Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

The Black Hinoki Cypress in its stillness—might one then discern it once the flower dust settles?

Two and a half years of twilight—I dwelled in this state, barely managing to express these sentiments.
From the outset, it was neither a matter of battling my affliction with any resolve to conquer it, nor of clinging to shadows to lament my fate to the world—I simply persisted along my cherished path of peace and reverence, enveloped in the misty afterglow of haze and smoke.

"This single volume of *Black Hinoki Cypress*—I kept it concealed, rather cherishing it privately with myself, yet feared that in committing it to print, my truth might be somewhat misconstrued."
I had nothing more to say.

Early Summer, Gengchen Year [1940]

Hakushu

Upper Volume

Heat-Blurred Chrysanthemums

Sundai Moonlit Night

The moon shone coldly at the glass door; eyes fixed intently grew ever blinder.

Tsukuyomi sits outside, his light pure; thus musing, I become like water.

Morning

The rooster’s crow rose through hazy darkness; when I listened closely, it was coming from the city hospital.

At Ochanomizu, the streetcar clattered; in the early morning, I felt the cool air refreshing.

On Kyoundo’s side, in predawn darkness, I opened a dark window and saw frost settling on the jumbled roofs.

In the dawn window, the dome of Nikolai Cathedral was visible; the nurse held a white urinal bottle.

On the rooftop parapet, gazing at a single balloon ascending at dawn—I,

Chrysanthemums, Other Flowers

The chrysanthemum pots were the fruit of devoted care by Kohisa Jii of our household.

Gazing up at the backlit spheres of white chrysanthemums while lying supine—alas, soon would I see them no more.

In the whiteness before my eyes where chrysanthemum fragrance pooled—the glass door being opened had disturbed it, it seemed.

With vision dimmed and palm groping empty air, the white chrysanthemum's wilting petals blurred into heat-haze.

In shadows alone did they linger fragrant—those clusters of flowers by the window's edge now deepening into dusk.

Kyoundo Hospital Rooftop View

Winter haze—Meidai’s tower stood rigid; that single dark mass must be a red flag.

Thick clouds—winter sunlight lingered dimly; the cathedral’s dark spire remained motionless.

Winter Day

Having been foretold impending blindness, I left I Eye Hospital.

A dog stood still; at the street corner lit by yellow winter sunlight, something pierced fiercely into my eyes.

In the hospital district's pale winter sun, shadows moved—a seemingly blind procession—then turned and vanished.

Venerable Ganjin

In midsummer of Showa 11, during the First National Conference in Tama when I paid homage at Toshodai-ji Temple, the temple compelled one to think fervently of the statue of Venerable Ganjin.

To the dimly seated Buddha statue with sightless eyes, a midday wind came and kept touching it.

Having gone completely blind yet keeping his eyes soft—what sacred essence did he enshrine within them?

In the Tang temple’s midday glare, that summer when I thrived without contemplation—my eyes too had cleared.

Beneath the Maiden Statue

The maiden statue's crimson radiance grew hazy; this morning when I looked, the grapes held in its hand—their clusters unseen. A single apple blazed upon the plate of a one-kilogram automatic scale.

Looking at a certain pictorial magazine

A soldier with both eyes covered in white—not even the direction of his gaze could I discern.

Christmas Eve

Nikolai Cathedral's dome in verdigris blue; clouds hung low—this heaviness carried over into the night.

Nikolai Cathedral that night swayed with tolling bells—now large, now small; now small, now large.

One night

Even on nights when the heater grew cold in the later hours, I pressed a white eye patch to my eyes and tried to sleep.

Having covered the birdcage with a black cloth and extinguished the lamp, now I shall sleep.

Early Spring Fingertip Poem

Immediately After Discharge

Thinking they might be flowers, I startled and looked—upon closer inspection, they were white yatsude leaves in reflected sunlight.

Oh my dwelling—when warmed by winter sun, sitting at the edge: the neighbor too fared well, with the sound of pines.

Even the frost that had appeared this morning—to my eyes, the marshland fields and ridges held shadowed darkness.

Winter—with a sharp crack ice resounded; the stones some child might have struck sank and lay still.

With eyelids closed, I stared intently through the winter day—the tatami’s weave now lay beyond all means.

When my eyes ailed, daily life faltered; only a winter silk tree’s sunlit branch remained glimpsed.

At times when winter trees appeared in my field of vision, it too turned instantly dark and empty.

The winter wind's sound ceased at the back door; night deepened. The warm compress’s breath met my eyes.

(With an inhaler)

Winter Sunlight

The birdcage where the Java sparrow’s shadow shifts—it should indeed be placed beneath the sunny eaves.

Orchid’s fragrance—winter drew near the sunny spot, sustaining but a single life.

Mountain Bird

From Kimata Osamu came a gift.

On the winter-cold dish lay the mountain bird’s white eyelids closed.

Winter light was absent.

In the high sky Fuji stood pure white that winter night—my eyes lacked all power to behold it.

No winter light to wash the eyes; ah—the tender young leaves of miscellaneous trees soon would unfurl.

To my eyes there was nothing to behold in this winter lawn garden; yet still shone faint sunlight.

When a winter day had run its course through endurance, wind struck against frozen pondwater's face.

White Winter

Through three months of winter stretched sheer white—the ten-foot screen's folded creases had grown cold.

White things—perhaps not white after all—the standing folds of a six-panel screen, their shadows lingering...

Myself against the winter-white screen; even the radio cord’s shadow lay frozen.

The white porcelain octagonal jar’s sharply defined edges faintly glowed upon its surface—it was winter indeed.

Eyes closed, eyelashes quivered; the eye patch’s coldness seeped through—did the moonlit night also penetrate?

Ten-Foot Winter Night

Even the shadows—the winter rose buds remained hard, merely three or four leaves reflecting lamplight.

A shadow with pricked ears ate walnuts; I sat, perhaps resembling a bushy-tailed squirrel.

Someone raked ashes in the night’s gloom; strangely, a fly fluttered.

Placing a hand on the iron kettle’s belly that held no lingering warmth, repelling—this helpless night cold.

Three Poems on Chilly Spring Moonlit Nights

Spring had come—how many moonlit nights? Upon branches where wind stirred through winter trees, my eyes flashed.

Through slender treetops of winter-bare woods it shone—the moon sat like a mirror, they said.

Father locked the door against the keen moonlit night for me; this girl child read a book.

Late Night in the Study

As the lamp shifted to illuminate myriad volumes, the rats cried out—multiplying rats!

Rats in the night pricked up their tiny ears; soundless, they seemed to peer behind.

The tails of rats climbing old book covers trailed behind, disturbed by the night’s cough.

When I pondered the intricate patterns of things, it was as though eyes alighted upon my probing fingertips.

Spring Orchid

The chilly leaf cluster of spring orchids—their fragrance lingered; the drip’s sound came from beyond the pot.

Into the fragrant leaf cluster of spring orchids, he inserted a finger, attempting to touch the flower that bore an elephant’s form.

A hand

Before the eyes.

Before his eyes, a hand brought near—the habit of staring intently had naturally ceased.

The Lament of Noh

A single hand held up to the eye—no voice—behold in your heart the semblance of weeping.

Chilly Spring Night

A rat passed over the small white screen of the chilly spring night; its sound faded away.

The wind chilled; in two dear hollows, the infrared lamp shone as I slept.

Five Early Spring Poems

Snow fell across what was said to be a tranquil morning garden—was that spring rain crossing over with its sound?

My cataract eyes helplessly afflicted，days grew dim；outside in early spring，a dust whirlwind swirled．

Amidst spring dust in a directionless day’s haze，hearing the migratory birds’ cries rent my heart．

When I listened to the waterwheel heralding spring，the sound of the rapids on one side also seemed to glitter．

Immeasurably fierce were those dazzling clouds—there I was，blinking my eyes．

Powder Snow

On the vermilion lacquerware of the morning meal, powder snow came scattering—it must have been from the swaying pines.

The girl-child inquired about the Doll Festival and came to fetch items like the vermilion felt carpet for her room.

Thoughts leaning toward the girl—branches weighed with piled snow drooped while spring's awaited arrival remained elusive.

Violets bloomed.

On Mount Nara, they said violets bloomed—yet as I looked upon those hues, which among them could be violets?

Uncertain of violets mingled with dried leaves; seeing only heat haze, how strange it was.

Ode to the Magnolia

The crying sound was precisely a creak-clatter.

At daybreak the Japanese robin sang; behold the swaying branches of the magnolia still in bud.

The magnolia emitted light under a crisp sky; having opened and filled in a single morning.

Were the tall trees not visible? The magnolia's flowers, though numerous, appeared rather dim.

Spring noon—mysterious and profound; beneath the magnolia shining down, Takako’s shadow—two figures laughed.

like the moon

The more I looked, the less boldness there seemed to be; as days passed, the hues of things grew darker.

Sunlight like the moon's; the magnolia flowers swayed in their purity

In my eyes lay sunlight dyed lunar pale; sparrows scurried in the garden's corner.

Magnolias scatter.

Reverent in their falling—the magnolia's blossoms on those lower branches scatter without clarity.

From treetops they scatter more readily; flowers on the boughs below bask in sunlight's glow.

The hour had come to return to earth—the magnolia's blooms grew ever purer in their resistance to fall.

Do fallen flowers at once sprout anew? The magnolia’s upright branches bud forth, invigorated by thunder.

Sunlight Development

Spring Day Seclusion

As spring deepened, the white-flowered tree of the neighboring house—because of its translucent shadow—increasingly came to mind.

In the spring fields—hearing people speak earnestly—the milk vetch lagged behind; violets were blooming now.

On the ceiling, the shadow of the pond’s shimmering water quivered—still early spring, the dance of the rat.

Note: The shadow cast by the water’s heat haze is called a wall rat.

In a vase, the shadow appeared dim; when I beheld the roses in their vibrant hues, they were seen as roses.

When I listened to the caged bird swaying and playing, the evening haze seemed to linger long.

Takako

The girl shone and smiled in the spring sun—could one conceive her placed beyond these eyelids?

Having sent the girl out that morning, by past noon he could scarcely bear the wait—the mountainside lay veiled in haze.

(Day of the Entrance Exam)

Even the spring day—

Even the spring day lay shrouded in haze over the mixed-wood mountain; the tree buds merely stood and emitted fragrance.

Speaking of clouds—the light I longed for overflowed whitely through the glass door as spring was reaching its fullness.

Ryōkan’s Cherished Temari Ball

Having long earnestly requested it, at last it arrived from an acquaintance in Nagaoka, Echigo.
My joy knew no bounds.
This temari ball—visibly round and childlike, embroidered in red and blue yet darkened by the oils of countless hands—was most exquisite.
He placed it in a small box; on the lid was inscribed "Ryōkan’s Cherished Temari Ball," and on the reverse, "17th-generation descendant Shinoki Gingiu."
Gingiu, the 62-year-old venerable man from Yoita, was indeed a descendant of the Shinoki family—the maternal home of Ryōkan’s father, Iinan.

Thus, the Songs of That Temari Ball

Part One

Is my seclusion also pleasant—here in spring sunlight, your temari ball placed beside me?

All day through spring I listen to the muffled sound—how faintly my touch remains unsated.

Through haze-veiled endless spring days with children I struck the temari ball—thus spent these hours.—Ryōkan

At Otsu Palace through spring days—with children you played through touch—this your temari ball.

What fragrance fills this spring field?—This your temari ball bounced with deft hands.

When held to sunlight—the potted plant or temari? The temari bears violet's fragrance.

The temari ball in spring sunlight—how ephemeral—casts its faint shadow upon the photosensitive plate.

Part Two

In this warmth—at the veranda’s edge in spring sunlight—I too drew forth the temari ball from my sleeve.

Stroking it, I sat intently with this temari ball—the woven pattern of its threads remained unseen even when held to the light.

The girl’s muffled laughter cherished the hand-stained woven threads of this temari ball.

The hand-stained threads of your temari ball—the red could not be seen, nor the blue either.

In the spring sunlight that warmed, placing the temari ball upon my palm—though its woven pattern remained unseen, a faint light still shone through.

As I listened, the scent of people grew thick; this temari ball’s touch—slippery yet somehow warped—

Bringing sunlit eyelids close to sniff—the temari ball’s shadow darkened; ah, how warped this ball had become.

Strike and see—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10; To-o to-o—measure then begin anew. —Ryōkan

Strike and see—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10; count with hands this temari ball.

In this haze-veiled lingering spring day, sitting with children—the cherished temari ball now sprang alive in my hands.

The temari ball’s uncertain whereabouts—my hand missed it without a sound in this haze-shrouded noon.

The Path

Artisans who mastered their craft—in ancient times they cherished it, staking their very lives.

The blessed artisans of generations past proclaimed nothing—entranced they dwelled in that very joy.

The rustle of words chilled indeed; their lingering fragrance made the dim path weep.

Recollections from the Shin Manyō Review Office, Four Poems

When I think of my harmonious soul finding joy—though it pains me, there are not even words to simply say.

Though I dare not speak of the path—reading and reading—these two eyes that went blind remain thus.

By this path, should I dare declare it joyful—would such joy overflow into weeping?

I read and read, chose and chose—my eyes took joy in this single-mindedness to the point of devouring.

Thousand Hands

Reminiscence of Tōshōdai-ji’s Golden Hall

Among the Thousand Hands of Kannon, there was one hand that held a brush; I shed tears.

In the Kannon statue’s Thousand Hands, each finger bore an eye—purely and radiantly.

Monju

On a throne of purple-tinged gold beginning to emit its fragrance, Monju’s laughter seemed not to cease.

Recalling Seokguram Grotto in Gyeongju

The principal stone Buddha, through solemn vow, faced the Sea of Japan reverently, and the grotto was subtly adorned by that morning light.

The morning sun spans the Eastern Sea; the stone Buddha sits with eyes of unparalleled sight.

Wooden Statue of Ganjin Wajō

I recalled Ganjin Wajō of Tōshōdai-ji once more.
Bashō has a verse: "O young leaves, might I wipe the tears from these venerable eyes?"

The venerable eyes remained closed, yet the countenance held something—a smile exuding fragrance.

Snow Willow

Visited Master Painter Harukuni

The snow willow shines radiantly, laden with fragrance; your gate’s edge holds no cold.

The snow willow blooms profusely, fragrant and pure—it transcends what mere white proclaims.

Spring Twilight

In spring twilight, my eyes turn pale; the ember's hue—so tender—ah, how I caress the brazier.

Even to unseen spring mosquitoes, what I hear grows dear—the supple young leaves.

After Rain

The young leaves of the water oak, weighed down by pattering rain—why did they so thickly trace their droplet lines here?

A mouse appeared among the pampas roots, scurrying here—they said they saw it; I too saw it there.

Spring Haze

Thread-like hinoki cypress leaves swathed in white—this spring haze's radiance holds unfathomable depths.

When I hear chicks cheeping nearby, the flock scatters—eyes still closed—to young leaves and golden kerria.

Spring Noon: A Poem

This mortal form—even spring wound fire along the meridian pathways of its back, and she tended to it with devotion.

Note: Meridian pathways refer to the lines of moxibustion.

Early Summer Garden

The white quilt dried in morning light—how much more poignant its sunlit glow than its nighttime fragrance.

While gazing at what seemed to be the kerria’s cascading yellow blooms, they appeared as young leaves enclosed.

In the sunlit front garden, on this side—the white azaleas’ stamens grew long, ah, in spring’s full flush.

Blind Frogs

Ah, the frogs’ voices in the grass—when listened to at night swelled with guk-guk-guk.
Marvelous! The blind frogs cried “Darkness!”—kero-kero, guk-guk.
Blind, blind they’d become, guk-guk-guk.
Alas, alas, guk-guk-guk.
The right eye had already gone completely blind, and the left eye now grew dim.
In the spring fields where milk vetch bloomed in small paddies, where water overflowed and plowed fields were turned, those frogs—croak-croak, ribbit, guk-guk-guk—leapt through the grass-shrouded darkness. How amusing! Now unseen, they kicked their hind legs and dove back into the water.

Envoi

In the spring fields, the frogs among the grass—the children must think they simply cry with eyes wide open.

Field Frogs

At the Hill’s Winged House

Their eyes saw as they cried unrestrained; spring rain drummed while the wind rustled on.

The parent frog—I—climbed upon the field frogs whose voices rose, eyes clouding over.

Stepping out to the back door,

In the spring fields, soft pampas grass swayed as colors darted with the wind’s course; the children could not keep pace.

Caressing the girl in the spring sunlight of the milk vetch field—he could never tire of walking there.

Peony Development

1 In the Garden

Under the spring sun, the ibis-hued peony swayed and glowed to the sound of the girl’s leaping footsteps.

The faintly crimson ibis-hued peony, its white-feathered fragrance thickening—the flower I took for a peony faded even as it bloomed.

2 In the Hospital Room

Lush with abundance, leaves arrayed in perfect order—the peony stood crimson in its tranquility.

Fragrant ibis-hued blossoms overflowed their basket; beside the clock, a single flower kept silent vigil.

Wrapped in stamens and layered petals blushing crimson within—the morning peony hung tender as if to melt upon the tongue.

His thinning hair fell across a shadowed face—innocent, unguarded—in those elegant moments free of brooding thought.

Fragrant and whole for two days beside me—then the peony crumbled, scattering into dust.

3 In the Living Room Veranda

A pot of black peonies thick with buds was placed on the veranda.

The girl and the calm peony amidst rising haze; thinning hair hanging down, he sat with Father.

The haze that gently enveloped the peony petals—even this swayed distressingly before my eyes.

A Corner of the Garden

The haze-cloaked layers of young leaves' green-gold—only in one direction did the sun seem to shine.

In the dimness where layered young leaves clustered thickly, a child played; the mirror's reflections flickered all about.

Early Summer Moxibustion Points

Shadows deepened where light failed to reach; this haze rising over summer mountains—my eyes declined.

The moxa burned fiercely, searing the skin with its touch—this soft mugwort must have been what my wife prepared.

For the moxa that burned thick and deep into flesh, she would first moisten it with mugwort juice.

With back turned, enduring moxa in young leaf season—my wife’s touch came thickly.

The moxa smoldered under young leaves’ glow—pressed down firmly, the hot Sanri worked well, worked well.

May Haze

Where the valley haze thickened limitlessly，the sun struck yet failed to rouse color；the young leaves steamed in the damp．

The green，steamed in haze and fragrance，grew oppressive；did the frogs croak？Their voices swelled．

Lushly, the young leaves darken in this vista—will my eyes go blind before the rainy season arrives?

The young leaves and haze today were no ordinary sight—bombs and machine gun bullets were said to already be spewing fire in Hankou’s sky.

Violently spewing fire and falling—how many thousands of Tama Yura’s planes had these eyes witnessed?

Bath: A Poem

In the early morning, when I bathe in the boiling water of the bath cauldron—the moment I submerge completely—I have grown accustomed.

Summer Mountain

The summer mountain where morning birds' voices clamored in disarray—opening the window brought instant coolness.

When I heard the mountain cicadas' wings glisten in song, the young silk tree leaves seemed at their most tender.

Egō flowers bloomed.

In the view bleached by what might have been mistaken for sunlight, even the young leaves blurred indistinct—egō's bell flowers.

The egō tree with white flowers in daytime seclusion—the handaxe's sound seemed to delight in its rhythm.

Walking Stick

The girl drew near Father’s walking stick where white rambler roses grew and seemed about to speak—

The girl and the fragrant walking stick—shoulders touching—its bouncing warmth held a luster like her mother’s.

The girl sets the cherished walking stick in motion and walks on as Father’s laughter brightens.

What touches the eyes, white and fragrant—the summer roses’ soft swaying in the air, it seems.

What brushes against the eyes, white and fragrant—the soft swaying of summer roses in the air, it seems.

Radio Morning and Evening

Summer birds cried chaotically in the morning radio; the waterfall rapids I took for that mountain roared.

Without waiting for evening, as my eyes darkened, even the Waseda-Keio game I had been listening to intently ceased on the radio.

The barking of dogs swarmed within the radio, continued barking outside, and the moonlit night deepened.

At the Tama Third Anniversary Utakai

The pond’s surface where water lilies float—under the sun’s blazing light, no color remained to see.

In my eyes, clouded and darkened by formless sorrow, the heads of all those gathered shone bright.

I watched the films of Suikō Ryūga and Kita Shidai that my younger brother had taken and brought back.
Natural-color versions of those films existed too.

Within the illuminated watering place behind my eyes, even the shadow of a darting snake moved swiftly.

The stone Buddha sat facing forward; the sky I glimpsed for an instant appeared to have no horizon.

Light—

Once did we meet through karmic ties—Nikkō Bodhisattva, may you grant your protection.

The edges of things turn gold-bright—even this dusk—could it be mere dust dancing?

By chance—stepping out onto the road—

At the corner of the white summer chrysanthemum hedge, I encountered the day's striking light.

A clouded fish eye.

Long rain softly chanting.

I gazed at the garden.

In the rainy season garden, dimly visible clematis flowers lingered, and still the downpour did not come.

The rainy season poured down as days of lingering rain; facing my inkstone, I wrote nothing.

In the falling rain, the bench lay soaked; though merely its shadow, to my eyes it became a reliance.

In the marshland, above and below the water, rapids roared; here in this rainy season, the air lay thick and stifling.

The rainy season with its habitual downpours stretched long—the howling gales and lashing rains brought not oppression but bracing clarity.

When I listened to what differed even in the depth and density of trees—partitioned by the rain’s veil—reverberating,

The neighboring pine

In the rainy season's haze lingered a somber pine—veiled in mist, its neighboring space holding colors of unfathomable depth.

Because this neighboring pine resembled those on Noh stages, I had taken to calling it the Noh Pine.

Ah, through the mist-veil—the three-tiered pine's lacquered hat swayed in layered folds, now deep in rainy season.

Green frog.

Listening to the frogs resounding through the forest—could it be that even now in this early rainy season, the grass cicadas' voices were beginning to etch themselves?

As rain returned by daybreak, their cries continued swift—voices reverberating through Yahazu cedar roots.

Broad Daylight

Besides me, echoing through the white daylight, there remained only the reverberation of radio calisthenics.

The summer haze stretched endless—scorching onward as shrill cicada voices permeated the air.

Blind Father and Son Statue

My father, now eighty-three, had fortunately regained sight through surgery four years prior, but recently it had worsened again; my own vision too had descended into chaos.

My father—his white beard long, eyes blinded—sat upright as moonlight pressed its illumination upon him.

Father’s senile cataract eyes had diminished until it was solely Mother’s hand that solemnly held.

At the start of autumn, white hibiscus flowers bloomed, and Father’s eyes opened clear.

The moment his tightly shut eyes parted, the young girl’s visage blossomed into a smile of surpassing radiance.

Old age alone clouds your eyes so—with the years, have you already resigned yourself, Father?

After that as well—when the blind child implored for eyes, the father extended a tactile inquiry to the child’s eyes.

Blind eyes, the rainy season’s ceaseless rain as daylong—the child thought of the father; the father shielded the child.

Father and child—sat blind through the ceaseless rainy season’s daily life; their blindness persisted.

Menkon Frogs

Menkon frogs burrowed into soil—only their eyes peeked above as they roared, I wondered.

On the radio, Menkon frogs croaked in clusters; in the rushing shallows, real fireflies flitted about.

June 25

Evening cicadas began their song this day in the mountain foothills where faint twilight still lingered upon the silk tree's tassel flowers.

Rain-hazed silk tree tassel flowers—this dim evening vista too now faded into dusk.

Mountain foothills

Where someone passed by leading young copper pheasants was still in morning shadow near the mountain foothills.

He envisioned the marshland where someone descended while protecting young copper pheasants—that summer haze.

My garden, where weeds mingled with bellflowers' purple paling, was hot since morning.

A pot on the desk.

Morning glories opened white and soft; leaves reflected blue-green hues as vines grew damp.

What was this? White and coolly it opened—the morning glory flower that now emitted its fragrance.

Perhaps my eye resided within the vines—stretching in one direction as morning glories entwined.

Sound of water

One day’s radio

The mossy spring reverberates—through faint echoes, I listen to Kinkaku-ji’s garden within my home.

Kinkaku—amidst water trickling through narrow paths, on a summer day purely serene.

Late summer—lingering on the eyelids

Like fire—summer blooms surge upward high through trees; I imagine Nōzen kazura must grow there.

Summer mountain—in evening mist where I know my bearings, a scarlet-breasted crake flies as wind grows harsh.

Fire.

In the Toho Studios in Yachi, daily, the flames of war erupted.

In tranquility people waged war—as summer waned, they detonated simulated landmine fires.

Autumn Air

In autumn mist veiling leaf-covered shelters and silk tree branches, a long-tailed bird perches—one solitary flier.

As fledglings flew one after another at the wind's forefront—behold, the long-tailed bird manifested autumn's hues.

Evening Glory

His eyesight had truly faltered; as he attempted to discern the evening glory's hue, his eyelashes brushed against it.

Evening glory—discerned on the seated meal tray—bloomed whiter than the moon in its fullness.

Tanabata

At Takako’s side.

A young girl faced a Duanxi inkstone, her black hair hanging down, her face aglow.

Again unground, the inkstone reflected the sky’s fading hues even as the ink dried.

“May you polish well, beloved girl—on Tanabata, until the ground ink’s hue manifests as gold.”

The fish eyes of the Duanxi inkstone lay clear, the start of autumn now like water.

Late Summer Seclusion

The heat permeating the clarified air—upon the trunk where the western sun struck in stillness, ivy glowed visible.

He finally donned thick black glasses,

In the gleam of sinking black particles, the heat was endless—golden sunflowers.

They played only daytime records.

What to listen to in this day’s span—the needle tracing by fingertip, sharp yet brief.

September at Jindai-ji Temple

At Jindai-ji where water must flow abundantly—the waterfall's sound already felt cool as it resonated through my hearing.

Before the temple kitchen where unripe mukuroji fruits still hung green, I lingered while hearing someone's supplicating voice.

When I gazed at Jindai-ji's pond—its waters clear and reflecting light downward—the shadows of purple-gold carp moved beneath the surface.

Within the shrine cabinet sat a leaning Buddha statue, while autumn's ripeness echoed with a stream's murmuring flow.

The Buddha's endless smile—its face illuminated by lamplight—shone brightly, yet its palm remained chipped.

From the direction where I listened toward this mountain, a sunshower fell, drenching the begonia flowers at the temple kitchen door.

Moonlight.

Clouds lingered as moonlight streamed through them, transforming the roof space; he sat without wearying.

The full moon that children called unbroken—through Father's eye appeared like crescent slivers.
Moonlight seeped cool through wind-stirred air—gaze upward at trees' darkened mass.
Through thin clouds flickered lunar light—by wind or will? My sight had crossed beyond.

And the night’s hue—

The moon shines—or perhaps hangs—upon the darkly stern wrinkles of the earth’s surface, yet I dwell not on such things.

When I contemplate the roundness of tonight’s full moon shining upon mountains and rivers—I went blind.

Autumn Night Reading to Father

The girl’s reading faltered into silence—perhaps seeing by lamplight, he fixed his gaze.

Autumn Clouds

The sky where migratory birds fly—even there，rain clouds ceaselessly pour down；how dark it has become.

Sanshō Dayū Elegy

Anju, how I long for you—hōyareho! Zushiō, how I long for you—hōyareho!

In Zōta Village on Sado Island, eyes are blinded; ah, the millet grains drying on straw mats.

The millet they peck at in the faint sunlight—ah, hōyareho! Even the birds that chase them go unseen by these eyes.

Short-Day Maiden Statue

Short-Day

During those short winter days—before blind eyes—a crimson-desolate maiden statue stood as twilight deepened.

Early Winter Moon Visage

A slender moon shape stirred in the nocturnal pool, shining like a carved spatula.

In the depth of winter night, the pond water was black and deeply still—the moon reflected.

Rats stirred.

Field mice climbed the glass door, scurried busily; the moonlit valley night froze clear.

When things were desired, mice were inevitably present; in the lamplight's shadow, on a frost-congealing night, there was faint movement.

That which fixated on a mouse emerging nightly—what could it be?—its tail trailed.

During lulls when mice lay still beneath calligraphy papers, moments of calm took hold—only to be torn apart once more.

At midnight when mice swarmed the ritual altar, the venerable Rago Ajari went mad.

Winter Night

On the radio advanced the music of a song called “Red Wings”; the night simply grew colder.

Takako brought something called a one-sen new coin.

On a winter night—place a single gleaming thing upon your palm and bid “Blow and see”—blow, and this coin took flight.

Rats—O pitiful ones.

The little rats, not even looking back, swiftly vanished into the pillar, and the night grew cold.

Minnows.

Two poems sent by Mr. Yoshishige Shōsuke

Probing with my eyes—the boiled minnow stew; chopsticks touch what darkness lies? Ah, the frost-night lamplight.

From winter-blasted Inba District came small shrimp boiled till their whiskers thickened into dense congealments.

Winter in the Valley

The quiet of sunlight in Yabuzatsuki Valley’s thicket—winter turned desolate in a single morning.

Flocks of small pheasants gathered silently in the mixed wood; winter’s sunrays left no trace upon the eye.

Winter Mountain

On a winter day when something was heard, the mountain remained quiet and clear.

The rapids' sound resonated all day; winter yielded as I sent up steam from the iron kettle.

Winter-facing valley fields in sun-shadow; with the sound of rapids shining, the mountain area lay utterly withered.

As I warmed my eyelids in the sun just enough, sounds from the direction meant to be heard reached me all the while.

Only accumulating were all manner of winter's book dust; I had ceased to read them, and already it had become quiet.

Fallen Leaves

Magnolia leaves raked together and burned in the bath—tenderly, soft steam seemed to rise.
My mountain had abundant fallen leaves; though we prepared the bath and burned them for twenty days, they still lay scattered.

Three Frost Poems

The Tagawa River under heavy frost did nothing but resound; I went out to listen and remained there through morning.

Frost descended, drawing near the winter mountain; the pheasant’s cries came thick and frequent.

The small pheasant that opens its eyes and walks through the grove must be pure as it treads over frost.

The Foolish Tiger

Recalling the fusuma paintings at Sanuki Kotohira-gu Shrine

The tiger’s visage, glutted from devouring, appeared utterly foolish—its eyes dimmed.

Ferocious pack of tigers howling at the moon—those dim-witted ones alone do not lap the mountain stream.

Reading

When I thought back on yesterday—having read books with joy—I stirred the embers, yet winter nights offered no refuge.

Though I read books for pleasure, they proved insipid; no ease to speak of—listening as I read.

Reading books while immersed in savoring the quietness—"Is there a sound?" I listened, yet on this frost-laden night—

Having read partway—the calmness in the room's corner devoid of true leisure—ah, the books I read for my own pleasure.

Listening while reading with the heart—the voices of characters soaked through each took form.

Wife

She who had arrived—my wife—leaned close with quiet devotion, continuing to read through the night.

The two of us here together—when I thought how we leaned close without a word to say,

Even the awkwardness of making her read books under the pretense of listening—my wife did not perceive it, and our hearts remained undivided.

My wife read without reservation—the voice in her book drowsily trailing off—and when I listened,

Short Winter Days' Routine

While dictating with a chill at my back—through short winter days flew the nuthatch, sharp and swift.

Coming to where the mother's father lay secluded—the children were present yet absent.

Meals

When he saw the shadows of children huddling by the stove, their faces flushed, something boiled crimson, sending up smoke.

Even spring morning meals, unseen in color, end in chill.

Votive Tablets

It was a mountain dimly present—on the lattice door, winter thickened here with small votive tablets of eyes.

The eye votive tablets—to the child with hands pressed together in prayer—flowed a single brushstroke’s blue across the sky.

Short Winter Days' Field of Vision

To gaze upon the winter mountain devoid of color—how desolate it would be not to see even the mixed trees along its slopes.

Winter mountain with mixed trees' shade—evening comes early; "Light the lamps!" they urge, and so all do light them.

Rats and Martens

Under the bright lamp where people avoided my shadow, rats sharpened their teeth and gnawed without making sound.

The rats that had even licked the bamboo paper of the minteki flute—they were indeed the ones who gnawed through it.

When I opened my eyes in the late-night lamplight by the bed, the rat-monk loomed large.

The orchid in the pot had been devoured; shaking the shoji with night’s frost, the rats departed.

In the late-night chill I endured—perhaps a marten—the sound of pursued rats circled round.

Behind the wall, rats being devoured cried out; the insatiable marten too—how cold it must have been!

In the winter night, the rats' deeds must have come to an end; could even the marten's eyes soften after feeding?

Having extinguished the lamp through which pine winds must have whispered, those pines' forms now came into view.

Cold Night

In the pond water clung the dark leaves of the fatsia—alas, the moonlit night lay revealed.

Does the moon, shining as if daylight, illuminate me sitting here with vacant eyes until it reaches its zenith?

Toho Studios

Talkies through night's chill must have captured even cavalry hoofbeats.

Snowy Sky

The hallucination of flames blazing fiercely vanished into the shoji screen, leaving a snow-hazed sky.

The snowy sky, darkly sealed, began its descent; all things danced white and joyous.

I endured as my eyelids seethed at duskfall; snow fell chaotically through sound.

One came—a snowflake searing upon my eyelid—lingering not even a moment before dripping away as water.

In a movie, I saw a close-up of both eyes—tears trickling from the lashes.

Snow Viewing

On barren mountains snow falls whitely persistent—they say even on barren mountains human gazes linger.

When I turned lamplight toward falling snow—those flakes fluttered out pattering—chilling me through.

After the Snowfall

The joy of this morning—as I observed the garden, my eyes opening wide—lay in the three-dimensionality of snow-laden trees.

Wintering red-bellied bullfinches—when skies cleared after the season's first snowfall—their voices came indeed.

Pupil's Discourse

New Year's Twilight Chant

The New Year and the august sake offered this dawn—resonant in fullness, flowing in tranquility.

To offer New Year's felicitations to my parents on this morning's dawn—my vision had already vanished.

At the banquet—before my eyes, a noble cup; had the toso been poured since daybreak?

'Alas, does your elder brother not partake of the toso now?' Mother lamented—me remaining still.

The younger brothers' roaring with drink as New Year's felicitations—on this first day I listened until the sun dipped low.

Wooden Fish Drum and Bright Flute

Received from someone

The small wooden fish drum for calling the wife—placed in the palm and struck just so—as footsteps drew near.

Even the wooden fish drum I strike to call lies beyond my sight—my hand strays, striking the tatami.

§

The bright flute shrilled tremulously—ah, not knowing how to work one’s fingers.

By finger’s touch—winter entrusted—the bright flute’s bamboo paper resounded with taut tension.

Spring Chill

Though spring comes early—frogs have begun to croak—how many nights has the true darkness persisted before the slender moon emerges?

Hoarsely, the toad cries from the earth—could it be spring? The moonlit night faintly.

In this world where donation drives flourished,

Awakening at night, I asked my wife, “Why hide this meager money?”—the small toad’s cry.

Edible frogs wailed through the night wind—in this spring chill, their throats faltered.

Having received a certain painting,

The night was dark; sardines on a plate—frozen, their blue backs half-illuminated—lined up uniformly.

Rats in Spring

Sharpening.

In the orchid’s fragrance, a cold wave pressed into the night’s darkness; though spring was said to be at its peak, an interval remained.

At the roots of the spring orchid where eggshells had been placed, rats emerged and seemed to touch them.

The night rat leaped down from the spring orchid’s pot—the tail of that single jump sharpened cold and clear.

Cold Spring Night

The rat emerged yet stayed rigidly still—picking at the tatami seams’ frayed fibers under the cold night lamp’s light.

When the shadow of the water moon rose upon the ceiling rails, the rat was there, revealing its face.

Note: Shōjin refers to nageshi (decorative ceiling rails).

The brazen rat that bit through the electric cord—that brute seemed to feel nothing.

In the warmth, a rat-like creature trotted briskly, collided with my body, and vanished in an instant.

In the deepening cold darkness, I closed my eyes and sat; the rat itself became like a parent.

When I thought of the rat in darkness—its bristling whiskers, its keen eyes—there came the drawn-out sound of its cry.

Spring’s Farewell

Lamenting spring in my cell-like darkness, rats swarmed rustling for a time.

Through the glimmer of sight, chasing shadows of scurrying rats—what could one do as spring too drew to its close?

The beams—with spring’s arrival, field mice gnawed amusingly; when I listened closely, they lingered there.

Wind Madness

The rats gnawing at the saijiki—perhaps they came from the genge fields' ridges when that day returned.

The Rat Monk probing for blossoms soaked to the skin—hazy spring rain fell.

Haze

In spring's haze crouched a rat—the young one grasped with both forelimbs, trampling and devouring its prize.

Through the hazy moon's fragrant countenance passed the moments; the fixed-time chime of nine forty now struck.

Flower Dust

Nights when white peonies exhaled their fragrance—in shadows alone did rats scurry wildly—already vanished—ah,the pity.

Had settling flower dust made heat grow dimly intense? Not even rats ran across beams.

Spring Mountain

A spring mountain where myriad birds sing—pleasing to hear, yet not surpassing the viewing of this haze.

Does the haze exude fragrance when listened to? Around the spring mountain, wild birds beat their wings—so they do.

There, at the fringe mountains where thickets of mixed trees sprout, the resounding rapids of spring glimmer.

Blindness—yet these eyes see more clearly: "Find joy," they say, "in mere listening"—what hollow comfort!

Though seeing no color, they tell me to merely listen—those with clear eyes have spoken.

To those who listen, spring lies serene—the chisel and plane's daytime rat with its voice from nowhere.

Spring Day

In the garden where bush warblers and frogs sing in turn, my spring day seemed endless.

Three times, I recalled Ganjin Wajō.

Blind yet still—the person of pure wisdom, with a face luminous white, profoundly lamented the spring.

Pupil's Discourse

Associating it with the pupil people of *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*...

Resonant within the pupils—if one listens, on this spring day, flowers seem to bloom.

In the field of vision through black glasses darker than night, cherry blossoms began to bloom.

Recalling Yasukuni Shrine, a Poem

In the film, cherry blossoms floated out and swayed; where shadow and sunlight coexisted, it had become true midday.

At the verge where the statue is placed

The wind still stood thick with spring dust; there was no morning to wash my eyes.

The haze had risen and wandered the sky—even these spring mosquitoes, existent or not, seemed to possess eyes.

My statue swelled—black eyelids where the soft evening spring sun shimmered.

For the Celebration of the Tanka Newspaper’s 100th Issue

To amass a hundred is truly rare; even fragrant fruits' shadows being so, one dares accumulate in verse.

Were one a man nearing a century as an elder, he'd declare “Splendid!”—and you, O Tanka Newspaper—

Dark Night Passage

Traveling by night felt rather peaceful—with eyes of darkness grown accustomed to perceiving it as a single hue.

In true darkness where no beguiling light remained, only the fragrance of perceptive eyelids lingered.

Darkness deepened—spring nights I cherished, listening to all that resonated along this path as I walked.

Having sensed gasoline, coal tar, wood fragrance, and winter daphne—oh dense spring, this dark night passage.

The spring night and the atelier where a clock could move—as if even the outer darkness were pierced by light.

In shifting soil, cherry blossoms must have been—the night wind stirred them about to settle into stillness.

In spring night showers, the spaces between those walking through darkness—indeed drenched in ambient aura, they moved with knowing awareness.

In the darkness, the house’s ridge—sleeping through war-blinded nights—rose fully above frog-croaking paddies into view.

Through night-accustomed eyes: black were the dense wisteria waves cascading down—they seemed to belong to the neighboring house.

When I listened to harmony sinking into things, spring deepened in grass-lined ditches—this drawn-out rainy night.

Recalling Hanawa Hokiichi, a Poem

Ah, the pathos!—they spoke with grief and laughed at eyes whose lamps had gone out yet remained clear.

Four times, I recalled Ganjin Wajō.

By young leaves—might I wipe the tears from your eyes —Bashō

The water oak's tender young leaves—through these eyes of mine—might they emit a fragrance whiter than flowers?

Wisteria and Peony

1.

Luxuriant indeed—the fragrant wisteria waves hang in clusters, the sky around a single pot now taking on their hue.

When budding, how short they were—now matured, each cluster of wisteria waves grows long.

Thread-like glimmering halfbeaks coolly refreshing—already summer nears as potted wisteria waves.

Pleasant to touch are the wisteria waves cascading through air—clusters layered beneath, suspended.

The light surrounding the peonies lies hushed in stillness, appearing colorless—the muffled hum of mosquitoes.

White peonies emit radiance as they bloom—could this be when enduring peace graces its own realm?

In shadow, the indigo fragrance of wisteria waves turns fierce—has night's lamp begun to wane?

The wisteria waves hang heavily in night's stillness, striving to foresee portents of global turmoil.

2.

It has already been forty days since Ryutaro entered Toyama High School.

The potted wisteria, held precariously—it was onto the tatami that they lowered it with that mother, clusters swaying gently.

A single pot—the wisteria has hung clusters on the old tree’s leaning part, on the empty chair.

Speaking of wisteria—already the summer tournament grounds, evening enveloping iron umbrellas swaying as the radio resounds.

To my eyes—only the dark wisteria waves remain, their long clusters scattering and scattering away.

The scattered wisteria blossoms filling the pot had dried up, rustling into sound at the slightest touch.

*Lament for Spring’s Passing*

A lone magnolia clings to a single branch within my vision—haze without end.

The scented haze over Urahata Mountain—though I listen to its entirety, it grows dimmer in the hearing.

The spring mountain—Styrax and elder trees in eternal bloom—as they ripen, does the robust nightingale trill?

In this stillness, even spring mosquitoes—their wingbeats crystalline—I listen as if to Asama’s hawks.

Spring has crested and fades into haze—the milk vetch fields stretch from my gate to Uchikoshi Bridge.

Flowers sink glowing in the lower sky; my evening darkness presses closer.

Before me lies my mountain bathed in moonlit clarity while spring showers pass behind the back door.

Black Hinoki Cypress

Lingering Sentiments of Early Summer

The black hinoki cypress was serene and manifest—only after the flowers had settled could one truly observe it.

Ah, submerged in dark leaves and fragrant summer haze—this youthful self gazed yet perceived nothing.

My eyes—ah, what are they now if likened to the moon in total eclipse, its moments snuffed out?

To see and to hear—how profound is this distinction one might ask? Yet in seeing while hearing, how could it not be even more so?

Were it not me, they would say it so easily—though they tell my eyes to hear with ears and observe with heart.

That my darkness resounds so intensely to others resembles flourishing—what would saying accomplish?

To my darkened vision have I grown accustomed; the world’s norm—as such it exists—I watch serenely.

Spring Cicadas – May 16

Spring cicadas already begin their song; even across my mountain, on this day their voices rise unceasing.

My fierce nature—though I bend my words—enduring and enduring I remain; the cicadas begin their cry.

Green frogs call.

In the young-leaf forest, frogs call for rain; when I listen in the bath, their voices well up as if shaking a tobacco pipe.

Cuckoo

Wild Bird Record

When he listened to the cuckoo’s recording, his eyes lingered on the vivid young oak leaves in the garden breeze.

The freshness of early summer that even opens eyes—I listened to the cuckoo-cuckoo’s radiant recording.

Great Heat

The deep fog had cleared away; over the valley fields they said the moon shone—from tomorrow the heat would come.

In haze-cloaked Great Heat’s glaring stillness—as if chilled—butterflies fluttered here.

In Shiraei’s haze-thickened midday, Gennoshōko was said to boil vigorously.

The bird-cat pricked up its ears in Great Heat’s glare and chased mosquitoes; when glimpsed, its body leapt lightly.

Evening Cicada

The evening cicada—amidst the mountainous slopes where silk trees’ evening blossoms begin to unfurl—lends its presence to the gathering mood.

In the rainy morning，when he listens to the evening cicadas' voices，the thick cedar-clad mountain seems as ever unchanging.

Toho Film Studio: A Bird's-Eye View

In the summer mountains, waves roared violently—ah, how pitiful—they were but Tōhō’s simulated sounds.

All seemed artificial flowers.

Summer-shot apple blossoms though they gleamed—unreal already, how pitiful.

At zero hour, Mars glowed crimson and drew near—the mock city promptly killed its neon lights.

They built a city that bustled nightly—this morning I heard the clattering clamor as they demolished it already.

A Few Lingering Thoughts

There were moments when indignation rose.

To strike—the blue mantis perched on the ridge—with one blow of that axe.

The mantis's entrails prove faithless; ah, how wretched this black wireworm's tenuous being.

On Tree Physiognomy

A great tree, towering in luxuriance as it should, exhaled its clouds through the years.

Tama Sports Festival

As they dispatched the Tanka Marathon companions toward my home,

Through sunlight’s filtering shadows and scattering autumn cosmos—go see them well, passing through the garden.

In this calm sunlight, behold how the garden lies wholly under fallen leaves.

In evening light, the yellow ginkgo’s myriad leaves shimmered; my stool was placed in the garden.

Village children, too realistic.

Obscure to the eye, my moon; the balloon snatched from the ground by a child escaped.

For one or two pencils, I competed a bit with the children—that scrambling rush!

Forelock

Elegy for Mrs. Inoue Rikichi: A Single Poem

The image of her girlish forelock—even after passing fifty and her death—

Winter Garden

The magnolia’s golden leaves had dried and fallen completely; footsteps echoed through the garden.

Here in evening shadows grown dark, even to my eyes the maple leaves burned fierce.

In sunlit spaces where yellow leaves rustled—was that wind sweeping through shaded thickets?

By the back door I stumbled-kicked; dawn’s frost gathered with fallen leaves in the bucket.

Celebrating Heart's Flower's five-hundredth issue

Each letting their blossoms bloom—the master of this abundant garden now in good old age.

My garden—this gaze never sated—the nagi tree garden where peonies bloom bright.

Over five hundred blossoms of celebration amassed—still radiant—this garden long...

Takako

The girl Takako sharpened a pencil; vermilion powder scattered—short winter days now were.

Under the lamp, Takako practiced her English calligraphy while her father—I—drew chrysanthemums nearby.

Hair swaying, she approached her father with a smile at bedtime—the coldness of her hands was due to her being a girl.

Journey to Haruna and Yuzawa

Haruna

Low winter clouds passed behind the peak; Haruna's lake was a lake atop the mountains.

In Kōzuke Haruna, only the lake—on the summit above clouds—reflected the winter sun.

As clouds passed and sunlight struck the lake surface, a single fishing boat came into view—or so it seemed.

Haruna Fuji basked in clear day's warmth—they said; Binzukushi Mountain stood already white—they said.

Faintly, kagura music was heard above the clouds—Haniyama Hime sat at Iwama's lofty peak.

Clouds pierced by sun streaks indeed grew transparent—the winter mountain / Haruna Shrine stood ever higher upon its stony heights—they said.

At Haruna Shrine in thin winter sunlight, my wife and I descended while blowing warbler flutes.

On this downhill path—still a sunlit mountain trail—the lingering yellow leaves caught my eye as we went down.

Jōetsu Line to Yuzawa, from Minakami.

Minakami: houses clustered on a high bank where the winter sun shone and rapids resounded.

The chilled village of Yuhiso and its mountain stream—relying on sunlight—persisted through winter.

A single rock whitened—how striking! The rapids of Minakami’s winter stream had cleared—how pure!

At the watershed of short days where I stood, the currents flowed swiftly down both sides.

Having crossed Mōrine’s Minakami—Koshi’s mountain river already descended.

Northern ravine clouds lapped steadily downward to smother the peaks; snowfall drew near as autumn leaves had already fallen away.

Kōzuke had traversed the bright autumn foliage; seeing now that nearly all had passed,

The foothills sprawled beneath a frigid sky; the distant peaks stayed cloaked and unseen.

The Inn at Yuzawa

The mountain country, already awaiting snow, had reed screens hung outside while they locked each door.

In the dark interior of the winter inn dwelled those who ate kimitake—what use was there?—the kimitake.

The firewood-laden cart that Father pulled—the child rode, covering their cheeks against the cold as they went.

Koichi

Koichi stands before Honjoji Temple—they say—have the short winter days already begun their contest?

Mon River’s carp—solely black—lived on; the pure water of early winter had dwindled.

Snow-laden clouds hung low and turbulent; among yamabakama clusters, black carp vied fiercely.

Mountain folk rarely admired carp, yet their thoroughly lucid forms could be observed.

The clarity of white-scaled tri-colored carp was as pure as flowers encased in ice within the true water.

The carp we observed and nurtured were ever-admired; still, through contemplation, their hues emerged.

The dignified form that clarified in water—perhaps this was what they called abundance—the carp had aged.

In Koichi where life persists—and yet—the carp preserved the blue abyss's stillness.

The black carp's thirty-six scales stretched taut, their breath made steady—the cold would not encroach.

The mountain country's Koichi—winter's own domain—with the sun's eye grown brief, their numbers did not swell.

In short days' market—basins and grasping hands—the carp were cast about and dwindled.

The market ended like desolation's semblance; in the carp-less stream when seen—chrysanthemums mirrored.

In the pond where hot springs congeal and pool—this thermal refuge—did the carp draw breath while aging?

(At Takahan Ryokan)

Winter Stream

On the winter mountain shore where winds resounded, what scattered were the pure yellow leaves of white birch indeed.

The winter mountain’s jutting peaks had already frozen; sunlight did not spark here—these very stones.

Enclosed in the winter valley, the cedar forest awaited stillness-bringing snow as sunset approached.

The mountain persimmons here blazed vermilion; even bean persimmons, when gazed upon directly, revealed no discernible hue.

The fallen leaves picked up in hand—one should gaze intently at them with focused eyes, it seemed.

The firewood pile—frost spread on straw mats—yet still vividly green, the hot spring fields of harvested rice.

Moonlit Night

Heaven’s moon illuminates the river rapids; as night deepens, here now I contemplate the four directions’ calming.

The sound of Tansui Pond’s self-powered generator clarifies; over Mount Iishi, the moon shines through.

Snow Festival: Four Chapters

Hozumi Tadashi's Contribution to His Debut Poetry Collection "Snow Festival"

The Snow Festival is a ritual of the First Month.

The Snow Festival is a First Month rite—this snow quiets the fields, this snow foretells an abundant year, token of harvests heaped ear upon ear. To these snows they pray to gods; with these snows they sport with gods. Valley children and ravine children—ah, eerily—demon spawn too! For the Snow Festival's four-directional calmness, they raise ritual staffs, plant sapling pines—ah, pristine marvel! "Snow, snow fall thick!" they cry—"Hareya to! Yasore-tatara to!"—reveling through the night.

*Envoi*

The upper reaches of the Tenryū River ran clear; the tribe held their snow festival as demons played throughout the land.

“Snow Festival”
How ethereal!

“Snow Festival”
How ethereal! How Tadashi rejoiced!
Positioning Mount Fuji at that window, gazing upon the moon above Kano’s rapids—even now, a heart abundant in spirit still dimly stirred through mornings and nights.
The august body of the father, the august spirit of the mother beside her—when they aged, when constancy faded—ah, how pitiable!
Wind-blown snowflakes—the cedars of Amagi, the sun-dappled day—scattering without reason; to their shadows perhaps, my heart was drawn.

*Envoi*

The child of lamenting parents scatters like vanishing wind-blown snowflakes—off to peace they go.

Wondrous Snow Festival!

Wondrous Snow Festival!
Wind-blown snowflakes manifest in the sky—ah, serenely bright weather!
In Tōyama they hold the Shimotsuki Festival; in Niino, Mutsuki; in Nishiura, Dengaku; in Kita-Shitara, the Flower Festival—so they call them.
Truly splendid—the manifold Snow Festivals!
The lands are Shinano, Mikawa, Tōtōmi; the waters flow from Tenryū—from Minakami downstream, downstream, spring haze lingers.

*Envoi*

With spring's Heavenly Castle snow as pacification, the Izu people play—with what do they play? With songs they play.

Divine work—the Snow Festival!

Divine work—the Snow Festival! Demon children emerged to play; single-mindedly they performed Dengaku upon the snow. Let stillness resound through the four quarters! In truth alone did they commune with gods—perceived as wondrous, laughed at as delightful elsewhere.
How skillful they were at playing with songs—swiftly selecting words deemed delightful!
It filled the heart for the first time indeed, and radiated forth beyond that very essence.
While at play, forget what loomed; make that your soul's devotion, Hozumi Tadashi.

*Envoi*

May those who forget divine play become lives where demon children laugh with single-minded abandon!

Rikyū Koji

Composed for the 350th memorial service, a poem inscribed on decorative paper presented to the gravesite at Jukoin Temple in Kyoto.

Tea, with *wabi* and *wakei* ever pure—thus did he sit in reverence of his own accord.

Spring Chill

Pondside

On the pond's surface lingered a shadow—unaware it had been clouds passing by, now I discerned.

Thin clouds reflected in pond water—gazing up, they hazed into mere poignant white clouds.

Light radiating in all directions grew hazed; above drifting clouds it shone—ah, spring has come!

Gatefront New Moon

Marking in my eyes the voice that called "young moon"—those who seemed to depart through gates in night's deepening chill.

The second-day crescent of First Month's new moon—its brow-like curve—was said to appear westward.

White Magnolia

Dedicated to Master Harukuni’s Silver Screen

On a branch where white magnolias bloomed, a bush warbler alighted; beholding this, spring sharpened into clarity.

Spring Thunder

A night when spring thunder withheld its coming; chilled rice cakes’ water droplets were made to cease.

Japanese White-eye

In the hazed sky around the three-tiered pines, Japanese White-eyes cried out—their tails flashed.

On the pines of spring mountains came flocking long-tailed, sky-colored birds—how splendid they were said to be!

Magnolia Chant

The magnolia, just beginning to unfurl into yellow indeed, had been struck by last night’s untimely cold wave.

When hearing the mother’s children stir their voices—does the white magnolia bloom with dawn nearing?

Since the magnolia’s blossoms opened, the birds that came—Japanese White-eyes, Bullfinches, Flycatchers, Sparrows—all were ah, how poignant.

Beneath the magnolia’s downward-glow earth walked a wild copper pheasant—had tranquility come to dwell here?

Spring Sun in the Garden

The spring sun shone upon the garden’s withered grass—how tranquil—merely observed as white, and so it was.

While watching butterflies flit about, thinking “Ah, spring has come,” when someone called them “small birds,” his smile did not cease.

Under the spring sun shining on the garden lawn, I scratched at the whitened grass like a chicken.

Through the long winter drought they had dried, yet the dead leaves of weeds remained unscattered.

The bleached, colorless lawn showed no sprouts beneath; though the day was spring, eyes misted over and wept.

Looking casually at the withered mountain grass under the spring sun—if one listened attentively, dark violets had bloomed.

My dog, acting foolishly in its endless manner of sleep—the serene spring sun’s radiance soothed.

When spring came, summoning sweets and such, I sat there like a dog, thirsty all the while.

Sprouting "obako"—how tranquil! The unneeded tobacco seller and such—spring touched them as it arrived.

In my seclusion, as spring's fragrance renders all things radiantly bright, I do not force myself to behold their hues.

Moving nears.

Seijō 19-banchi: A hazy moon over spring evening—dusk deepens as light lingers.

The magnolia keeps not a single flower on its branches as summer approaches; I too shall relocate.

Lower Volume

Japanese Kobudō

On September 15, 1938, welcoming the German Youth Delegation, the Japanese Kobudō Kata Tournament was held at Kanda National Gymnasium, sponsored by the Japan Cultural Federation; though my vision was failing, I went to observe.

Martial Deity

Takemikazuchi's roar resounds; summer clouds already prostrate over the plains below.

At Ōfun’s Katori Sea where the tide resounds, Futsunushi-no-Kami traverses with bow-tips gleaming.

The sacred himorogi of Mount Katori—herons abundant, treetops resound with purifying light.

Violent spirits yet pacified—luminous distant ancestors struck and struck again.

Before the Gods

The bow and arrow of the gods, their solemn truth—once risen, would they ever falter?

Sword grasped, they fight to the last on purified grounds—not a speck of dust shall linger—while morning purifies.

Takeda-ryū Jinkai

The Jinkai conch, its kamishimo properly arranged, was blown resoundingly with both hands.

When one hears the Jinkai conch, warriors press forward—now they advance into the dawn’s dim sky.

The Jinkai conch, its sound ceasing with scarlet tassels solemnly hanging, had finished being blown.

Risshin-ryū Iaijutsu

The Risshin-ryū iaijutsu practitioner severed the true bamboo with a crisp swish, his technique remaining concealed.

Having witnessed it - the green bamboo standing in the sanctified garden - truly an exemplary single stroke for this test of cutting.

Heki-ryū Archery

Part One

The bow's stance—arrow nocked in front position—lo! Kneeling on one knee, gaze fixed true.

Having nocked the arrow, as the gaze steadied—the form settled into a crouch-like posture—how keenly one observed.

The gaze held steady for a time, resting on the bow grip—in that moment of tautly drawing and holding—the tension proved excellent.

In posture, stance correctly drawn, the bow and arrow became one as the mind cleared.

The drawn bow tightened further still—a single focus as the archer drew until the arrow's nock met their gaze.

Having waited for the perfect moment, just as the shot was released—the fleeting instant seemed faint—the glove trembled.

The right elbow, tightened increasingly and held—the arrow's moment showed no sign of being deemed favorable.

Though I shot yet did not shoot, gazing intently—for a time it felt as if enjoyable, still it lingers.

The arrow released—the bow turned swiftly, its nock excellent indeed in your bow hand.

The target—lo! The bow’s arrow drawn toward deities made sound as it pierced through.

Part Two

For a time, they rapidly nocked and shot bamboo-shafted arrows—the arrow nocks finding their marks without pause appearing.

Drawing arrow after arrow in rapid succession—the bowstrings resounded into utter stillness.

They fired Kōya and Otsuya arrows in succession—without a moment to draw breath—and put away their bows.

Kendō: Various Schools

The silent blades crossed in combat—their razor edges were eclipsed by the sheer ferocity of their wielders' kiai.

Feigning an attack with their spirit while unflinching, they strove to bring their taut force to its utmost limit.

In the seigan stance they fixed their gaze—a quiet moment passed—then flashed a single swordstroke.

The blade struck straight downward—this thunderous swordstroke's gust allowed no breath.

They struck down with a single swordstroke—a resonance lingered; what could they be thinking with such superficial skill?

Their bodies collided—roughly tangling—then with fiery kiai, they boldly pressed forward using their swordguards.

Grasping the white blade decisively—their sacrificial entry swift as a flying bird—those hands cannot suppress it.

Jūdō: Various Schools

The boys assumed gallant stances with elbows raised; seeing them, they seemed all fired up.

The mother did not take a stance against the nation’s boys as they grappled; her small, soft hands.

Facing off—now poised to grapple—their stances rooted in the lower abdomen, their kiai brimming.

With an "Eya!" they initiated and countered—the boys' taut kiai already clashing—

Raising their bodies, all grappled with single-hearted fervor—ah, children!—resonating with each other unceasingly.

Though youthful, the boys—when grappling—did not once face each other’s visage.

Hands swiftly withdrew with a bow; immediately they inched closer, body pressing forward.

The decisive moment of parrying with a swift technique—the excellence of the osoto-gari form.

They trained themselves on the master's path without flinching, exhausting their strength to learn its forms.

Tendō-ryū Naginata

The naginata’s single technique flashed—how endearing—amidst midsummer’s settling dust.

The young girl’s kodachi was sharp; the old woman’s naginata could not block it.

Negishi-ryū Shuriken

Shuriken clasped between all ten fingers—the hands striking in swift succession remained unseen.

Divine was this shuriken art! The small blade struck upon the target's door exchanged bows with me unto completion.

Musō-ryū Jōjutsu

The staff poised between heaven and earth made no sound—merely like water—a form of no thought, no mind.

The staff techniques—too swift for the eye to follow—pulled as if to feint, struck, returned: unobstructed in all directions.

Budo

Swords resounding directly through azure clouds—this path existed in antiquity and endures still.

Wartime Miscellany

Blade's Edge

Yasumitsu was a general officer’s sword presented by the Army Ministry.

A year of military campaigns—and yet, with my eyes afflicted, now I can do nothing.

I lament this day’s clarity as darkness—steadfastly gazing upon my sword Yasumitsu.

The father’s child gazes intently—my sword drawn from its sheath bears not a single cloud.

My eye gathers strength on one side—the vanguard blade’s pale gleam emits its light, visible.

Elegy

At the rampart they clambered up and seized—what did those warriors cry out?

The warriors, struggling even now, roared and raised their voices: "Long live His Majesty the Emperor!"

The military dog charged ahead with full force, roared once, and did not return.

The carrier pigeon vanished into the wilderness sky; said to bear no tidings, that dove wept.

Ah, pitiful fallen warhorse—with a single drop from my waters, the soldier who died.

This profound emotion—

On September 26, 1938, during the Fourteenth General Meeting of the Greater Japan United Youth Association, His Imperial Highness Prince Chichibu graciously attended at the venue Nippon Seinenkan, where he bestowed an Imperial Message of profound reverence.
The entire assembly stood overwhelmed; though I too occupied a humble seat at the far end, my severe eye condition permitted only dim, silent veneration.
This day witnessed the inaugural choral performance of my newly composed Greater Japan Youth Association Anthem.

Through clarity deepening into stillness—as if His Highness now presided—his august presence resonated.

Before the golden screen’s awe-inspiring gleam—where His Highness must have stood—the very air grew hushed.

Over Chichibu’s peaks where gods stand across morning clouds—how pure the voice of His Highness the young Prince.

Resonantly bestowed upon the nation’s youth—how mighty was the august voice!

Who was the one who heard and responded in reverence? Unable to dam the tears—that voice now sobbed convulsively.

Deigning to witness—let heaven too proclaim!—now today rose swelling voices: the Greater Japan Youth Association’s song.

Old Soldier

Part One: Conscription

May 1938, Shōwa 13: conscripted soldiers lodged at my home.
Among them was one old soldier.

The old soldier laughed and tallied—one two three four five six seven eight nine children.

Summoned was the old soldier—how many children there were, their faces refusing youth's vigor.

The children's very names had been forgotten—the soldier later spoke not; had the general too forgotten them?

The old soldier strode under fierce sunlight; he should rather have been shouting and dashing forth.

Roll call sounded; through noon where young leaves lay thick, the soldier trod ground scorched by blazing sun.

Soldiers must die in battle—their transient frailty—as even homeward grass burns beneath flames.

Silkworms raised with hands never at rest—in sorrow she wrote no more—the soldier’s wife, mother of nine.
Did they now find peace as they stood? Those soldiers moved as if beyond life and death.
The gas mask tubes at canister mouths stretched long; they emerged dancing where young leaves glistened.
Sultry night—dust assailed night-adjusted eyes; trucks thundered as soldiers commenced their departure.

Part Two: The Household

In early summer, one of the soldiers who had lodged at our household was now fighting in Central China; communication between us and his wife and children never ceased.

The soldier’s wife—mother of nine children—was growing ever thinner in their impoverished home.

Without lamenting the soldier’s absence from household duties—though destitute, she raised silkworms in reliance on the nation to offer up.

At mention of mountains came thoughts of winter days—a mother of nine children barely sustaining them alone.

Behind the soldier’s home where scrub trees climbed the hillside, morning skies must have chilled as the children clamored.

A dispatch now proclaimed departure to the front—unknowing whether dead or alive, they had won the battle.

In gardens where autumn cherry blossoms scattered wildly, days passed in endless drying of this and that.

On frost-laden nights, she patched the child’s small quilt to send—yet within, decline persisted.

She gathered small scraps of cloth to send, layered old cotton in straw wrappers—nine caramels.

Shadow of War

Eyes of the Battlefield

He envisioned soldiers crawling inch by inch yet pressing forward—the sheer force in their eyes.

Facing head-on against the tank without blinking—their eyes were shot—both of those eyes.

Rifles were aimed, iron helmets pressed into trenches—could their eyes endure? A time to wait arrived.

They who did not falter fixed their gaze ever more intently from the trenches; not yet firing—the enemy did not draw near.

In Broad Daylight I Ponder

In the midday sun’s glare that struck their eyes, they listened—soldiers’ lives settling heavily in all directions.

Night Combat

In night combat, were the moon concealed, even the wings of insects singing clearly at millet roots might be seen.

Before their eyes lay a comrade's frozen corpse; through moonlit nights they endured—seven had passed, it was said.

Disabled Warhorses

The army pressed forward desperately; in their wake, horses with unbroken reins grazed on grass.

After the gunfire had ceased, in the treacherous night marsh, horses sank while neighing again.

Blind Soldiers in Spring Sunlight

One barracks housed only blind soldiers; they sat in broad daylight, it was said.

Without speaking, facing the glowing doorway, the soldiers were there; they were blind, it was said.

One soldier lifted his face—he had no eyes at all, they said—and someone came, saw this, and reported.

When one looked at those who had seen the war-blinded soldiers—their eyes were clear, and seemed to plead.

War-Deaf

When one saw soldiers with smiling faces gathered under the blazing sun, they appeared dazed, their ears now deafened.

Evening river deer went unheard; war-deaf soldiers gazed upon fresh green leaves.

Gazing at the sky found no response—had this become the very nature of soldiers' existence, their sounds extinguished?

The sounds of bombing now seemed distant; the deaf soldiers were said to be wholly absorbed in their game of Go.

Two Elegies

Dedicated to the Heroic Spirit of Teshima Tagami

A warrior should be thus—advancing without turning his face, he fought and died.

Parents dedicate to the nation their only beloved child who preceded them in death, growing old in silence.

**Young Hawk**

My clan's Army Air Corps Major Tsuruta Seizo (then Captain) fell in battle over Nanchang's skies in early summer of Shōwa 13. On September 11th, they conducted a grand funeral in his hometown of Yanagawa.

One from our clan had already scattered gallantly into the void—resounding through empty air as he vanished.

Through summer skies he spread his wings wide—that fierce young hawk drilling heavenward with fixed gaze.

Let people praise this honor—I too shall do likewise; may his aged father maintain solemn dignity.

Having vigorously dictated the memorial telegram verses, I now emerge only to crouch among autumn grasses.

O hometown—through sunlight today may autumn grasses in full tranquil bloom resound.

**Night Tales on the Yangtze**

In the blink of an eye, a massive swarm of bluish-black locusts came covering the sky—they voiced their terror.

The Yangtze's great flood—even to behold it—reflected nothing but white cumulus clouds in the sky.

A Certain Sailor

While ascending the Yangtze River through deepening night, waves drew back into hearing.

They spoke of nights descending the river's course—soldiers came raising arms, leaving hollow wake.

Awaiting Early Autumn

The military proclaimed relentless tank bombardments; they fired and fired, crushing them like lice.

At dawn they crossed the Khalkha River to ruined Soviet-Mongolian troops—the white night stretched endless.

Prostrate on earth awaiting tanks' thunderous approach—in that lucid moment, might a god exist?

Across great plains where sandstorms whirled, a hundred tanks had roared—their carcasses now burned.

Formation planes advanced in mountain shapes; one wild goose spearheaded the vanguard.

In the skies above the Nomonhan border where fire spewed forth in battle, summer too seemed distant.

On the shores of Lake Holonbair at dusk, cannons spewed smoke in relentless succession; the lingering heat had yet to abate.

After the strafing battle's ferocity cooled, the bread-baking vehicle promptly began emitting its fragrance.

They boldly guarded the border—could this be a tranquil moonlit night?—while playing the flute.

The poetic sound of Haron Arushan that came to lips—with early autumn, may I too find healing.

To the Poet of Billows

Gazing out—as if in stillness—boldly bracing against great raging waves.

Maritime Vistas

Dedicated to the Year of the Dragon, Two Poems

In the dark sea where waterspouts rose like pillars, Leader’s painting seethed with shadows.

Waterspouts whirled sea into cloud-towering columns; engulfed ships were rendered small.

§

A Western woodblock print of the ocean depicting a sailing ship; ah, how poignant the Earth’s circular arc line.

§

There were times when I found paintings like that of Columbus standing an egg rather amusing.

Wartime First Winter

Roaringly, the flame cannons incinerated men and horses and grass; in their wake, winter arrived in pure terror.

Flame cannons, heavy tanks, piano, steel wires—ah, alas, even the children’s play had grown fierce.

The war showed no sign of ceasing as we entered a winter clinging to rice.

Alone with dark eyes that had come to rely on even a single strike of match flame, I mourned its passing.

Halha River—even the word "ah" remained unspoken as winter came.

In the town, we encountered a small military band—substitutes had seemingly been tightened—and it was winter.

§

From around the time cannons roared in North China, my eyes darkened and I secluded myself.

Cabinet Printing Bureau

Swish-swish, they watermarked the Imperial Chrysanthemum Crest with such care, crafting the paper thickly.

In the stillness, the great institution printed them out—these 100-yen banknotes felt unreal.

The Yangtze’s current roared as if thus—the Qing’s flood of printed banknotes.

The nation's banknotes—day and night they printed like this—might they have been printing hundreds of billions of yen?

They cut and printed without pause in fragrant precision—these hundred-yen notes could never slice through hands.

The rhythmic clatter—if only this constancy could endure—banknotes being printed ceaselessly through day and night in the long war.

The Manchurian notes with five-colored flags—these were no mere playthings for children's hands to caress.

Banknotes, bonds, stamps, postal savings books—printed in prismatic profusion where people and rats swarmed.

Concealed within the circular formation, the girl inspected banknotes with keen swiftness, already trembling with trepidation.

She flicked with her finger the hundred-yen note bearing its mesh-like pattern and ant-shaped floral motifs.

The girl who pushed aside the abundant stacks and emerged—at dusk, her slender figure appeared sorrowful.

Banknotes emblazoned with "Ohomiyo"—when I saw them, I strode grandly like a minister.

Year's End: A Poem

I do not doubt my war—now at the year's end of 2599.

Machining Iron

Maebashi Riken Factory Observations

Machines—ah, how serene they were. The lathe cutting iron gleamed with such luster as it worked.

On one hand lay what they called the simplification of complexity; the machine seemed to have a heart instilled within.

If one spoke of the lathe’s ceaseless rapid work all day long, it merely shaved the width of rings.

When I gazed upon the particles clinging to the lathe, iron met iron, and at once a metallic cry arose.

Iron particles—in brief winter light their revealed hues surged—the lathe quickened.

When it came to winter, even amidst precision machinery, I keenly sensed every fraction of the rings’ dimensions as I worked.

In the great circle of this battleship’s piston ring, I would find peace.

He loved how the same task merely repeated itself; the machine showed no weariness.

The Lathe Worker Is but a Boy: A Poem

Whirring away—children merged as one with their task—to watch them move with such simplicity, merely shaving rings.

The fragrant iron particles—even their hues—knew no distinction between lathe and worker.

Yellow Dust

Storm winds raged, yellow haze clouding the lower sky—the first sun of this great new year rose.

The nation mobilized as one yet wandered bewildered—to call this a new year's dawning seemed folly itself.

Even the buried fire I stirred had already died out, with no charcoal left to replenish it.

Awe-inspiringly, the winter sky shone yet shed no snow—the water stored against this cold now neared its end.

My seeing was indeed rather useless—merely enduring with eyes growing dark in blindness.

Imperial Era 2600th Year Commemorative Hymn

Yomiuri Shimbunsha’s Open Call for Commemorative Hymns: Judges’ Selections

The great land where azure clouds trail across the heavens—thus too in ancient times did they deign to bring harmony.

In the Greater Japan Poets Association Commemorative Song Anthology

Far and wide across the celestial plain that has now cleared, I face those azure clouds.

At the end of the volume

This collection *Kuroki* follows the previous collection *Keiryūshō* (unfinished).

This collection comprises twilight verses composed over approximately two and a half years—from November 1937, when my eye condition acutely worsened and I entered Kyoundo Hospital in Surugadai, until April 1940, when I relocated from Seijo in Kunitachi to Asagaya in Suginami.

This collection contains five chōka and 651 tanka—these constitute its entirety.

As these verses were composed during my convalescence, I refrained from publishing them beyond my own poetry journal *Tama* and had no desire for them to become known.
Here for the first time I compile these works and humbly submit them for the discerning judgment of esteemed scholars.

The poems in this collection were gathered here without any particular selection, leaving none of those I composed uncollected.
I merely examined each one individually and re-polished those requiring refinement.

My eye disease originated from years of psychological brutality inflicted upon physical predispositions; the leakage of sugars and proteins grew severe, until finally, the ceaseless toil of compiling the *Shin Man'yō Senka* anthology brought about extreme optic nerve atrophy alongside retinal hemorrhages, forcing me into this twilight state on the brink of total blindness.
In the midst of this lifelong grave illness, to have found a joy in the path that more than compensates for it became my delight.
I am rather blessed in my present circumstances.

Since this collection is a poetry anthology, I left everything to the works themselves and refrained from elaborating here on the progression of my illness or the state of my mind.
Poetic works other than tanka, essays, correspondence, and similar writings were all compiled in the *Hakushu Nensan Zenbo* for each respective year.

Moreover, besides the sickbed verses, over six hundred orthodox “Rural Soaring Verses” and other travel poems also proliferated during that latter period.
However, these were included in the previous collection *Yumedono* due to their nature.
As for the progression of my poetic style in the order of composition, I wished this too to be understood through *Zenbo*.
In that *Zenbo*, I preserved these works from *Kuroki* in their original form.
I also intended to record any textual variations.

In closing, the scarcity of poems addressing current affairs in this collection stems from my illness coinciding with the outbreak of the North China Incident, thereby causing me to miss opportunities to compose such works.
This brought harm not only to my tanka works but to other poetry as well.
I find this deeply regrettable, but I hope to eventually bring this work to completion and fulfill that responsibility.
In this collection, I have limited myself to presenting only fragments under the heading "Wartime Miscellanies."

My vision ebbed and flowed until today, but I have found some respite and grown accustomed to the twilight.
All around me, darkness deepens.
(July 24, 1940, night)