.

The depths of Kyoto’s waters gazed downward—autumn’s cold traces of blood from a split little finger.

The crimson of mountain knotweed deeper than that—plum, make way! Lest the gods find fault.

Do not point out my friend’s evening—the frail child who shattered ideals before demons.

Closing eyes to the demon’s work as divine decree—my friend’s one-handed flower did not falter.

Count the songs—do not imitate that child or this child—O buds of white lilies not yet an inch long!

Twenty-year-old wife

Awakened by dew, my eyes traced the field’s hues—the purple rainbow of a fleeting dream.

Alas, on the wall Titian’s name had been lined—they hid the surging wine jar at evening.

Somehow—in just a single cloud—unseen guidance perceived the fragrance of hymns.

Defying the gods—in this place where I would never see you again, even through our parting’s final end, my hair would not be disheveled.

Picked up the Bible thrown into the waters of the abyss again—I, a child of confusion, weep gazing upward at the sky.

I, a Bible-clutching child, prostrated at the grave of the divine parent and called Maitreya's name at dusk.

When the god here had waned in power, the girl imbued with crimson fragrance arose.

This blood seeping uselessly from wasting flesh—O God, do not see me as a child weeping over fresh sin!

Did I not contemplate? Did I not desire? O youth—do my blazing lips leave no reflection in you?

You depart—spouse of one spring night on Mount Wu's passion—pray forget me until another life.

Sweet and bitter flavors I questioned—the young ascetic shed tears seeing me.

In poetry we did not exchange names; still, never consider that single night as just another night.

The scent of water enveloped the silk robe—the wind's tremor unseen by young sacred grass!

The flowing water let its jests be heard; the god smiled—teeth gleaming—as the floral night dawned.

The god who removed discipline threads from azure wings of celestial butterflies offered to lilies.

A single crimson breast of blood—spring’s life prostrated; God sought.
The shadow I embraced—you would see it there in spring’s evening, torn fragments of yellow clouds.
The clear waters of the breast overflowed and at last grew turbid—you too were a child of sin, I too was a child of sin.
At the spring window where someone awakened a fresh-faced monk—brushed sleeves, the sutras became disheveled.
Unaware of today, wisdom’s pebbles were not questioned—the morning I parted with the stars’ decrees.
In bitter spring, hearing the name of the pattra leaf, I wept for my friend’s world in the temple’s evening light.
Two months lingered only in song—Three Trees; Kamo River plovers—a child who knew no love.

In the spring rain mingled with a young child’s milky scent—white dove—I would dye my upper wings.

Dusk veiled by flowers—the bell of northern Saga resonated through the small fox’s downy fur.

What I saw was that green dream—a slender dream. Forgive me, traveler; there was no grass for tales.

The pine wind, differing in thought from breast to breast, blew upon my friend’s cheek and blew upon mine.

Picking wild roses—adorning my hair with them, holding them in my hand—through the long day in the field, I waited in vain for you.

Do not preach of spring—to the child with sleeves torn by that morning wind, you are heartless.

Young sweetfish navigating the same spring rapids—the thin cord of the fishing line is not crimson.

At the riverbed—whose black hair smolders? On the crimson carp’s back, plum blossoms scatter.

Autumn—there is blame for the pillar people leaned on; songs of parting at dawn that surpass the plum blossoms.

In Kyoto’s mountains—last year’s white plum blossoms; two people sharing the same dream—I pray you know this spring.

The darkness where someone waited, leaning against the wooden door of the mountain inn fragrant with nostalgic hot springs and plum blossoms.

I will not confine my thoughts to words or songs—heart to heart, on that day, in that moment.

Last night I slept to songs—never glimpsing the maker of paper mulberry leaves—how beautiful was the hue of black hair!

Shimogyo—the man passing through Beniya’s gate looked so forlorn beneath the spring night’s moon.

A lattice gate stood; red plum blossoms bloomed; water flowed—the child’s smile outshone my own.

White plums on sleeves, hot spring scent clinging to underrobes—all fleeting as I bid you farewell, again and again.

Twenty years of my life’s joy had been faint—let the dream I now see at least find peace.

The faint resonance of twenty years of life—you who wept in Naniwa’s summer songs.

In the garment I wear, between its folds—the plum on the bed I loathe—you who consign old tales to dreams.

That finally was no dream—the lamp amid hollow words—when did you vanish?

When you departed—in that dusk’s glow—the song of white bush clover we dyed upon the pillar.

Reading a letter where tenderness had faded—growing ill and frail—even so, I kept loving that person.

The night deity traces the temple-scent through white damask—the lodging where morning’s spring rain falls.

That child here—with an evening fragment of a smile—did not hide while expounding twenty people and rainbow pillars.

This morning you gave—the green child’s love soon to be attained—may it stay beautiful!

The songs I offered today to Love’s deity—when would Time’s ancient god receive them?

And still you wander—Truth, Goodness, Beauty? Crimson flowers fill my hands—you.

My black hair’s thousand strands—disheveled locks—thoughts disheveled, thoughts undone.

Was my frail form—woven from ideals’ whispers—why they envied dawn’s dew-grass?

This restless heart none can restrain—others must know—crimson peonies fraying at my hem.

"It was not so"—that became later people's murmured words; for me remained an eternal dream of beauty.

Within departing spring's single string and pillar lay feelings—at firelight's edge flowed my long hair.

Gazing up at the wild deity—heavy grew my eyelids in this world's darkness, within dream's midnight hour.

Whom did that young lamb resemble? The noble hue of its eyes became evening itself.

Delicate white gauze—the glow of firelight at your eye's edge—you accursed one.

In Kyoto’s mountains where I wandered among red plum blossoms—the temple where my aunt dwells as a nun remained unvisited.

Adorned with flowers of every hue—the friend within the coffin was beautiful.

Five years proved no illusion—behold now this village where spring grasses bear no color.

Into the sedge hat I compelled songs that should be—O young leaves, be fragrant! Ikoma Katsuragi.

Hem-dragging purple, low rootless clouds—the peony’s dream in midday’s tranquility.

Purple my-world’s love at dawn—the fragrance in both hands, the tailwind lingering long.

This feeling—who dares call it a midday dream?—spring nostalgic with the fragrance of sake.

What is green—the palace of learning—to the god who designates it, I offer no reply as I pluck evening violets.

The nightly habit of hollow reverberations—how maddening! You there, Kokoto—layering a sleeve upon the koto.

Without choosing a master, one would touch the chest—departing spring’s Kokoto—deem your eyebrows arched, you (the koto responds).

Last year, calling my sister’s name—I pitied the person standing at the door in evening dusk.

At nineteen, I had already seen violets turn white in water—what does not fade must be transient.

For a year, this child’s form did not become silk—you who abandoned the painting brush and turned to poetry.

The white had scattered, the crimson had crumbled—peonies on the bed. The mouths of the Five Mountain Monks were fearsome.

The sister Komachi among them who invited my present self departed, saying ‘Pray for Komachi’s end.’

If there were a child who could explain without confusion that autumn is fleeting and spring is brief, I would listen to their teachings.

Having invited you in, I waved my hand in farewell—the fragrance of sacred robes softened the darkness.

In the mountain temple where I lay ill in seclusion, spring had not arrived—today you took up the paintbrush with a long letter.

At the riverside gate—light rain fell on willow leaves; one of the two had a white mare.

Thus was the song—to the friend who spoke of blood’s wavering, I showed a smile amid lonely thoughts.

When I thought—the mountain sheep had crossed the fence; when I thought—the flowers were fading.

Irises feared water on garden clogs;

Willows were drenched; this morning, a messenger passed through the gate—that box inlaid with mother-of-pearl was so slender.

“Even now—was that spring drawing near your noble breast?” I closed my eyes and clung to your hand.

That friend in torment's extremity saw no song; the shadowy god summoned me.

"Do not show mercy—I beg you proclaim the sin-child shall witness madness' final throes!"

Will you chastise? Will you guide? Will you enlighten? Gods of karmic past—taste no blood in aloofness!

All proved transient, all proved fleeting—that through spring songs burning, this child's blood burned too youthfully.

Summer-withered I—jealousy's twenty-year wife; you who spoke of Kyoto through our village summer.

In cloistered retreat, the jealous wife drew out the anthology's songs; the two in May's dwelling shone beautiful.

Dancing Maiden

The Ōi River’s water that served people at Obamajima—the long sleeves of young sorrow.

On the crimson fan were precious tears; in Saga, the short night’s dawn was cold.

As morning came, fine rain veiled the small drum; you with long sleeves of splashed dye.

Accompanying someone, today I listened to the songs of Kyoto’s children—Gion and Kiyomizu’s spring mountains round.

The dance fan tucked into the crimson collar—the aftermath of drunken revelry could not be halted.

The peach-colored braided cord that tied my bangs—its faded yellow hue did not suffice.

On pale yellow ground—the Miyako-zome dyeing with its flowing fan motif; sleeves longer than nine shaku’s weighted drape.

Shijō Bridge—the dancing maiden’s thick white makeup; evening hail patters softly upon rice bran.

On the small tilted umbrella—a crimson swallowtail butterfly; on the hand adjusting the hem, snow came scattering.

The dancing maiden’s borrowed form exquisitely arranged—a spring riverboat descended through the morning capital.

Red plum blossoms with gold-thread embroidery in chrysanthemum motifs—the five-layered collar stood dear.

In the sleeves of the dancing robe, voices were muffled—here in the dark spring corridor alone.

Could it truly be that people were struck? With these sleeves flung up, what dance was I to perform through the night?

Three or four times—the same melody of Kyoto’s four seasons—I found the Lord of the Capital harsh.

The noble one’s comb had dropped onto the beloved’s lap—the small comb from the imperial Genji scroll paintings.

The silver dance-flower comb weighed heavy—how unruly these returning sleeves remained!

Four years prior—to the owner of tears that had been poured on drumming hands—was I now to meet them?

At that time when I could not bear the large drum—how I found joy in wearing beautiful clothes.

Unaccustomed though I was—in the night river wind where plovers cried—until I took up the drumbeat and went.

My sister’s koto was precious in the misty night—the Kyoto child’s single stroke of the drum for which I longed.

The adorned Kyoto’s children all spread silk and dissolved pigments—spring rain fell through the night.

Would they force that mercy upon the dancing maiden that day—the western scholar’s brows growing haggard?

Spring Thoughts

Let it burn freely even as you press upon it—thus I feel the spring that fades away.

Spring is brief—to what immortal life? Let no hands grope the potent breast.

In the night room where pigments cluster—child of longing—does spring not mirror primeval gods?

What remains in the end—ask not, explain not, friend! Let there be songs—the final cross.

Does the young child know the small koto's sound at her breast? O journeying beloved, let us pillow heads together.

Beneath pine shadows where we meet again—you and I—hold not the ancient gods hateful.

Yesterday I deemed a thousand-year past world; your noble hand still rests upon my shoulder.

If I write the song—your drunken revelry—in ink: even so it may fade; even so it shall not fade.

O gods—do not mistake this child's remorseful song for hasty confusion's error.

Do not summon winds upon my post-bath chill—my outer robe twists; O purple-clad one, how beautiful!

Even so, unaccustomed to wearing thin silk upon my head—may spring permit the small folding screen within.

In white twill imbued with the scent at my temples—as I turned the nightgown's collar, a song was not absent.

The illusion of dusk's mist became clear; the vanished light—how beautiful the god.

What shall I hold in my burning mouth? The blood of the one who called it dew had dried completely.

The lips of a child of man seeking love—my wish that poisonous honey might have smeared them.

Here, three years passed without seeing people’s names or reading their poems—this was a weak, weak heart.

In the plum valley’s crimson-misted morning—the mountain was beautiful; I was beautiful.

Who was the owner? Beneath the catalpa tree’s shade—the fishing bed’s net watched over aqua silk.

The traveler whose voice was beautiful in song—may the peaches of the village ahead turn white.

The sleeves that would strike the bush warbler dampened by morning rain—you who passed by too decisively.

With water from your own hands—that very act! With the crimson brush of morning, I would write songs without ceasing.

In Kyoto’s mountain retreat during two days of spring chill—my disheveled hair unsuited to plum blossoms.

The song-brush borrowed into crimson, its tip unfrozen—the Western Capital’s chilly spring morning.

Lightly striking the spring evening’s bell—the sound descended the twenty-seven steps of the hall’s stairway.

Immersing my hands—"The water remains as of old!" cried the child—I doubted this love.

In the night when I, ill, listened sorrowfully to the Tana flute as that child turned five.

Thinking so, I sewed the spring garment’s sleeve lining—do not let them write songs of resentment there.

Thus ends my desolate world—who weeps? White bellflowers bloom behind the temple hall.

O waters that reflected the same nineteen-year-old visage as another and I—the flow of Ishizu River.

Deutzia flowers added to a small umbrella, adjusting the hem—how I lamented the May rain at the village outskirts.

At Ōmiyura Hihina no Tono where I presented myself—peach blossoms fell upon my forelocks.

To summer flowers—having permitted many loves—did the gods weep in regret? The wind blew across withered fields.

Without speaking of the path, without dwelling on the past, without asking names—here I saw you and I, loving ardently.

To grasp the bundle of swords facing demons—sucked through five slender noble fingers.

Shall it vanish—the song-weaver’s dream? If that is but a dream, then shall it vanish?

Were I not to call it love—that phantom’s sweet dream—there would be poets; there would be painting compositions.

Do you not see the distant light of the path where you cry out? Mists of the same crimson rise.

Children of form, children of spring, children of blood, children of flickering light—do they not now have wings to move freely?

Suddenly from that moment, spring became a season where flowers lacked color—the god of doubt, the god of confusion.

Alas—I have fallen into the hands of a child of man who prays that fate’s dream may never awaken.

The young child’s hair droplets gathered on the grass and were born as butterflies—here in the Land of Spring.

In the rain of the vow-fulfilling evening—flowers turn black; the five-shaku thick hair grows light.

To punish the man of many sins—I was created with pure skin and long black hair.

Stepping out as the mist clears—no one in sight; desolate toward where the evening bell tolls.

In the spring stream’s joyous dream—a morning when people are distant—let me flow the crimson paints.

O tiny one who loves the seven hues of a fragile rainbow—are the demon god’s wings not blessed?

Spring deity, show the maiden weeping in drunkenness—how sharp is the man’s tongue!

It is my role to sing the intense savor of wine—it is you, the beloved child of spring.

Turning away from flowers, I thought myself too young to recite David’s songs.

That act of looking back grew all the more bitter—a kerria fence dimly visible in darkness.

In flowing waters and willows, how dear spring felt! The one being yearned for was none other than myself.

That night—that very night—when feeble sighs pressed close; how long were the three years counted by the night harp.

Listen, gods! Love resided in the violet’s purple—the voice of evening spring’s praise.

Upon your fevered nape where delicate hair was tucked—I would suck your noble mouth parched by heat.

Through the curtain of Sohine’s bed by the Milky Way—I glimpsed the parting of stars.

Begging “Dye this for me,” I sent the fan to your side—never returned, the wind turned to autumn.

The nameless grass of pale purple once bestowed—lamenting its faint connection, I would die.

This fleeting self lingered at dawn’s edge—the slender pillar bestowed by plum songs proved insufficient.

Do you not remember? The long songs in the evening firelight—too many words remained as mementos.

In the morning when I awoke to the voice reciting that song—how shameful seemed the one who left the comb.

Thinking of tomorrow, thinking of tomorrow's present moment—the child leaned against the inn's door; the frail plum began to fade at dusk.

A child with golden wings crawled through azaleas; a small boat came rowing—the lovely river.

Moon tonight—you who do not illuminate brows furrowed in pain—O biwa-holding one, count not the years.

I knew love as shared—the time when wind blew through sleeves I couldn't bear to release.

Whose sin dyed this with the star world's white silk of judgment—I wonder.

The longing of a young child emanated the scent of a chisel; today, beauty’s noble visage pierces my being.

Purity and loftiness—though one may speak of them, how desolate! The white glimmer of silver where people once gathered and saw (in Lord Suimei’s poetry collection).

O wild geese—my loneliness flies southward; these futile mornings and evenings of lingering love.

To what shall I liken autumns past? My life narrows, grows small—O bush clovers! O asters!

When did I come to stand on this willow-green embankment? The water does not flow so much.

May you be blessed, high noble lords who capture soft-feathered doves to atone for sins.

Struck by the silver whip—O lovely fool, do you weep? Sheep unknown by name.

To whom shall I be likened?—asked in spring’s fullness—my skin aflame, I wept in blood’s wake.

In the temple kitchen’s wisteria—a spring evening’s frenzy; the sutras’ vitality made reality strangely charming.

I gathered the spring rainbow’s twisted cord—O Shame Deity’s fragrance of dawn!

Hanging the sacred garment upon the Room Deity, I prostrated—the single robe of an evening born of entreaty.

Does not the heavenly talent gather here—the fragrant, beautiful spring—in this evening?

The white balloon flower shall vanish, congeal, and become stone—do not inquire of autumn’s wild elegance.

In song’s hands, a child steals grapes—how soft their hair! Rainbow’s dawn.

O thirteen-stringed koto—you who have scattered the fragile dream of a spring evening kept secret!