Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

It was dignified in its lofty nobility, pure and clear in spirit, and only then did it truly penetrate.
Poetry, through emptiness that brimmed and substance that voided itself, became solely the arcane art of illusion.

The soaring of birds—was this merely an ordinary act?
Seals playing in the water—who would judge this as merely a perilous task?
Clouds were ancient yet young; waves churned nearby, knowing no bounds to their return.

Poetry is my inborn path.
To its expression's profound subtleties I devote my very bones.
In the end, it is I who taste this joy without peer.
Yet though I strive, I fail to grasp poetry's divine essence; my world remains disordered, and shame clings—these scars from tortured verse I cannot shed.

For what I seek lies beyond distant horizons—thus deeply I bow my head.

The fourth year of Shōwa, Beginning of Autumn

Hakushu

Ancient Hymns

Water Surface

The water surface merits contemplation.

Moss-clear water welled up and dripped down,

Sunlight filtered through and dripped down,

Oak, andromeda, branches spreading out to cover,

Mirror-leaved Yutsu true camellias formed a true grotto,

The water surface merits contemplation.

The water surface merits contemplation.

The clarity of the mountain’s aura in the divine precinct,

The inquiry at the rock’s base fell silent,

Clawing rough-bared flesh of

The wild spirit grew divine, the gods assembled

The water surface merits contemplation.

The water surface merits contemplation.

Clouds, mist stood obstructing,

Crimson pheasant stood obstructing,

A white boar lay prostrate, panting,

Coarse-haired things lay blocking the path at every turn.

The water surface merited contemplation.

The water surface merited contemplation.

Freshly it welled up and dripped down,

ever more purely clear, filtering through and dripping down,

God, as God, grew old in silence.

Uzu no—o—uzu no—the cords of sacred offerings lay enshrined.

The water surface merited contemplation.

The water surface merited contemplation.

Blue sea foam roared surging,

swirling sediment dammed up roared surging,

the vortex of coiling life

roared and shook Yutsu Ishimura.

The water surface merited contemplation.

Solitary Deity

At the dawn of heaven and earth’s first stirrings,

In a time of boundless void,

The Solitary Deity came to be enthroned.

Sprouting and surging reed shoots’

O God of Fresh Verdure.
Kororo.

The land was young, a film of oil spread upon its surface,

When it drifted like moonlit jellyfish,

The Solitary Deity stood as a lone pillar.

Of sprouting and surging reed shoots,

O God of Fresh Verdure.
Kororo.

No myriad phenomena existed—not even light,

Shadows too—those dependable shadows—

The Solitary Deity lingered faintly.

Of sprouting and surging reed shoots,

O God of Fresh Verdure.
Kororo.

Limitless in eternity,

Limitless without form,

The Solitary Deity concealed Himself.

Of sprouting and surging reed shoots,

O God of Fresh Verdure.
Kororo.

No day existed, no night,

Neither cold nor heat yet endured,

The Solitary Deity persists utterly.

Sprouting and surging reed shoots’

O God of Fresh Verdure.
Kororo.

Ritual Inquiry

To the roots of the rock I inquired,
Were ancient times thus?
Moss water seeped forth.
How faint—this trickle.

To grass and trees I inquired,
Were ancient times thus?
Spontaneously it welled up—
desolation within this brightness.

To small days I inquired,
Were ancient times thus?
Radiance spanned the sky—
unreasonableness in this remoteness.

To the gods I inquired,
Were ancient times thus?
Brightly and clearly they resonated together.

Pine wind, this rustling.

Hunter

Gods,

Arise, rise up,

Radiant sappanwood berries,

Boundless, they permeated deeply.

Gods,

Behold,

Whirring eagle’s wings,

Boundless, they flew mightily.

Gods,

Ah, Gods,

I too arise, Mukahariya’s,

Boundless, it resounded mightily.

Gods,

Ah, Gods,

This love’s, this sounding arrow’s,

Boundless, it resounded mightily.

Aono

Swish-swish ah, they clung and pulled—
my coarse silk
of crow, of blue crow—

They followed behind.

Weeds, ah—as they journeyed onward,

Clouds rise and stand,

Of the wild plain, of the roaring marsh,

They quieted the sound.

Boundlessness! Stillness!

Wind, a small storm.

The secluded gods'

showing bare feet.

Daytime—ah, indeed, breath quickened.

Soft-furred creature,

Maiden—in a single leap—
She leapt and vanished
Amidst fireflies
Daytime seethed
A swarming of flies
Night remained night
The glowing gods
(O firefly)
They inquired

The distant Age of the Gods,

Azure water foam,

Stone roots, standing trees.

(O firefly)

It was a god,

The secret place of radiance,

The young ones—

They were astonished.
All.

(O firefly)

Spirits,

What of me—

Who would discern,

The good and the evil.

(O firefly)

The night was azure,

Calamity abounds.
Only shining
radiant god.

(O firefly)
Nothing holds fast,
This dream-reality—
What indeed
Shall be swept away—once more.
(O firefly)
Ah, preserve—
Rain upon hawthorn,

Fragrance alone,

Store away, this darkness.

(O firefly)

Wolf

Aramitama (Wild Spirit)

It did not slumber.

The big moon.

It waxed full and blazed bright—
What did it purify—
the night’s azure—
Encircle
the mountain’s primal cave!
Grass and trees all—
bow low!
Swiftly now—autumn gale!
Rage untamed!
Unpeaceful—

Again unsleeping,
Shake with a thousandfold speed!
All gods—
Faltering,
Shadows deepening—

Mountains and rivers’

In the rapids, resounding ceaselessly.
It pressed straight onward,
turned to the moon alone.
Ears split
when they called to the earth.
"Is it snow?"
White was the body—
the great-mouthed
True Deity, Wolf.

Reef.

On the lunar surface, ink stains spurted,
Wing-beating creatures.
Clearly, this very night—
The cormorant would not roost.
The waves raged,
A purple moss-crusted boulder.
It froze.
The night fog stood congealed.
No peace in this world.
It simply resonated.
Piercingly visible to the eye,
It cracked and split.
Bit.
Bit the icicle,
The white dog.
The white dog bit the moonlight.
It shattered.
This light
Shone piercingly.
What?

Who?
What this dog feared.
The fly-formed god grew clear
In water and in rock.
It shone—
Icicle Deity.
The dog bit.

It bit the moonlight.
Crunchingly, it bit.

Magnolia Chant

O Magnolia.
I shall speak.

The chalice is my child.

O Magnolia.
Sake, sake, sake.

Sake is my exceedingly harmonious spirit.

O Magnolia.
I shall speak again.

The sun is my father.

O Magnolia.

The moon is also mother.

O Magnolia.

Mountain magnolia.

O Magnolia.
The sky is my god.

O Magnolia.

I am song.

O Magnolia.
I shall drink.

O Sake.
Again, “O Sake, O Sake.”

O Magnolia.
Deepen, your spring.

O Magnolia.

Amber.
My sake.

Early Spring

Katori Jingu
At podocarp treetops clustered blue herons' nests
Held their ethereal silence.
In sky's far reaches - sun's halo
Congealed even as it faded.

White Flower-Bird Painting

Waterfowl.

As if—a single fragment of
lotus and water lily.

Breathing—a yellow beak.
Arched tail—the white waterfowl.
Gracefully turning backward:
slender neck’s length revealed;
keen eyes holding troubled depths.

July and August,

The backward water’s stirring grew slightly turbulent.
The river’s bend did not cease,
pooling again.
O agedness! O endlessness!
O waterfowl.
O Purple,
clouds were noon.
Squawk squawk, they released their cries,
facing the moon.

Elegy

The freezing-cold white bird

did not flap its wings to soar.

Frozen-solid white blossom,

absent this morning.

In the august seat of Jūzen,

You dwell augustly.

When will you deign to behold again,
The white flower-bird painting of a winter’s day.

White Egret

The White Egret, that single one,
feeding on water lily flowers,
drinking water,
squawking, began to move about.

The White Egret was noble—
its slender form smoldered—
the white one dragged a crested ritual whisk,
attempting flight, now in the air.

The White Egret remained unblinking,
foraging for the sun while crying out—
subtly, on one leg—
standing over lotus seeds.

White Peony

White Peony filled a large basket,
Layered with sheen of deep violet,
Abundant in fragrant splendor’s depths—
Resounded through tranquil spring.
The butterfly transcended this present world,
The hirsute shadow fluttered in dance.
Noon did not wane.
Beyond petals,
Let us not lament clouds’ swollen pride.
White Peony was the universe.
Once more it perfumed—sole white.

This seat: no duality exists, only.
Only the seat.
Ah, only the fragrance.

Magnolia

Tang Painting

The Yellow Bird does not touch the magnolia.

Magnolia—she is the princess of the deep mountains,

Pure and white fingers of a palm,

“Open, fingers.”

The Yellow Bird sings.

The Yellow Bird, with sprouting yellow wings,

Flies and alights, the Prince of Venus,

“Be gone, rain.”

It pecked at the calyx.

Magnolia in the misty dawn rain,

Dripping,

Ah, dripping,

With a voiceless white voice, it flares up.

White

What awakens—the flowering magnolia,
White-breasted countless plovers.
Summer: rocky foundations, White Peony,
White light-radiating guardian dove.
Autumn: the white birch of moonlit nights,
White deer standing in the forest mist.
Clouds swiftly flying—winter,
An illusionist taking crane form.
Something sat upon the mountain's crest,
The snow's spiritual essence rising clear.
Willow Egret
The egret dwelled—its true form's
White sanctity.
In the willow where snow dripped down,
Slightly hazed over.

Gazing intently out,

Water, withered reeds,

Truly, it was crimson winter.

A single white hue.

The egret dwelled in its feathered robe—
the Sedge-Hatched Elder.

Ever deepening, pale ink—
a sky-borne form.

Mistaking it for a sparrow—eyes cast aside—
he gazed no longer.

He neither spoke nor danced—
day waned into dusk.

The egret blazed—a white curl of—
luminous brow.

Serenity.

Harmony-Soul,

That is the child.

Meld with fragrance.

The shadow of wild roses—

O sun-script,

O gentle breeze, merely.

Uninvolved,
It neither went nor passed.
O mayfly,
O ripples, merely.
Water’s pattern,
Childlike breath.
Only a fragrant glow,
Swayed only—merely.
O inaction, ah,

White water bird.

It plays only,

It dives only—merely.

Fish Hawk

The fish hawk became Tama's plovers—
The pear's cut surface dripped,
Flit-flutter, flit-flit—
White it flew—so.

The young sweetfish darted clear through
Chōfu's layered rapids, their ritual robes—
They beat the fulling block,
Beat the fulling block—so.

The Fish Hawk's eyes sharpened at dusk,
Scoured through one whole night—so it did.
Flit-flutter, flit-flit—
Young sweetfish.

Water's hue, fragrant foam—
The arched-brow of a young moonlit night—
Ah, who—
It peered into shadows.

Note: Along Tama River's banks stand many pear orchards.

Lotus Seed

Tang Painting

Summer is splendid,
By your water’s edge.

All were cool—
the stone’s wet color.

White lotus
Half-crumbled,
Kingfisher’s
Taking aim, focusing—
Already rustles
The lotus seed’s germ.
Bends.

A shadow's single stalk.

Magpie

Tang Painting

When one saw the magpies gathering,

Black feathers—the white-tailed magpie.

On plantain flowers, pollen scattered,

Summer departed, the glare of summer fields.

Unreal, the galaxy’s midday,

Flowed—was it only the haze?

Melancholy yet serene—
The wind too had withdrawn here and there.
This deep-grassed field aged easily—

No matter how many magpies there may be.
Unsteady they are, no matter how many may gather,
Yellow of beak, fluttering cosmetic down.

Rosary-Beaded Dove

Tang Painting

Rosary-Beaded Dove pecked fervently,
pecked at fallen apricots.

On soil where dampness lingered still,
apricots glowed red, scattered here and there.

The Rosary-Beaded Dove’s piety
spread to its legs,
flew in scattered bursts.

Apricot leaves radiated in the sky,
cool shone the hue of droplets on its wings.

The Rosary-Beaded Dove passed by,
stumbled upon the red apricots.

The Rosary-Beaded Dove stumbled upon the red apricots.

Dove

Original Painting

A dove—fine purple—

Both legs—
Fine peach color,

At the edge of the water basin—Ah,

Does not bow down—the monk’s head.

Softness, radiance,

The tail does not rise—speckled like snow on arrow feathers,

A dove—fine purple—

Tranquility—its form,

The patterned weave of water’s rings—
Its beak—
Its beak—
Its beak touched,
Half-listening—spring thunder.
A dove—fine purple—
Noon—this silence.

Does not pierce—

Ah, does not pierce—the pupils,

In the water,

Water, water, water.

Dawn

Indian Artistry

A white egret contends in the sky,

Torrentially, the rain courses down.

The season was summer; blue dawn,

Mistily, the rain coursed down.

Already vanished—that lotus hue.

Two masses of clouds resembled a dream.

Overturn—the earth’s axis turned.

In ferocious silver and green.

The white egret flew through the sky,

Mistily, the rain coursed down.

Sparrow and Snow

The sun thins,
Garden snow,
Frost-hardened ice,
It has frozen.

What is harsh—

The cold’s sharpness,

Even the tree shadows

Meagerly.

Footprints—
Who left them—
Hollows in snow,
Already unlit.
All the more hurried,

A voice—merely,
Alone, it pecks,

That hollow.
A sparrow—
Sooty.

It caught my eye,
And would not leave my sight.

February

Without pause,
winter’s lark—
shrill and brief,
briefly.

Ice spread
upon the river,
snapped sharply.
Shards, ice,
in varied forms.

Children went
through patchy snow,
fields.
Crackled, crunched.

The sky’s cry,
Still harsh,
Spring does not come,
Fragrance stirs,
The ridge’s soil,

Again, this morning—it froze hard.
It froze solid.

Mandarin Duck

Winter day’s mandarin duck—

Moon-round

The blackness of its pupil.

White-rooted reeds—lotus roots—

Even ice—

Bodies drawing close.

Aged yet beautiful—

Ornamental plumes—

Feeble sunlight—

Desolate pond’s surface—

They went where they went—

Circled only to circle again—

Helpless—the pale vermilion

Of webbed feet—

Scattering glimpses—

Idly lining cheeks—

Mated birds—

Pale sunlight—mandarin ducks.

Old Chicken

Rustling, the wind rose—

When the sound resounded,

The chicken flapped its wings.
Flap flap, ah, flap flap,

White oaks, broad-leaved oaks—
Aiming at the shining sun.
Crest—
Eyes' sharp angles,
Tail feathers, wings—it flapped them, flap flap, ah, flap flap,
Rock base's white-winged ants—
A pillar dancing in the blizzard.
O Strength, O Wild Spirit
Leaping and striking,
A sky kicked forcefully—flap flap, ah, flap flap,
Of light, of the sun's silence—
Disrupted the resolute breadth.
Fierce—the body was heavy,
O blue summer,
O vermilion old chicken.
Flap flap, ah, flap flap,
Helpless—it struck its wings—

It fell without flying far.

Hibernation

Hibernation

Sleep peacefully,

During winter,

Slumber, O gentle spirits—

Thickened with fragrance.

Sleep calmly,

Snake—frog—
Slumber—your own flesh
Sate yourselves.
Sleep—moss-deep
Desire no dreams
Slumber—earthen chamber
Seal it shut.
Sleep—thread of breath
Between being and not
Slumber—steadfastly
In drunken daze.
Sleep gently
Not seeking the sun
Slumber—frost congeals
Detesting the ground.
Sleep, divine heart
During winter
Slumber—as decay—merely
Ah, thicken.

Miscellaneous Trees

Miscellaneous trees—how delightful they were,
Their foliage too,
Dappling as sunlight
Interwove ceaselessly.

Miscellaneous trees—how delightful they were,

Their fragrance too,

Dimly.
Mist and rain

Intertwining.

Miscellaneous trees—how delightful they were,

Their branches too.

Chilly and desolate—sparrows and such,

Gathering around.

Miscellaneous trees—how delightful they were,

Their twiggy branches too.

Snapping—into the hearth fire,

Breaking and feeding them in.

Mist or—

Mist or—
white snow-air.
On withered branches
dew forming.
On the garden stone

Soaked and blurred.

Fluttering—
even when seen in the sky.

Flickering—
even as rain seeped in.

Even as it piled—
it did not gleam.

Even as it brightened—
even as it darkened—
it did not dusk.

Only fragrance remained—
a white dusk glow.

Tender,
snow that could not weep.

Ah, ho.

Ah, ho.

A Moment's Respite

Bright contemplations at times—
a slender shadow passed through.
Something desolate—sunbathing—
how fleeting even the tips of things were!

Autumn Day

O serenity,

Autumn sunlight,
Somehow blossoming with fragrance.
Radiance—
Even the shadows—
In the yellow of relief carvings, anew.

Flying insects'
Dust mingling—
When they settle in eyes at moments—
Thoughts
All grow intimate
Blossoming through this day's fragrance

Arranging flowers—
The world's ordinary
Flower it is not

This scent
Worn beyond compare

Yet still—
In dream and waking—
Unseen flowers
Abound

I shall envision—
The jar's rounded curve
Faint
In ash-gray smoke

Having pared away

I shall gaze ever more intently.

A single flower
White radiance.

Contemplative Winter

Scattering,
No fallen leaves remain,
The garden already—
has grown wider.

Freezes solid.
The lingering sunlight,
Though ornamental,
Stirs no sound.
Ah, how I yearn -
Upon the sal tree's slender bough,
Bloom with frost,
My white winter.

Sunlight.
On the stone’s surface
The sunlight faintly warms.

The fragrance of chrysanthemums—
Preserved sunlight—
How incomparably—
Winter gentles.
Something wearies—
Child’s heart.

Winter night

The sound of waves.
Indeed,
they surged with a roaring rush.
"Sleep, sleep," they urged.

“Sleep, even your breath,”

Woolen-capped child,

Earlobes flushed red.

Deepen, O phantom of day,
Winter merely grew desolate,
And again—O wind, O light—
Ah, and the crab of the moon,
The tea flowers too were white,
Father and child were watching.
The smoldering of tide-haze
Chillily filled, henceforth,
Clam-hued offshore too.
Passed by, in the constellation of stars,
A radiant whirlpool of fire,
Last night’s beautiful wildfire too.
Sleep, round ankles,
Tiny woolen socks,
Armchair rocking cradle.
The sound of waves.
Indeed,
They surged with a roaring rush.

Sleep now， they urged again and again.

Note: In western lands, there exists a custom of perceiving the shadows on the moon’s surface as a crab.

Valley of Moonlight

Green Hill Night View

Horned Moon

Upon yellow-tinged horizontal clouds,

Resplendently shot up a blue canopy.

Fireworks,

Once more, crimson unfurled.
A gem-studded casting net,

So near, glistening fresh, melting and scattering away.

The darkness was well,

Time and again, to the eye anew,

Owls and horned owls exchanged calls.

Behold,

That forest, the hill’s sprouting yellow,

Even in the interval of brilliance’s moment, the night deepened.

Let through, again,

Buds blooming on Chinese parasol tree spikes,

The dense interstice of trunks standing near the window.

Night sky was,

Lovely, radiantly ephemeral,

A light quick to dawn, this midsummer’s.

Listen, only,
In the myriad dews brimming full,
Lament, and behold, the vivid hues' manifestation.

Horned Moon

Upon yellow-tinged horizontal clouds,

Resplendently shot up a blue canopy.

Moonlit Reflection

The clouds now,

White peacock,

Swelled with the moon.

Gleaming, it formed an egg,

The shadow grew translucent,

The young peacock’s.

That which shone so brilliantly—

How splendid!

Spread its tail feathers,

The clouds now,

It flapped its wings.

Moonlight Ravine

In the night’s Moonlit Reflection flows

Cool autumn’s pale blue clouds.

(The moon—it is the god,
serenely.)

The Himalayan cedar’s leaves were delicate,
Then swayed that treetop.

(The moon—it was the god,
serenely.)

Did it not become manifest—the beholder’s
Tranquil blueness and patina of solitude.

(The moon—it was the god,
serenely.)

Burning in the yellow of the lamp reed’s stamen,
While watching, the damp ravine’s door—ah.

(The moon—it was the god,
serenely.)

Child, sleep.
Insect cries—
the gentle rustling of a falling swarm.
(The moon—it is the god,
serenely.)
A welling mist, purple—
the Earth breathes fragrant soil.
(The moon—it is the god,
serenely.)
Through that lunar reflection flow
bountiful autumn's pale blue clouds.
(The moon—it is the god,
serenely.)

In nighttime's hour,

Purple—

Mist and clouds,

The moon existed, and existence alone.

Dimly,

They spread again,
After the rain—my frailty.
Emerging,
They vanish again:
Voice and color, shadow and luster.

This time of night.

Glimmering,

Flowers and leaves, and lacquered blossoms.

Front garden

The moonlight—with chinquapin leaves—
lodges in mountain yam leaves.
Consider this faintly descending night:
the flower blooms unseen by any gaze.
Evening storm clouds withhold their rain;
a stillness steams up through the soil.
The valley’s lamplights glimmer—
between gouged trees, a line is drawn.

Marsh.

Advancing and retreating waist straw raincoats,

The haze is desolate, golden powder.

Because of the hidden crimson moon,

The light rose above the clouds.
Eat, egret—lord of the marsh—
the rippling waves of small swells.

The fishermen were poor,

They cast nets in vain upon the water.

Shadow.

Moonlight—the gentle breeze’s

The wind’s course found joy in the distance.

The moonlight upon small ripples
Further filled—the golden turtle.
Release your heart—fluttering lightly—
In the shimmering allure of sky and water.
Though fleeting, birds in the clouds—
Who chases shadows through such distance?

Who was it that chased a distant shadow?

Spring stones.

In the sprout-yellow moon’s crescent.

The crane cried out upon the soil.
Shadows of wind swayed upon the water,
Flowers nestled in sheep grass.
The delicate fragrance of spring stones

When hues mingled in their interplay,
The blue hour of night held nobility,
All delicate things were beloved.

Mountain gorge.

The flowing wind through magnolia leaves
washed flames in semblance.

O faintly blue-green river seaweed,
O waters traversing slickened stone—

Lament now, kajika frog!
With crisp clarity:

The solitude of one azure night
amid clouds ceaselessly churning—

The moonlight has surged forth.

Vegetables.

A bundle shining under the moon,

Pale purple lotus roots.

Gather, White Egrets, in this sky's

frost-laden dawn's deep azure.

Something poor, ever more—

O mother of the world where hearts find order.

White vegetables in a basket
Burn and breathe richly.

Early Winter

Ripples of clouds, moon-pale—
Swiftness of flow and shift.
In the yellow branches of the snowbell tree
The wind rustled gently, distinctly.

A Persian Cat Dancing with a Child

Like a leopard cub blazing forth,

Helplessly, Father's eyes gleamed keenly,

He lamented the transience of the ayu's salted entrails.

Maiden

While fragrance rose, in the waking world,

The haze's color ceaselessly quivered.

Though the moon's place was visible,

The moonlight seemed to glimmer faintly upon the water's surface.

Maiden, sit—if it were dew dwelling on purple eyelashes,

If it were dew dwelling on eyelashes,

Though fleeting, it glowed dimly—
Earth too burned and cycled onward.
I saw
I saw, as if it were sifting snow,
A moonlit night of ginseng flowers.
A person who had finished planting collapsed—
The road’s breadth shone all the brighter.
Smoke swelled upward offshore
Purple, refusing to dissolve into haze—
A thing as beautiful as a god
Sat atop the steel tower.
Moonlit Pond
I saw—on the moon’s face—
A gauntly withered smile.

A white figure in a pointed hat,
The night deepened; it circled the pond.
The linden branches withered,
Winter again grew meager.
Shine, O Crane,
The snow creaked.
Shore

Agedness, O white moon—
Blazing white,
The tattered wings of clouds
Do not drift away.

The fishing boat rowed out
Near the inlet,
In the chromatic weave of ripples
When the fish basket was soaked:
No glimmering, no shadowing—
Evening tide full,
No underside, no waking world—
Knee, ankle.
Dusk—O golden beetle—
Hummed past;
The scent of coral tree flowers alone
Steamed fragrantly.

Worshiping the Wind

Winged insects
Clam blossoms, akebi blooming full,
Simple is the summer of this gate,
Radiation—brewing insects.

6 and 9 and

3 and 2 and 8.

Countless shining wings,

Who would know of the mouth's itch?

Only the child stood painfully.

6 and 9 and

3 and 2 and 8.

Melancholy—whether one waits or does not wait.

A small bell hung from the eaves,

There is a clapper.
—Clang, it strikes.

6 and 9 and

3 and 2 and 8.

Wash, O wife, a basket of mantis shrimp,
The blowing wind hazes green,
"Time" is well; its glow shifts onward.

6 and 9 and

3 and 2 and 8.

High noon—

Who was God? The workings of flies—

Breath ceased—the field lay strangely slumbering.

Something more—a fragrance beyond grasp—

They bloomed full in vivid yellow and white.

“I shall ask you, Winnecke—

That dwelling vast as the moon.”

Consider, all—distant mercy.

The poor are blessed—melancholic.

In the fields now, voices harmonize—

—resonate clearly into the soaring heavens.

In the grassy growth emerges and submerges a sash—

The beautiful children swaying and moving—

All is well—the heat haze moves on,

The iron bridge’s vermilion girders sway and bend—

Midday it is, summer tranquil—
Sun-scorched, the poignant fragrance of a body fills—

Bridge Construction Landscape

The ironworker struck iron.

Clang clang, he struck.

There was light.
Of the white southerly wind,
there were trees.
Vermilion—bright—
there were bridge materials.

A slope.
Heat haze rose.

Weeds.

A frog.

The basin parched.

A child.

They hated the child.

Listen—this

heat filling and brimming.

Listen—just

all these breaths.

It was one,

the raging one.

The ironworker struck forcefully.

Clang clang, he struck.

Kite

Kite,

The clear sky’s trumpet ceased—Kite.

Kite,

The chestnut tree's flowers burst forth,

Vividly the green sways.

Kite, fly,

In the low sky, expansively.

Kite, the owl’s childlike face,

Ordinary, goodly soul.

Kite, dark vermilion and gold,

How rich the shoulder blades,

At the base of wings flaring with color.

Kite, in unhurried grandeur—

The flowing heft.

Kite, mount the breeze,

With the truly radiant conscience of the world.

Kite, of the people.

Humble, yet sincere.

Kite—tremble! Exert force,

Ah, soar beyond this fairy tale’s red roof!

Kite—greed and tyranny—

From what abyss does that turmoil spring?

Kite, advance—

Light floods.

Kite,
The chestnut tree’s flowers burst forth,
Vividly the green sways.

Kite,

This I too stand on the street,
Proudly—

I fight evil.

It was a July morning.
The trees stood in bloom,
Coolly,
The wind stirred the light,
Making it sway gently.
Yesterday had passed.
And further still,
Morning lingered fragrant
In the child’s eyes.
Brighten, smoke—
Mirage—
Tomorrow’s horizon
Quivered faintly.
A landscape tinged yellow.
A white cat glittered on a branch,
The lily tree’s sick leaves turned gold.
In the treetops, a slight wind—
The light had now become autumn.
Fly, Child, from the great window—
The glass door remained unopened.

Noon now—all was beautiful,
A hot-air balloon rose in the distance.
Moreover, the yellow dress walked.
The utility pole continued to bend.
O slope of the vegetable garden, O hill,

The landscape stirred close at hand.

The scent of grass.
The scent of grass
bends the road.
The landscape—
ceaselessly flows.

It flowed ceaselessly.

A white house.

The window was open.

The magpies

were in the tree.

Beneath the cirrus clouds,

it shone.

Filled and clarified,

a subterranean rumble.

The scent of grass

gained momentum and reached its peak.

As for the children,

they came with them.

Deep green,

the sky soared.

Terrifyingly,

it became beautiful.

Water Basin’s Summer

Light bends

Rose branch,

In water, water's shining shadow.

Summer has come,

Upon thin glass.

May I remain strong and lonely.

Worship the wind

Worship the wind,

Worship the sunlight.

Worship the wind,

Worship the green of grass and trees.

Worship the wind,
Worship the glass palace of the azure sky.
Worship the wind,

Worship the roar of the new tide.

Worship the wind.

Worship the scales of river and sandbar.

Worship the wind.

Worship the vegetable garden's slope.

Worship the wind.

Worship the harbor buoy.

Worship the wind,
Worship the spa flags.
Worship the wind,
Worship the ironworker’s arm.

Worship the wind,

Worship the light silk-clad female form.
Worship the wind,
Worship all flowers that exist.

Steel Landscapes

God dwells in the transmission tower’s insulators.

God dwells; God dwells in the crane’s diagonal lines.
God dwells; God dwells in the summit of the steel pillar.
God dwells; God dwells in the iron bridge’s arc.
God dwells; God dwells together with clear skies.
God dwells; God dwells in the light of steel.
God dwells; God dwells with modern landscapes.
God dwells; God dwells in the resonance of steel plates.
God dwells; God dwells in the grotesque steam boiler.
God dwells; roaring and rotating.
God dwells; He advances with the armored vehicle.
God dwells; He detonates with artillery shells.
God dwells; God dwells in the circular sharp blade.
The severance-sound carves even the sky.

God dwells; He dwells in the dynamo's spiritual sound.
God dwells; He emits lightning in an instant.
God dwells; He dwells in the reinforced concrete theater.

God dwells; He dwells in the ironworks' May Day.

God dwells in the wheel tracks.
The wheel rumble devours vegetables.

God dwells, dwells in endless tracks.
God dwells, echoes in the thunderclouds.

God dwells; God dwells in three-dimensional Cubism.
The Expressionists bend the city.
God dwells; He tows gallantly.
God dwells; He generates magnetism vividly.
God dwells; celestial bodies are iron ore.
God dwells; blazing fiercely, He burns.

Night of the Prayer Bead Artisan

Cat’s milk

O antique gate, temper yourself—

Misty rain, fall anew,

O sandalwood, O blue 'cat’s milk',

O pale green of speck-sized flowers,

Here, behind the cemetery—summer morning,

Scatter, finely, this dampness.

Morning in May

Outside the kitchen

Morning light.

White wisteria drapes,
Briefly.

Tennō-ji Temple in Yanaka,

Eighteen.

Not yet settled,

My wife.

May—O arching tower

Looking back.

Already drying—the white

Child’s garment.

Night of the Prayer Bead Artisan

A blue moonlit night, seven-tenths full,

The shadow holds—a navy-blue shadow.

Ah, earnestly,

The sound of prayer beads being polished resonates.

Young leaves permeate the sky.

The cemetery’s dewy path stretches white and broad.

Ah, faintly,

the round furnace polishing prayer bead spheres.

Does it not materialize, steaming still—

the stone haze shimmers alluringly.

Ah, a single strand,

the window light of polishing prayer bead spheres.

What flies is bats, the golden edge.

The moon is above the five-storied pagoda.

Ah, so solemnly,

there is a person polishing prayer bead spheres.

Father and Mother

Camphor tree’s young leaves in vermilion and blue,

The sun’s shade—the sawtooth oak’s dark black leaves.

Ah, beneath that—Father and Mother.

Mid-May afternoon—

The damp-brightened day’s gold.

Ah, tranquility—the tower’s sky.

Yanaka—the cemetery’s stone pavement,

The visible—scattering midge wings.

Ah, the smoldering scent of indigo.

Father declared, O good mother,

Such a tranquil place this is indeed.

Ah, tombstones and those two.

Mother too did smile, O good father,

Truly, the Japanese snowball’s coolness.

Ah, good doves—the flock’s doves.

Father’s drooping beard tended to desolation,

Mother’s temples grew ever more frosted.
Ah, profoundly—the shadow of old age.
The paulownia’s purple deepened still—
The evening glowed within the clouds.
Ah—evening—Father and Mother.

Magnolia and Moon

When one saw the magnolia tree's dense shadow,

The crescent moon glowed bright yellow.

The flowers had passed—how it cried, for how many nights now,

Lesser cuckoo,

A bird in pale ink-wash tones.

Pondside Photography

At Koishikawa Botanical Garden
Water lilies’
leaves—water’s
pond filled.
The sun shines expansively, O—

Blinding—
Ah, vivid—vivid—
A bloom? White—
The deepening noon’s flood—ah—
Summer is now—

The color of the sky
Deepening into smolder;
Glossy dampness—ah.
Reflect!
The voices of frogs too—
In yellow and green—
Unreal lens—ah.

The child—father’s gaze,
Seeking something,
A serene smile—.

Night dew.

Vermilion and round—

The magnolia tree’s moon,

Upon the grave

Damp night dew—.

The Diviner

Arranged the divining rods,

Bindweed’s

The fragrance steamed forth.

Be at peace,

Mist at the crossroads,
of departed spirits,
known or unknown.

Beloved child,

Admire the footsteps,
The thread of breath's
vigorous sway.
Purple—
Train smoke too—
Nippori’s lights—
Gushed at the lights.
Tennōji's morning coolness.
On the magnolia tree, white flowers clustered,

A tower stood in the east.
The moon set, and what was blown away—
Truly, the wind carried summer itself.
Waves surged—the sky’s morning coolness,
A parabola—the little bird flew, flew on.
Crimson-stained Japanese spiraea hedge—
How refreshing it was, now trimmed!
Dew lingered, sounding on stones,
And yet this was no netherworld.
Foolishness—the dead—dim.
Truly, nothing surpassed living in the present.

On the magnolia tree, white flowers cluster,

A bell rings.
A bell rings out.

Morning—

I, regardless—O morning—
traced the cemetery path alone with a bamboo staff,
summer: flowering oak, young camphor leaves,
life’s dearness listened without enchantment.

Do not reproach me, O morning—
The iron fence clear to behold,
One after another, new graves'
daily proliferation brings no delight.

cemetery

The cemetery is a garden of lament, a garden of love,

and, the oak forest of memories.

the cemetery is the present world’s dew-drenched field,

and, the moss-covered soil of the netherworld.

the cemetery is the child’s grassy garden,

and, the rendezvous of green-leafed hedges.

the cemetery is damply soft-breezed,

and, translucent daylight spilling.

the cemetery is a dim cluster of flowers,

and, a tree’s congregation of birds.

the cemetery is pale-yellow stone pavement,

and, the profoundly deep magnolia gate.

the cemetery is the ginkgo's dappled shade,

and, the damp Buddha with the white curl.

the cemetery is a sea of incense and flower hues,

and, a net of formless voices.

the cemetery was the swelter of grass over the forgotten,
and, the earnest shimmer of water.
in the cemetery glistened insect wings,
and, the palm reader’s magnifying lens.
cemetery’s labyrinthine paths, crossroads between moments,
and, the side fence, the back path.
the cemetery’s stroll felt refreshing,
and, the stone’s solitude where paths ended.

Even in the cemetery, eye-catching trends of the world,
and lingering vestiges of Edo's style.
Women's shoes pass through the cemetery,
and chance-met draftsmen.
The cemetery's dome, the ossuary,
and the edge of the pale azure tower.
The cemetery is the breathing womb of mist,
and the silence of the soul's nest.

The cemetery was the path of the waning moon,
and the dwelling of the Sun's eye.
The cemetery was the milk shop's morning hour,
and Charumera's evening hour.
The cemetery was a good forest, a good corridor,
and the bamboo path of consolation.
The cemetery was a good garden at my gate's edge,
my honored guests' fine path.

Butterfly—
Drifted by the wind,
White butterfly—
The shading on its wings’ underside:
Purple—
Swaying and shimmering,
White butterfly—
Over flowering Sappanwood
Grazing close.
Neither clinging nor departing—

White butterfly,

Flying through graves unclaimed,

Among tombs.

Radiate fragrance,

White butterfly,

Idly stirs

Coolness born,

Fly trustingly,

White butterfly,

Preserve—wings' underside—

Indigo dust.

Radio Landscape

Yellow moon—
Flowers: Hekigotō—
Butterflies—as if they were.
Evening had fallen, yet—
Passing through the cemetery,

Downtown was a sea of lights—look.

Look at the roofs,

clouds and constellations,

surrounded by antennas.

Oh, there it is,
Radio Landscape,
Ba-bi-bu-be-bo—the same little song.
Counterfeit jewels,
Whiting too, melon too,
Every child's ears become monsters.
Tch, stop it,

J.O.A.K.

Butterflies take flight to jazz.

Calyx Flowers

Calyx flowers floated in the rain.

Unsummoned, the radio news—
The franc plummets; Paris erupts in revolt.
Poincaré will emerge again.
“Children, very well—let us eat cold wheat noodles.
Real sansho peppers—we’ll add them to it.”
Calyx flowers linger in twilight’s pause.
Cool, cool—the evening shower in the garden.

Shinobazu’s Evening Coolness

Youth ages easily—where have the joyous gatherings of former days gone?

Vivid green

rounded waves—

all become lotus leaves

vividly

Dusk lingered.

This was Shinobazu.

All turned cool—

The vermilion tower too,

Lights too at the water's edge.

Ah, such tranquility.

Ah, this sky—

Come and gaze.

Ah, faint light—

Ah, faintness—

Ah, those swan feathers—

Already vain—

Merely distant—

And not sought again.

Vivid green,
Rounded waves,
All are lotus leaves.

Graveyard Wanderer

The cloud was white,
drifting ethereally.
At the treetops was something sleeping.
A faint glimmer.
The wind that had called—
only radio waves touched it.

O evil god,

The moon was rising.

It became the graveyard of summer's brief night.

"Stop it," he growled,

the crimson necktie.

Therefore, you are a sleepwalker.

Listen—the sound
shook incessantly.
The blue-green parasol tree's flower clusters resounded.
What—again—
the night sky moved.
Ah, a blue Satellite.
The clouds were soon to become dawn.
Dawn broke.
From the treetops, something waited.

May Night’s Sky

Stars—ah,

Green,
Green,
Green,
Green.

Green.

Stars—ah,

Crimson,

Crimson,

Green,

Green,

Green.

Ah—an airplane: lights, lights, lights,

Ah—one—two.
Three, four, five.

The night sky was abruptly assailed and vanished.

Clamor—clamor—clamor—clamor.

"Look," I offered up my child.

Linden tree, dark leaves,
Golden-bordered chinquapin,
O flowers, O trees, O magnolias, O lacquers.
O peacock feathers, O paulownia buds.
Lushly, gloomily,
Pressuring, overwhelming—
Green,
Green,
Green,
Green.
Crimson,
Crimson,
Green,
Green,

Green.
Ah! Visible—visible—visible—and then
What a blurred yellow crescent moon, water vapor.
Koukai’s roar.
Not a sound—and,

It was the goldfish in the water bowl.

Soot
Soot fell on the linden tree,
On the morning towel, on the rattan chair.
Soot fell on the garden stone,
On frost-stained cherry leaves.
Soot fell on the glass door,
On burned and wilted cockscomb leaves.
Soot fell on the pheasant-horse,
On round eyes of a child rubbing their lashes.
Soot fell—prickling—
On the nose of the wife hanging laundry.
Soot fell on the bread plate,
On teacup，on barrel-dried persimmons.
Soot fell on cigarettes,
On a vermilion bowl ceaselessly fumbled.

Soot falls on the manuscript paper,

Red soot like copper coins.

Soot falls, even on moonlit nights,

Like a meteorite, black soot.

Soot falls, under the lamp,

Soot scuttles like a cricket.

Soot falls, on brain matter,

On the burning residue of magnesium.

Soot falls, day and night,

The ceaseless guest’s black soft.

Soot falls—peach-colored—

On tonsils，on the depths of lungs.

Ah! Ah! I can’t bear this!
Hey—sake!

Even in the sake—black fly soot.

Granny Mazaa Guusu,

Sweep away the heavenly soot—that, I beg you.

Chinquapin leaves

Sunlight rippled,

Resembling passage through chinquapin leaves.

The harbinger of spring already approached—

It rejoiced and played like a fish.

Fairy Tale Moon

Earth as Seen from the Moon

From the Moon, Earth appeared perfectly round,
A violet radiance,
A fragrance of depth.

I stood at the sea's edge.
Earth hung in the night sky—
Ancient yet newborn,
Vast and ascending—
Its shoulder ablaze with air.

Clouds split asunder.
With plants I heard
The tide's roar,
The volcano's tremors,
Human breath.

Was I dreaming
That violet glow
In my eastern sky?
No—I had long known.
That Earthlings

That they had already been seeking gods—
and also creating them—

Snow and Hunter

Snow called to snow—faintly.

The sky was purple—clouded over.

I was searching
for the sun’s location,

The sun hung round and blurred—innocent.

"I feel so stifled," the woman said.
"This corset isn’t meant for a child."

“I’m troubled too—this hat,”

“Can you really shoot anything with this toy rifle?”

The snow was new—snow as snow—smelling,

Flickering, it flashed and vanished.

Everyone was still asleep—in the marsh of early spring,
There was also a sound like stork chicks laughing.

Fairy Tale Moon

A large yellow moon,

The moon within the fairy tale,

Oh, who comes out to the beach, raising a hand and calling?

Howling, howling.

Oh, it dances.

Childlike fondness—the white beast.

Oh, that sky.
It lies beyond the sea’s beyond.

A line of smoke was rising.

Moon and Ethereal Youth

Of the moonlit, dewy field path

In the faintly thick distant haze:

Bow-wow, bow-wow—

Ah, something was barking whitely.

Water taro's glossy leaves—

Before them, there had been a sound—

Bow-wow, bow-wow.

Oh, someone was turning back.

“O beautiful child, child with bound hair,
do not fear, do not fear.
Bow-wow, bow-wow,
that one merely barks.
The moon called the clouds again—
it was a hazy purple.
Bow-wow, bow-wow,
even the tiny moths glowed.”

Ah, everyone recalled—on such evenings—
O beautiful child, the child’s ancient past.
Bow-wow, bow-wow—
the rounded shoulders of the Holy Mother from a previous world.
Fragrant it was, the world—
like wisteria silk
woven from light and air.

It was woven from light and air.

Bow-wow, bow-wow,

Ah, it was something that kept barking even in that night haze.

Moon of the Past

Startled—by the large moon.

The tide came in; the tide kept coming in.

The reed leaves blazed green.

The water rail cried shrilly.

Starving, I bit—

Hidenori’s hair—the dew’s nascent strands.

A voice sounded.
A boat passed.

The water pole plopped.

It was precisely summer, the time of early evening—

It was bitter.
I did not die.

Rising up, rising up—the haze,
In midair became light.
Crab with purple claws too—

The crab was alive and blowing bubbles.

Abode.

A phantom moonlit night,

The Abode’s lamp—its manifestation.

A world of void, fulfilled—

Myriad motes of fragrance, of resonance.

All existing variegated hues—

In purple, softening into haze.

Boundless preciousness—

Like a sweetfish swaying and playing—

A face aglow with radiance,

Who am I—who is this child?

Ah, Mother, I am here,

Fluttering and soaring up.

Magpie

I was born in Chikugo Province.

The shade of my hometown’s silk tree,

The sound of flowing water it is.

The Magpie’s white underwing feathers,

A moonlit night and a shifting sky.

Ogironashi—when I think of it—that is,

Like a mayfly alighting on eyebrows.

The children all chased the Magpie,

They lost sight of Magpie and its shadow.

The Child’s Magpie

Flies
One bird，
The Child’s Magpie．
lotus fields’

The sky—now.
Legs tucked
because it flew—
lotus flowers
appearing white,
the sound of dew
appearing white—
O single-mindedness—
unblinking.

Still, child,

Black magpie.

Tanabata’s

This early night.

Three stars’

Shining stars.

Bud.

The petals of the lotus bud,

Swollen center’s crimson streaks,

Ripples stirred—on a moonlit night,

The stamen’s fragrance tightened.

The grebe’s egg, the grebe’s cry,

Even the breath before birth stirred.

Moonlit Night at the Farmhouse

The heron

The heron stole garlic chives.

An arrow at the moon.

The child kept watch.

Saijin.

The rice field’s, the rice field’s pond snail.

The young maiden

The young maiden began to discern the shadow.

Note: Garlic chives heal wounds.

There is a tale of a blue heron that came stealing on a moonlit night and was shot.

Hunting Season

The moon illuminated the treetops.

The moon was a small horned crescent.

The moon hazed the field edges.

Teal came flying toward the moon.

The gunfire's flash burned red against the moon.

The moon stayed keener than the wind.

Seals and Clouds

Shiokana Misaki

With a booming roar, the waves clamored at Shiokana Misaki,

Vivid were the weeds’ blue, that yellowish green,

Ah, truly, the ancient Ainu Mosir—

Ask now of these capes that surround.

Crossing the sea where Ajigamo floated hesitantly,

When one gazed up at soaring pillars of clouds—

O summer! Verily, voices existed—Kamui Yukar—

That voice brimmed with wind and resounded luminously.

Bright and clear—the large broad leaves of vibrant foliage—

People beneath butterbur leaves—Koropokkuru—

Call out—verily there is a god—Oina Kamui,

A shadow-like form of an elemental naked man stood manifest.

Passing through there—divine in being—the form renewed,

Passing through there—my breath revived.

O people—verily—the god of single-hearted uprightness,

O land where white clouds billow and surge—think of it!

With a booming roar, the waves clamored at Shiokana Misaki,

Vivid lay the blue of weeds—that faint yellow-green.

Ah! Verily—the ancient Ainu Mosir,

Question now these capes encircling us!

Note: Ainu Mosir – Ezo Island (Ainu language)

Kamui Yukar – Sacred Chant (Ainu language)

Oina Kamui – Ancient Tradition Deity (Ainu language)

The Sea of Okhotsk on a Cloudy Day
No light—in the smoldering sky—
The sun’s whereabouts merely brighten void—
Not gleaming—only starkly bright—
The black ripples of Okhotsk’s tide—
No shadow dwells—the ventilation pipe’s—

The halyard swayed at the edge.
Gazing out, merely looking around,
Seals drifted in the tide foam.
Cold came, heat came—only
mist and wind did naught but dance with each other.
Who am I—merely being or not being?
Whether I would get drunk or sober up—it was not yet.

Smoldering sky, unglittering waves—
only the circular horizon stretched into view.

In the mountains of Karafuto,

In the treetops where the White-tailed Eagle cast its gaze,

The pale blue wisps among the horizontal clouds began to glow faintly.

Ah, how blue—the black linden’s gnarled branches,

Someday flowers would bloom, their fragrance faint.

O Azekura, hut dwelled in and abandoned by Russians,

The vermilion of the post station’s flag too had faded.

The mist flew, the mist flew, in the high mountains

Even in summer, only the air currents grew ever colder.

Fish that dwell above the clouds, trout of the lake—
How many gaze upward through the haze?
With solemn majesty I revere you, Kamui Ekashi:
Should I journey forth, even I would merge with the gods.

Note: Kamui Ekashi – Ancestral Deities (Ainu language)
Ancestors of the gods (Ainu language)

Song of the Old Ainu

“Ainu,”

“Old Ainu,”

“*Kamui Aewoina*,”

After Ainu Rakuguru (an Ainu with a distinctive scent),
Divine chickweed's head,
Earth's body, willow's vertebrae,
Shine Shitsuki Puikorokuru (Person of the Eye Sockets)
The person of the gods' hair—he indeed,
*Kamui Otupu Ushu Guru* (divine epithet).
That Ainu, eyebrows gleaming,
White beard swept down upon his chest,
Outside the house laid sedge mats,
[He] laid them with a rustling sound,
Solemn Atsushishi,
Holding the Makiri, sharpening it while sitting cross-legged,
His eyes fixed intently.

That Ainu.

Deity of Ezo Island,

Ancient deity of legend, descendant of Okikurumi.

A perishing living corpse.

Beneath the summer day,

Beneath the white sunlight,

He groaned, only breath remaining.

That Ainu,

He did not see the house’s interior,

The blue long leaves of rustling foliage,

Aisak Piyapa (beardless millet),

Fure Piyapa (red millet),

Chiyaku Piyapa (haze millet),

Yamuraita Yokomamu (millet resembling bush lice), and,

Stilt-legged bear trap—

He did not see the bear cub’s red tongue,

Sweat dripped down, unable to wipe it away.

That Ainu—
an aged eagle,
aged and wrinkled—
the ailing, wearied one.
Unkempt beard;
solemn Atsushishi;
holding the Makiri, sharpening it, sitting cross-legged;
shaving Onko (water pine), his mind grew entranced.

That Ainu
remained utterly silent,
concentrated and kept silent thus.

He, a disciple of Kimu o Chipasukuma (Mountain Doctrine),
a disciple of Chikuni Akoshiratsuki Orushupe (Tree Protection Doctrine),
an earthly being, child of Holy Shiranpa,
a meditator, servant of Holy Tobochi—
he concentrated thus.
“Atoni Ueunyuku (Evil Elm), begone.
Ni-ashu-range-guru (O, you tree person).
Kisaraha Range Sinbur Kamui (O, you revered spirit-god of tree bark).
O Toiyan Kuttari (you who have spread across the earth).”

All is well; I have worshipped.
I am old; I lament.
I am white; already I shine.
I shall vanish; ah, so soon.
My wife, my child, my brother,
The remaining ones of my clan—
They will all perish.
O Onko, I carve
Crimson-soft like rabbit meat—
O Onko, may you shine thus.

That Ainu,

Aged eagle.

Deity of Ezo Island,
Deity of ancient lore, descendant of Okikurmi.
A perishing living corpse
A shining, white corpse.

That Ainu, eyebrows glistening,

White beard hanging down to the chest,

Solemn Atsushishi,

Holding the Makiri, sharpening it, sitting cross-legged,

The Ainu with eye sockets like midnight,

Now is good; he carves Onko.

He drew a long breath and settled his spirit,

Entranced and at play—his heart content—

That Onko,

He carved it with smooth, flowing strokes.

Karafuto Landscape

The deity—perhaps,

The deity would take childlike form.

The shrine was wild brambles,

The wind celebrated it.

Brilliantly, the trees laughed,

Elm, yachidamo,

Hazy, yet not a dream.

Still, in the waking world.

Behold, upon the small crimson carriage,

Grass grew thick,
children and cats bustled about,
moving forward.
Listen—to oats and
the white halo,
the sheep pressing through
dissolved into the day.
Truly, the primordial path existed,
its echo was young.
The poor did not toil;
they gazed up at the sky.
This horizon knew no bounds,
shimmering through haze,

Foolishly, beautifully,
The field laughed.

A person’s garden

At Ishikari

Bees’

In the bees' hum,

The small pond resounds.

At Migihawa,

Yellow single-petaled,

Sticky mallow.

Your garden

How tranquil!

Summer, the radiance.

Far and wide,
From what had come northward,

This is Otoe.

Unseen and unknown,
never meeting again,
only for this day.
Scattering, not scattering,
still faint,
apple leaves crimson.

Morning.

Trappist Monastery
The number of swaying bells—
six or so, maybe seven, eight.

The night did not break; the bread starter's
blossoms bloomed as if flour.
Amid dew, people existed—
praying while reaping in fields.
O tranquility! O fine temple!
O Catholic morning Mass!
That which shone eagle-like,
borne along by mountain airs—
O beautiful August—
wings merely pointed seaward.
*Kawaharahako*
This was dear—
*Kawaharahako*—
droplets of the moon.

Passing there,
Trappist
monastery became.
The sky drew near,
Azure Pleiades.
*Kawaharahako*.
The monk’s
And again, under the moon,
it was strangled to death.
Trappist cows

It was a moonlit night.

It was a moonlit night.

It was a moonlit night.

A cabbage fluttered off a single layer,

A heavy wingbeat—an owl.

The turkey in vermilion and blue,

Puffed up and frantic.

A radiant mountain angelica,

The female stamen’s pollen hummed.

The scent of butter was fresh.

Oats, chickweed, green mugwort,
There was also the scent of a naked child.
Rustle,
Rustle,
Rustle, rustle, rustle, rustle—it was sorghum.
The crimson hanging fur opened its eyes,
It waited to see if someone would come.
Hot, hot, hot, hot,
"Huh."
—

Insects are crying too, in the grassy thicket.

Clang.

And—a sky rumble, the bell of heaven.

It is a moonlit night.
It is a moonlit night.

It is a moonlit night.

“Father.”
“Knock knock.”

“Father.”
“Knock knock.”

“Father.”
“Knock knock.”

“Father.”
“Knock knock.”

“Father.”
“Knock knock.”

“Father.”
“Knock knock.”

“Father.”
“Knock knock.”

“Vice-Director.”
“Knock knock knock.”

“Director.”
“Knock.”

“Shh.”

“Shh.”

“Shh.”

“Shh.”

“Shh.”

“Shh.”

“Shh.”

It seemed such sounds might be heard,

but truly there were none.
It was a cowshed.

The darkness stayed dark; all remained quiet.

The smell of decay, the smell of milk,
glittering golden beetles lurking,
the hushed sharp tip of a swaying tail,
scattered grass fragments,
the smell of urine,
and somewhere too—the flowers
of a half-eaten sunflower must be burning.
Eye.
Eye.
Eye.

Eye.

Eye.

Eye.

Eye.

It is a moonlit night.

It is a moonlit night.

It is a moonlit night.

“My breasts are swollen, ah.”
“Madam Maria.”

Knock.

“Shh shh.”

“Shh.”

The rest is silence,

It was a cowshed.

Duck

A duck.
A duck.
The duck

It glided upward.
Oh,

From the hollow of a great swell—

From the depths of the deep, deep abyss,

Thick waves swelled and surged,

Having climbed that swell’s slope, rocked and swayed.

The duck—how,

A yellow beak—vivid,

turned sideways,

It stopped—and the crest of the swell, having reached its zenith,

Without raising a single spray, spread out widely.

Calmly,

A vast, far-reaching world came into view.

The duck glided.
Swooping down into the hollow of a great swell,
a calm swell with no wind, it raised its tail feathers.
How it shone again,
eyes of wisdom.

The duck—ah—hid,

In the great swell wave—and then—
In the unseen ravine beyond dwelled—
That posture.—
I intuited—
Terribly dark, dark, moving—
Through the swell’s hills—
Complete silence—
Reverent purple of the cheek.

The duck was swayed again—
Ah! There it was—there it was—coming into view—

The duck came riding on a great, magnificent swell.

I wanted to call out—"Oo oo."

Floating in fine form,

Bravo! Banzai!

The duck entrusted itself

to the will of the great swell.

In the very midst of the boundless Tartar Sea,

the small duck’s water-paddling,

its chest feathers fitted snugly—

a flame-like deep blue.

The duck was a solitary one.

The light of day grew more distant the farther north it went.

The celestial realm was cold,
The clouds were deep; yet again,
The waves did not gleam,
As far as the eye could see, ungleaming waves,
Even as it appeared calm and smooth, again,
In truth,
They undulated vastly, vastly—marking time’s passage.

The duck did not cry.

A beak entirely yellow—and then,

Oh, oh—swaying, riding, gliding,

Small and well-formed,

Beautifully precise,

The duck’s figure,

An individual’s wisdom,

Ah—a single rightful existence.

Ah, it hid.
It falls away into the distance.

Ah, there it is, there it is.

Fweeeet—

That’s a whistle—mine.

The duck entrusts itself.
It perches upon the great swell.
Surge up，surge up—the massive
Swayed by the undercurrent.
The duck opens them—the quiet eyes.
The sea since the kalpa’s dawn，Tartary’s cold sky，
And yet—summer，summer，summer，

Whichever way it turned,

swells—

of unending swells,

dark, ungleaming,

terrifying yet calm—

billows and billows and billows—a continuum.

Ah, damn it,

the duck’s rump,

Night came.
Night came.

Bear-Man

White Bear, ethereal.
White Bear bears the aurora.
A person? No—White Bear.
White Bear stands freezing,

On the ice field stood the white bear alone.
It gazed far off—a pale figure.
The white bear was starving.
In the storm’s snow—ah—
the white snow blew and enveloped.
The white bear listened now
amidst voiceless voices—
the thicket clarified into white.
The white bear did not blink—
stood motionless, breath held—
as God departed, white breath escaped.
The white bear glowed.
Ice field—limitless—
dreams flew, flying white.

Spring Mosquitoes

Young Child

I see things—is this not reality?

Is that a white-patterned butterfly before you?

(Ah,
(Ah, my child.)
The sun wanes, and the wind gleams—
Can I distinguish myself from the heat shimmer?
(Ah,
(Ah, my child.)
Their head sways as they play,
Still unsated—calling to bugs and flowers.)

(Ah,
(Ah, my child.)

The stifling heat that chokes the wasteland chrysanthemums—
does it arise naturally once more?

(Ah,
(Ah, my child.)

Dimly, daringly small—
in a single stream, [the child] does release urine.

Spring

The wild strawberries—

Appearing among flowers,
the young child
ran nimbly,
through bamboo thickets,
light whispered,
the bees began building nests,
commencing labor,
serene.

Spring—ah, this dawn,
My heart
delights boundlessly.

Midday.

Wax tree blossoms.

Jewels in green,

Plastered ridges'

As their gloss turned green,

In the rice paddies, not a seed was sown.

Am I—or

A butterfly of the waking world?

Does spring truly depart?

O headless Dōrokujin.

Spring mosquitoes—

Nameless,

O murmur, ah,

Bamboo grove's

Mist lingering—

Nameless

O murmur, ah,
Grinding ink,
The heart quivers.
Nameless,
O murmur, ah,

Noon deepens.
Land of purple.

Nameless,
O murmur, ah,
Spring mosquitoes—
Suddenly swatted.
White wisteria.

Wisteria blossoms radiated beneath the eaves,

As day faded into white wisteria rows.

It must have been near Matsuda—

The rural carriage’s horn sounded.

The path of Dōryōsatta, having emerged,

Left Chinese milk vetch fields behind.

Grass-scent and children at play—

Bowed heads, soles mid-leap.

This softness—the pestle scattering rice bran,

Even that—how lonely these days were.

Melancholy—pond snails tumbled,

Night’s Pleiades spattered foaming surges.

Either way—particles of lingering light,

Legs dangling, the bee ascended.

Was nothing eternal? Was nothing to be done? Ah,

Spring departed, regardless, again.

As day faded, rows of white wisteria,

The Sakawa River had begun to appear.

Fish Village

The Sakawa River must have been drawing near,

Color, scent, form—all remained unchanged.

Moisture rose at reed roots,

Ere long, grass carps began to glimmer.

Dim light—the crouching child too,
The sweetfish bore some fine hue and sheen.
A woman grown into middle age, brows plucked bare—
If she did not light the lamp, the dace appeared blue-tinged.

Descending the Ashigara mountains,
Yet the path stretched not much farther.
Glimmering, headed east—
When proceeding to the moon-blanched fire site—
This flesh was now no earthly form,

This heart is now no heart of this world.
Wine Immortal, Child of the Golden Tortoise,
I am indeed Li Bai of Tang.

A Moonlit Night Scene of Meng Zong

Secluded Bamboo Dwelling
In a bamboo grove where I hid alone，
The myoga ginger glowed white， fragrant in scent．
Even on days when I swayed unsteadily in drunkenness，
“I am lonely， Blue Sparrow．”

Sparrow and Child

Flapped its wings,
The white-cheeked one.
Glowing,
Windless noon.

“Father, Father,”

the child called out.

On bamboo,
Again bamboo leaves.
Flapped its wings,
The white-cheeked one.
Sky, oh sky,
Crescent moon.

A Moonlit Night Scene of Meng Zong

Meng Zong.

All along I had thought.
Could such a thing be?
The full moon turned yellow.
Shadow and shadow played.
The sound of mountain streams could be heard.

Meng Zong.

Exactly as this path.
This radiance.
An openwork lattice of bamboo upon bamboo.
Blue-turned world—blue-turned world—child!

That dew,

Let us gather that shadow.

Morning glory,

this morning blooms in the neighboring thicket.

How small the morning glory's flower!

Since it is a flower from a poor garden,

even if it goes to the neighbor’s, how small it remains.

Mine Own Autumn

What remains unripe is the pine cone,

The tufted underbrush beneath young pines,

Autumn—simply seize and behold,

The dark vermilion of a cricket backlit by day.

Mother and Child

As the mother gave her breast to the child,
she held the light of the full moon to her forehead.
As the child suckled at the mother’s breast,
the star-breath at their brows was sustained.
Ah, Autumn, though one might call the fields unadorned,
in this world there exist days of such tranquility.
In the sun’s shade, white myoga flowers bloomed,
happiness welling up from insect songs abounded,
and mother’s cheek met child’s cheek.

Ah, now,
As the mother gave the child her breast,
The child’s father must have been thinking of his mother.
Ah, as the child clung to the mother,
The mother’s youthful form had yet to emerge.
Kamatsuka—
Had the sun’s path grown somewhat distant?
Autumn had arrived early; the cicadas had begun their song.
The cockscomb too had taken on crimson.
Moreover, the cockscomb—
Now it had surpassed my child’s shoulder.

Ah, wife,

What endures is no illusion—
The transient heart within this mortal shell—how profoundly poignant.
That very reality—
That very reality.

I—bamboo—

The reason I love bamboo
is the flickering sunlight that brings me joy.

Subtle is the bamboo,
dear is the bamboo—
something flickering there
brightens the smartweeds and lamb’s quarters.

Bamboo is good,
bamboo groves are good:
for their profundity,
for their coolness—
something there flickering
brightens butterflies and small ants.

The reason I love bamboo
is this flickering that delights me.

Among Bamboo

How many autumns had I spent among bamboo?

Having settled in the bamboo grove,

leaning against bamboo, bathing in the sun,

the sky's vastness, its unswerving straightness—

behold the birds in midday clouds.

Seventeenth-Day Moon

Began to wane,

Though it was a mere two-night moon,

It appeared ever so small.

The rustling of bamboo grew clearer.

Because the child stuck their face out the window,

In the clouds, small birds also soared.

*Kaoyodori*

As the mountain-dwelling autumn deepened,
helpless—the child’s face frozen at the window—
oh, chirp-chirp! Chirp-chirp!

"Cheep-cheep! Cheep-cheep," sang—

Though no winter drizzle fell upon the withered loquat,

How splendid that gathered brow—

All day long—what restless urgency!

Tidings Without Address

I’ll write an aimless poem.

If it was a day when migratory birds arrived,

If winter drizzle murmured at the window,

Bamboo, thrive where you stand; ivy’s blossom,

As it was an aimless autumn.

Flowering Paper Mulberry

White Moth

The thick-browed white moth

Evoked thoughts of the old bear.

Dusk’s white flowering ginger,

Even if you rise in fragrance, O white moth.

Dancing in moonlight—that which flies—

The color and sheen of wings that would someday wither.

Then the bright slender legs’

Vermilion powder tending toward desolation on its chest.

Lo, lo, stay, O white moth,

Autumn was but a faint thing.

The eye that sees is reality; what flies is dream.
The moon too, when it wanes, grows small.

Moonlit Night Wind

Autumn faintly awakened,
How many nights had one felt this poignancy?
Then a pale wind surged forth -
The moonlit night wind vanished away.

Shore of Autumn’s Arrival

In the spirit of Harunobu’s ukiyo-e

“How cool! How cool!” said the latter.

The woman’s sedge hat tilted.

"How cool! How cool!" said the wet nurse as she pointed.

Shore’s wet rocks sent up spray.

The waves were ripples of pale turquoise,

Offshore, a faint mirage,

And the clam, too, seemed to lament,

Admiring the sweet fragrance, they went on.

"How cool, how cool, how cool, oh—
Only that voice was carried away by the wind."

Autumn of Fragrance

Such a person I have known.
My hometown, how poignant it is.

O smiling-seeming blind one.
He placed the unplayed drum upon his hand,

What was he faintly listening to,
Ah, autumn,
Was it merely that the sunlight was good,
Was it merely by fragrance that one was left dazed?
Heave-ho! Thud! Tap!

Heave-ho,

Was he beating it half-heartedly?

Flowers were white chrysanthemums, early-blooming chrysanthemums,

Autumn—was it nothing but fragrance?

Cormorant Fisherman

To Mr. Kanji Yamashita of the Nagaragawa, Head Cormorant Fisherman of the Main Lineage

The vermilion of the bonfire glowed.

You indeed are the cormorant fisherman.

The waist straw raincoat, dripping wet,

The folded eboshi hat in ancient fashion.

Nimbly handled with his hands

The hinoki rope fluttered loosely,

O interval of time, flowing water’s—
When the boundless lamps glowed,
The cormorants chasing sweetfish
Passed before the eyes one after another.
The voice calling “Ho! Ho!”—
Who would not cherish the night?

Falconer

I am a falconer,
Not a speck stirred.
I gazed fixedly at the falcon perched on my fist.
Don’t stir.
Be still.

Seize that point.

Now, the wind through the pines whispers,

The green pine needles rustled and fluttered.

The time was ripe.

"Break forth, falcon!"

He released it with a whoosh—"Stake your all on this moment!"

Butterfly

Does it fly on and on, unaware that it flies?

The very figure of autumn that flies.

The dancing butterflies these days are small; all are yellow.

Old Man

In the shade of the chinquapin tree sat...

That white-faced old man—
belonged to someone esteemed,

Ah, as if being smiled upon by something—
The moonlight shone.

Winter Day

Torii Kiyotada Paints

The frames are all vermilion standing screens,

Now, with one knee raised and a fine brush,

A woman drawing spring willows,

The man with a topknot, lying down and watching it,

A girl polishing a man on the sunny veranda,

At the hand-water basin, Okame-zasa,

The winter day held its composure,
Still the drizzle retained its pale ink-wash hue,
The bamboo grass of modest existence, the truth of—
Ah,
A tedious little half-day ’twas.

Cursive Kana
For the luster where kneaded silver had been erased.
The ink’s color seemed to reflect well,
Moon of Showers—on such a night as this,
Cursive kana rested content.

Spring Morning

O colorful bird,
Rejoice, O this morning!
Swelling flowers’
Colors can be heard.

Grandpa and Grandma

Of Grandpa and Grandma’s—

One day, they entered the forest.

The bunting sang; the wind swept through.
When one asked what it was—the scent of flowers.
Grandpa...
Grandma...

Ah, Grandpa...

Grandma...

Spring was so utterly expansive,

Even the wisteria clusters of the ancient tree

were swaying, they say.

Flowering Paper Mulberry

The oriole slumbers in the flowering paper mulberry,
The moon rests upon the old man’s face;
He beats the drum, beats and beats it pleasingly—
Spring returns again: the flowering paper mulberry.

Early Spring in the Water Village

In the morning mist

In the deep-misted morning, children
were moving a small boat.
Ah, there were two.

This was the outskirts of Itako—
a waterway connecting marsh to marsh.
Hoh—a cricket chirped.
The water surface grew bright.
The children were listening: one at the bow,
one paddling with a small oar.
A dampness that welcomed even this faint chill—
sunlight lingered somewhere.
The willow’s sway had turned verdant.
Low fields too had been plowed open.
With a soft whoosh—fire burned somewhere—
someone scorching reed roots—who could it be?
Wind came—no—the scent of soil passed through.

Oh—Spring stirs into motion now!
They lurched forward together—
A dandelion blooms vast and golden—
In morning mist thick as woolen gauze—a cricket trills—
The children wrestle with their tiny boat—

Marsheside

I gazed on and on at the withered reeds of the marsheside.
The sparse tips of leftover reeds.
My small boat hoisted its sail, yet also
alternated between sculling oar and punt pole.
Though it rained, it was the dampness of a mist-like rain;
though it was wind, it differed from winter’s.
If an abandoned fire spread along the water’s edge,

Even the coarse reeds were tinged with green.

Ah, a journey—
At times the heart tightened, yet also,
I replaced them with laughter; I replaced them with affection.
――

Cow—
Beauty, desolate solitude—
Ah, this tranquility—
The small boat went—on the marsh’s surface—
The tranquil milky gold of evening calm.
In the small boat were a duck and a reddish cow—
(What a splendid scene)

They were quietly loaded,
their prone, bright forms.

Harmony, unadorned simplicity,

Ah, this tranquility.

The girl raised the pole, then inserted it again,

The parents crouched, with the good weariness of cultivation.

A rare, splendid day hovered between presence and absence,

Dust glimmered at the reed tips,

As the marsh's vista broadened,

A cricket chirped.
It choked on the budding of something.

Melancholy, gentle warmth,

Ah, this tranquility.

Early spring’s vast setting sun,

Distant, weathered thatched roofs, withered poplars.

All things dwell beneath a gentle light—the cow’s

Tranquil gaze holds them within its depths.

Ah, this closeness, this gratitude,

All things abide in luminous prayer.

Spring in the Water Village

I

At the flume where the waterwheel rotated,

A child opened the shoji window.

Spring lingered yet unborn; upon sprouting barley,

Patches of remnant snow glistened.

II

Spring rain hazed the small river—

Ah, this village where a plank bridge spans.

Beneath these paddies, those paddies yonder: sprouts emerged,

Donning straw hats and coats, they began their early plowing.

III
A cluster of sprouted shepherd's purse—
In morning light grazed the cow,
Where marsh meets field lingered faint
The ceaseless fall's fragrant vow.

IV
Frog croaks koro-koro chorus clear,
Mud snail answers kororo dear—
Koro-koro, kororo drawing near:
"Spring's lower fields—sprout now! Appear!"

V

Frogs croak—in the distant fields,

The sprouting willows sway too.

Who is it there—in this mist-like drizzle,

This morning, a fire burns bright.

VI

Spring remains shallow across the rice paddies—

The wild celery was not eaten by the horse.

Going and returning, plowing,
the day drew to a close in rain.

VII

Two tall poplars,

The boat child scraped the pot’s sooted belly,

The thatched house with its exposed earthen-floored area

Did not yield to the swallows’ flight.

VIII

The villager awoke in the dawn mist—
Was it wild geese crossing or something diving?
"Quickly now, row out, O workboat!"
The skies over Okita cleared.

IX

That which was loaded onto the workboat—

Plow, hoe, black cow—

Morning mist clung to the oar—

The girl’s red sash.

X

The fruit of the chinaberry, too, is forlorn!

The thatched house where straw mats were woven,
All day long echoed with sound,
All day long the rain fell.

XI

Because the eyes of the child sorting straw were visible,
Did the marsh’s glow seep through?

Now and then cry out, O grebe,
The daytime moon too makes its passage.

XII

On the advancing butterfly’s wings

The dampness of soil does not flow.

Truly, spring lies upon the fields’ surface,

From their edges suffusing the field paths.

Golden haze

A calm winter

Withered utterly，winter of calm vistas，
Winter of soft sunlight，
Winter was still beyond the stream．
Winter was in the old walnut treetops．
Winter was in the glistening white birch branches．
Withered mountains and withered fields，
Here and there，the marsh waters and—
It still had not deeply warmed，
There was something that intoxicated．
A restful yet incomplete settling．
I had such a day，
Pleasant fatigue，
Neglected travels，
Having abandoned all，a heart that had settled—

Before long spring too would come.
The air was good.
The light was good.

I was rubbing my legs.
I was patting my knees on the veranda.

Early Spring Breakfast

To eat such early spring air—
It was nothing less than bodily nourishment.
I ate the morning light again.

Larch buds,
Frog voices,
Young violet’s pale lavender,
Trembling dewdrops,—

I gaze upon each and eat.
“Kikuko, what a fine breakfast this is.”

Fresh, delicious side dishes.

I eat even your breath,

I eat even to the soul of the soul.

In the larch forest.
Soft was the early spring larch mountain.
Slightly hazy were the streaks of filtered sunlight.
Withered grass in the valley.
A person warming the mineral spring split firewood.
Afternoon chimney smoke.

I returned tired,

I thought I might have walked a bit too much.

Even so, the snowy Asama was good,

The hawk’s flight too.

Soft, the early spring larch mountain,

That golden mist.

A baby bird

The drizzling larch’s

Pecking at sprouting fresh green buds—

The downy fledgling’s cry—thin and frail—

It gazed upon an unfamiliar spring and cried.

Winter Day

I gazed upon the aged walnut tree,

Today too, I split walnuts.

O blue sky above the walnut treetop,

O blue sky, remain steadfast forever.

Fine Night

1

Moonlit night’s

A well-withered white birch it is.

2

The moonlit night grazed what seemed an aged thicket.

Shadow

In the larch

The larch’s shadow was cast.
It was a moonlit night.

Tree.

In the grove of white birches.

The walnut tree stood aged alone.

The blueness of the flowers!

Afterword

In a single syllable’s utterance lies the vastness of the cosmos.
Day and night I peer into this cosmos through my lens, my very being trembling with secret astonishment and lamentation.
In essence, even if we speak of kotodama’s vitality as emanating from countless invisible atoms—equating it with bacterial action—to me, this feels profoundly terrifying.

To delicately discern the essence of each word and sound—their interconnections and the blending of rhythms—and establish processes such as smelting, filtering, forging, and creation as an enduring path: this was none other than the sole supreme work of those who served as disciples of kotodama.
I labored fervently over my verses.
I grew gaunt through revision.
Yet as stated in the preface, even this beloved path left no alternative.
The very agony of this revision became my supreme joy—irreplaceable by anything else—and my own creative madness remained beyond my control.

What is the vitality possessed by the myriad atoms within a single sound?
The life dwelling in each individual atom is—through the poet’s innate disposition, thoughts, emotions, sensations, and through how the willpower and velocity of feeling that inundate their heart and flesh are attuned—first unified within multifarious forms, harmonized therein, and therein made manifest.
The poet’s spirit, abiding within each word and sound it takes in, already glows fragrantly and scintillatingly—like pollen, like jeweled dew.

Therefore, when faced with such misinformed remarks—those who perceive only a hedonistic duet of words and sensations in my work and declare *Hakushu* lacks philosophical substance—I find it sufficient merely to smile. I no longer mean to inhabit a world of such lingering attachment that I might rage against this.

Regarding the tendencies of my recent poetry, one may refer to the various pieces in this collection’s *Ancient New Hymns*, or to “Old Hen” from *White Flower-Bird Painting*, and “Cape Shiosaki” and “In the Mountains of Karafuto” from *Seal and Clouds*. “Cloudy Day’s Sea of Okhotsk” “Old Ainu’s Song” and other works from *Worshipping the Wind* such as “High Noon” and “Bridge Landscape,” further reaching the recognition of modern deities in “Steel Landscape”—all lie in newly reconstructing the spirit of ancient Japanese Shinto within this modern era. I call back from the distant and boundless winds and clouds above such texts as the *Kojiki*, *Nihongi*, *Fudoki*, and *Norito*, fervently praying through the power of *kotodama* for the revival of ancient deities, while ardently seeking to imbue them with modern illumination and order. As one of the Japanese people, I do not find it acceptable to readily conform to those Western-influenced ideas currently in vogue.

Moreover, I believe that grasping antiquity's essence is not merely rummaging through archaic dead words.
It is precisely seizing with bare hands the rhythm of primordial emotions pulsing with raw vitality.
I feel I have at last grasped this—if only partially.

Meanwhile, I secretly sought to cultivate the modern yūgen form amidst moonlight, flowers and birds, and ancient customs. In such works as *White Flower-Bird Painting*, *Moonlit Valley*, *Fairy-Tale Moon*, and *Flower Paper Mulberry*, these elements could be found.

I sought to gather poetic material from my wanderings and daily life as myself, striving to cultivate the poetic realm.
In *Mist of Gold Dust*, *Early Spring in the Water Village*, *Moonlit Night with Moso Bamboo*, *Spring Mosquitoes*, *Seal and Clouds*, *Night of the Bead Craftsman*, and other chapters as well, these elements blend and are scattered throughout.

I deeply savor the vivid freshness of nature and life that arises in turn. In perceiving even the ancient and weathered anew, I consider it human happiness to live and thereby delight in how boundless fragrance, variegated hues, and radiance unfold ever more expansively as a landscape before my eyes. However, my perspective likely differs somewhat from that of those so-called optimists spoken of by the vulgar world. Even during my graveside life at Tennōji, my “joy of living” made me tremble with vivid intensity from the depths of my heart. And thus made me consider myself as needing to be increasingly humble.

Regarding poetic expression, I consider breath-like effusion to be the supreme form.
I regard that which has form yet is formless, color yet lacks appearance, scent yet cannot be grasped—a voiceless voice—as being akin to the heart's own voice.
I abhor the use of grotesque or contrived literature.
For the essence of poetic expression resides not in written characters but in sound.
Though given voice, it must not fade—it dwells in the wavering of a soundless tone.
Supreme technique exists in utmost purity, rejecting even the faintest discordance, even a minuscule pebble upon its tongue.
It most despises crudeness and ostentation.

I am constantly subjecting myself to the press of revision as I delve into the profound subtleties of each word and sound. However, I do not consider it weakness to never merely flavor the delicate nuances of word-sounds while forgetting the expression of the grand scheme. I believe it should be delicate in sound yet bold in spirit, at times embodying ancient robustness and simplicity, while also being unrestrained and free. It depends on the nature of the poetic material and the depth of emotion.

Yet this is what I wish for. However, I possess no hubris to consider my very poetic technique itself as a completed work that would serve as primary evidence of this. Rather, I know too well my own current immaturity. Regarding each and every one of these poems—because I know their flaws too minutely—I do not hesitate to endure ten times the hardship others might.

This collection gathered poetic works from approximately eight years following *Suibokushū*. From life at a mountain villa in Odawara blessed with bamboo groves around the time of the earthquake, to my temporary dwelling next to bead craftsmen at Yanaka Tennōji 18-banchi, and then a year on a hill overlooking Moonlit Valley in Ōmori’s Magome—all this transpired during this period. That during these long years I hesitated to publish even a single volume that should stand as my primary poetry collection was due to knowing all too deeply this unfinished state within myself. I do not think I leaned too far into self-regard. My conscience did not permit it.

Furthermore, in designing this collection, just as with *Takamura* and *The Moon and Walnut*, I am grateful for the collaboration of Mr. Nakayama Shōsaburō.
(Setagaya Wakabayashi)