Pathway to Japanese Literature

Ancient New Ode

Sacred Nuthatch

Fly, Deep Mountain Sacred Nuthatch,

The gods still did not awaken.

A sacred rope was stretched around the base of the rock,

Ritual offerings were tied with sacred paper streamers and hung,

In the rustling sound of the sacred sakaki’s mirror-like leaves,

They purified.

Sing out now, Deep Mountain Sacred Nuthatch,

The sun was young—that young deity,

The east already shimmered with dawn’s first light.

Chrysanthemum Abundance

Young girls, in the yellow chrysanthemums dwells an ancient fragrance.

There is purely Japanese austere simplicity and dignity.

Ah, let us sit in this quiet garden of chrysanthemum fragrance.
Young girls, in the yellow chrysanthemums dwells the majesty of the Ninefold.
The sun and moon above clouds also emit their fragrance.
The young Emperor’s breathing could be heard.
Young girls, in the yellow chrysanthemums dwells the light of the sacred mirror.
The solemn atmosphere of the Imperial Sanctuary grew purified.
Her Majesty the Empress too appeared in a white karaginu robe.
Young girls, in the yellow chrysanthemums shone the afternoon of Shishinden Hall.
The golden phoenix of Takamikura, the jewels of jeweled banners, brocade with blue ground,
The majestic Ōsosen Imperial Robe was reverently viewed.

Young girls, in the yellow chrysanthemums even the creaking of His Majesty's carriage resonated.

The honor guards' flag-spears continued to flicker.

Ah, thus came the Japanese people’s new blessing.

White Flower-and-Bird Painting

Upon the Water

When I gazed upon silver ripples,

The crimson lotus's fragrance drifted faintly.

When the snipe heralded dawn, as I gazed out—a faint turbidity,

The pair of mandarin ducks swam and faded from view.

How boundless it was, oh—night after night’s

Sorrow spread through my heart.

Wind Worship

Winter fields
The winter view perfected in desolation.
A small knight rode off on horseback.
Deploy now, Yellow Airship,
Silver tidings glimmering.

October Cityscape

October,

The metropolis Tokyo at 1:00 and 2:00 PM,

The sunlight shone ridiculously white, three-dimensional.

The citizens—against the foreground of high-rise buildings—

Bustled about as usual, like beans.

Red and blue and purple, parasol flowers, flowers, flowers,

The cars sped, swerved—an insect-like turmoil.

I imagined.
Ah, this moment.

The khaki-colored airship exploded, in the distant sky.

A point flashed and vanished—people, people, people.

October,

At the rooftop garden's drinking table that—if I were to exaggerate—scraped the sky,

I extended the old-fashioned telescope while,

I was searching for the childlike heart I had once lost.

Night of the Rosary Makers

Moonlit Night

Good flowers send forth air.

Parachutes released from the moon.

Ah, O fair maiden,

Tonight, a flute will sound.

Peacock

Blue peacock’s white shin,

The moon polishes its claws.

A crown of fans, emeralds,

In darkness where no rustle stirs.

The dark blue length beside the cheek,

Steaming crimson-black clouds of early night.

Conceal it, O women—at least,

The oak in bloom-time, night’s hour.

Ah, the moon shines moment by moment,

The light crawls up the knee.

Spread wide, O peacock, tail feathers’

Whorls of golden gauze in deep purple.

The cemetery in the depth of night

In the deep-night cemetery

A sound,
rustling,
flowers fall.
Not illusion—
in cloud gaps,
spirits gather.

Stillness.

The depth of night reigns,

The flowers stir,

Rustling,

Falling incessantly.

O treetops,

Illuminated by the moon,

A sound exists,

Struck dark leaves.

Advancing.

His Majesty the Emperor’s worries had been burdened.

Ah, the day's end,

In the cold haze, people’s figures vanished,

Trees darkened,

At the park intersection, the postbox stood red.

His Majesty the Emperor’s worries had been burdened.

Toward the town,

Bells, vehicles, radios, voices,

Standing there and listening—only,

Something deep,

And darkly they roared again.

His Majesty the Emperor's worries grew heavier.

Illumination flickering in the haze,

Elevated railway,
Government railway trains passed each other,
Ah, spark,
December,
The wind blew, the wind blew on.
In the moon,
His Majesty the Emperor’s imperial malady had grown heavy,
His Majesty the Emperor’s imperial malady had grown heavy.
While pressing together their dear little palms,
Three or four children prostrated themselves.
The winter moon illuminated the jeweled fence,
The frost did but fall ceaselessly.

Winter.

Even in the impoverished winter alley,
Chimney smoke thickened into night,
A cheap hotel with lights on in the windows,
The moon’s warped reflection was just right.
The dead tree was a tall keyaki.

Fairy Tale Moon

White moon

Because of the white moon,

Did the plovers of day not come?

Waves, come, come,

The boy called out from the beach.

Because of the white waves,

Because of the white moon, were they not drawn near?

Moon and Child

Our child was still one year and five months old. He had recently come to recognize the moon for the first time.

The moon smiled at the child.

As it was still daytime—go play.

The child played while looking at the moon.

He saw the white moon for the first time.

O sound of waves,

O faint crimson of sorghum tassels,

O distant sound of your flute.

Nanoriso

Eternally may you meet them too—the whalers gathering seaweed by the sea’s shore from time to time. Princess Sotoori.

the algae called Nanoriso

O girl I have yet to know,
the algae called Nanoriso -
small birds eat,

"No, fish eat them."
"Now, as for the truth—you,"
"You won’t understand unless you persist a bit longer."

“Look! A pearl-colored moon is out.”

Things That Fly to the Moon

The moonlight shone.

On withered grapes,
On sundial.
The moon's smoldering had come.
Scattered hues,
Stitching shadows.
O things flicker-flying moonward.
Faint purple
Companion birds O.
The moon had grown distant.
O dream never seen.

O those days.

Moonlit Night

In the crystal-clear midheaven,

A small full moon embedded,

That halo was the tail of a white peacock.

"Wake up, little one,

“Look up, straight above.”

“Itty-bitty, itty-bitty little one.”

Daybreak came.
The faintly red lotus bud,
the dew-cooled waterbird's
chest swelled as though,
the night dawned faintly.

“Good morning, Bakery.”
“Oh, good morning.”

Spring Morning

In the faint breeze,
My cheek already quickens with spring.
Ah, my child,
“Come to the garden, good things you shall see,”
O good morning, good, good dampness—
Tender butterflies shall be born.
White, white light shall come.

Seals and Clouds

O Virgin

In the outskirts of Hakodate, Hokkaido, in a place called Yunokawa, there was a Trappist convent.
It was a place where men were prohibited.
That place they called Angel Garden.

You were indeed the Virgin.

Bride of Jesus Christ.

Dawn's lily of the valley.

Moonlit flax.

You are indeed the Virgin.

Angel Garden in bloom.

Radiant hymn-Mass.

The Angelus bell's sound.

You are indeed the Virgin.

Handmaid of the Virgin Mary.

A silver-smile.

Wooden clogs for milking cows.

You are indeed the nun.

Rome’s Catholic beloved child.

The sacred lamp that had begun to burn.

The robin at the grape trellis.

You are indeed, you are indeed the true Virgin.

A small star unseen by day.

Even while cutting sunflowers,

A kiss sent to the Lord.

Mirage

A sail's shadow, or—

A ship? That—

Form was absent,

It simply pressed onward.

Okhotsk’s

At the sea’s end,

Time brightened.

Edge, silver.

No anchor,

False cold—

Shell Tower

In yellow, in the waking world.

Is there a god, or is it all emptiness,

Thus and so—

Only I pondered.

Kaihan—

Stumbled over

Waves, waves, waves,

They simply surged.

Peninsula Travelogue

Golden
Round moon
Emitting flames,
Mountain’s trees

Already black,

Sharpening cold.

Simply folding.

Cove, cape.

Wave, ripple.

Distant,

Again near,
This brightness.
Pine roots’

Patchy snow.
It was still hardening.
People passed by.
Lapping,
shadows did not form.

Pomegranate.
Pomegranate flew.
From a person’s hand,
In the sky—
Halo and red.
The sea’s waves surged on and on,
Silver-bright.
Dazzling,

This spring morning.

Midday’s aching,

A momentary parabola.

Before moonrise

The night was dark.
The offing subsided,
only the sound of breaking waves remained.
In the sound of waves heard late into the night,
the motor's roar also sounded.
At the speckled stars, dogs barked.
Cement barrels rolled.

The moonrise was still far off.

It was the cold where streaked clouds scattered.

In the dark murmur of the high tide,

There was a hunger-stirring commotion.

Just one—a sunflower? No,

The pier’s line of lights.

Ah, it was the beach—phosphorescent eyes.

There was a person.
Heave ho.

Shore.
Filled with sun-radiant waves,
No place passed without ceaseless blowing.
Luminously—
Cross now, flock of birds,

Autumn lay far along the gaze's path.

A spring mosquito.

Spring close at hand.

A white single-petaled wild strawberry,

A matchbox with vermilion label,

Day as day,

Night as night,

The brightness of spring close at hand.

In the jar's single-petaled wild strawberry,

The phosphorus of struck matches,

Tobacco, nothing but.

Sucked into haze,

The playful heart's smokiness.

Overslept morning.
The superb jar's
peach blossoms,
merely thrust into
the branch's excellence.
Upon the branch's excellence,
bluish leaves sprouted tenderly,
until the stamen's bristling hairs gleamed.

“Oh, tobacco!”

Spring departs.

April 11th
Over there
Red peach blossoms,
On the palm fronds
Rang
Sunlight.
The moths were still
Unable to fly,
The glass of this window,
On the glass
Pressed their wing undersides.
Light bulb

In the bedroom,

Thin purple,

In the study,

White candlelight.

Bamboo,

Bamboo,

Bamboo,

A single one dangling softly,

At the north window,

Orange sphere.

The night does not deepen,

Sleep, bush warbler,

Spring snow
Faintly seeping.

Tabletop
On celadon, thin gold.
Two or three volumes, Kyōka Zenshū,
White flowers, jarred raspberries,
Rounded vines, an unglazed earthenware teapot.

Steam still wafted about there,
Aimless, my existence.
Moonlit Moso Bamboo Scene

Dog’s Tooth Path

Dog’s Tooth blossoms must have been blooming.

Illumined by the sun and intricately red,

the path too narrowly spilled over with blooms.

Along that path,

he finally managed to toddle along gathering.

My beloved child.

Let the insects sing! Let the dew rise!

My child, stand upon the earth—today clearly.

Evening.

Sun Deva,

Moon Deva,

Rill-rill-rill sang the insects.

The child clung to the mother.

Wild geese alighted upon the field plain.

Little Song

The child playing in the bamboo grove

Was bare-skinned,

He must have been lonely, all alone,
Swayed front,
Swayed back,
The scorching sunlight filtered through bamboo leaves,
Dappled light, dappled light dappling,
Dappled light, dappled light dappling,
The child watched and delighted in it.
Blades of grass.

Even on the small child’s crown,
Moonlight spills.
Blades of grass dense upon the soil,
Shadows sway and rustle as the wind.

Moonlight Melody
The infant clinging to the mother's breast—
The wondrous smallness of the tiny crown.
In the moonlight, white bush clover—
Night spilled over, fragrant.
Earth’s Surface

The bamboo grove was bright,
the autumn wind alone had filled.
Tonight’s bewildering Moon Deva—
did he deign to summon Princess Kaguya?

Osmanthus.

The osmanthus was fragrant!

Fragrant from next door.

Fragrant even when alone.

It filled the high grove.

The moonlight had filled!

Autumn of Sesame Seeds

The sesame seeds had already plumped,
Two each clasped by the stems.
Sesame flowers scattered from below,
On the ears remained, still faintly luminous.
Thrive, even if the earth quakes,
Ripen high on the stem, sesame seeds.
O autumn,
When cicadas sang persistently,
With a thunderous roar,
The airplane flew in those lofty heavens.
Fallen chestnut.
Within the green of chestnut burrs,

Cicadas sang persistently.

Chestnuts fell, the earth trembled, yet—

The sunlight remained unchanged,

Someone gathered fallen chestnuts alone.

Moth
Faintness—
White moth’s
Wings not yet dead.
Surging—
Temple garden’s

The lingering summer sun.
Autumn was slightly—
being dragged along.
Only reflected in the white moth’s eye.

Light,

Shadow,

Breathing,

Wind and Butterfly.

They chased the butterfly.

Glittering wind rows.

Wind rows of

Swaying green grass.

This road's
Endlessness.
There is the sky,

Depths of the sky.

The wind chased.

They chased the butterfly.

Serene night.

Vividness—the serene night’s

First- and second-magnitude stars.

Forgetting the moon’s presence,

The child was flying the bamboo dragonfly.

Forever and ever, the bamboo dragonfly shone.

On the pampas grass—two perfectly round dewdrops.
Plop-plop—something sounds.
Early Autumn—
it’s the sound of waves drawing near—
it’s red spider lilies at bamboo roots.

Paper Mulberry Flowers

Song

The song was nothing but a faint glimmer,

With a pleasant fragrance,

Like newly bloomed flowers,

With lofty silk, with breath's cadence,

It was the smile of a desolate soul—

I do wish it were so—

“How is everyone?”

The Flower's Full Bloom

The full bloom of flowers—even clover blossoms—
Were tightly closed,
Gave off a pleasant fragrance,
Displayed a pleasing color—
Not a trace of malice remained.

How splendid the flowers were in their prime—ah,
In youth,
Everything must be in its youth.

Tranquility.

Of a cloudy day.

In a breeze so faint it might not exist,

Fluttering, the willow catkins drifted—

To the vicinity of the kingfisher’s nest—

The kingfisher was not there.

Only, the weasel was bedridden with smallpox.

Loofah.

In folk song style,

Two or three yellow flowers,

Twining up to palm leaf-tips,

With a soft snap, it slipped loose,
Began blooming downward,
What flower could it be? It began blooming downward.

Now, though unaware,
the already formed shape of the fruit
because of the fruit that swayed and wobbled,
"What a funny loofah!"
"What a funny loofah!"
the wife said.
the wife said.

The wife said.

Autumn.

Snipes took flight,
Snipes took flight,
It was an autumn of nothing but that, descending.

It descends, you see—

“There, Reverend,”

Hurry up now!—the wind rushed through.

Wandering monk

Ah, autumn had come already.

I am but a wandering monk with no fixed abode,

so I resolved to go listen to mountain winds through pines.

As flowers scatter freely—so too shall I—

to these Patrinia blooms by bamboo grass,

gazing long while moving onward.

Now—white—

Having seen even the seventh- and eighth-day moon,
He would partake of the provisions for lunch.
He would partake of the provisions for lunch.

Fenggan

Autumn deepened,
The tiger's eyes deepened.
Mountain pine winds grew higher.

“But, Kanzan,”

“The tiger’s back is warm.”

“Indeed indeed—it’s warm I tell you!”

Chinese Child-Selling Ballad

Nanjing Little Lament

O Chinese child with hair in topknots, O Chinese child,
Let’s sell the child, sell, sell the child.
O spring day how long, how serene,
O large rush hat of the street vendor’s cry.
O Chinese child in yellow clothes, O Chinese child,
Carried on shoulders, rocked in a basket.
O spring day how long, how serene,
Swaying forward and back, unresisting.

O young child, Chinese child, O Chinese child,
Gathering his round eyes, collecting them.
O spring day how long, how serene,
Do you not even know you’re being sold away?

O Chinese child with hair in topknots, O Chinese child,
O curious sights, he gazes at the town.
O spring day how long, how serene,
When the wind blows, the willow catkins—!

Take your pick, O Chinese child, O Chinese child,
Let’s sell the child, sell, sell the child.
O spring day how long, how serene,
O spectacles of the bridge at the water’s inlet!

He
Through beauty's virtue of patient submission,
He was rightly praised.
He, all alone, dwelling in solitude,

Nay, he has fully savored the lofty "time of no higher realm."

He naturally communed with divinity.

Hibernation

Early winter.

Though they had settled in, it was early winter.
They came to the bean persimmons dotted here and there.
The smallness of the birds.

Clear winter sky.

I watch the flock of white-eyes.

Clustered bean persimmons!
O clear winter sky's azure!

I sketch one white-eye voraciously feeding.

Ah, wait a moment—I'll sharpen the pencil.

Little bird

White-eyes.

White-eyes spilling over.

Ah, a brown-eared bulbul came.

The white-eyes scattered.

A shrike came.

The brown-eared bulbul fled.

The shrike changed branches, took flight.
Ah, clear winter day,
Clustered red red bean persimmons.

I waited again.

White-eyes，brown-eared bulbuls，shrikes.

Dusk of December 3rd.

Trilling trilling, still,

Insects chirped.

The child stumbled and dislocated

The scraped knee joint.

The moon did not glow yellow.

It was the electric-light line.

Pine winds, pine winds.

Clouds like birds' feathers drifting.

Rustle rustle

The withered loquat's perfect form,

Sparrow and great shrike,

Moso bamboo in lingering sunlight

Rustle rustle,

An extraordinary rustling of waves.

Ah, within that crystalline clarity—now,

The electric light flared sudden.

Rustle rustle

Ah, rustle rustle.

To the people of Mino.

Hōi Hōi Hōi,

"The frost lies heavy, Thrush!"

Waterland's Early Spring

Three Grades of Black Hair

Mountain Hues Meet Heaven

At the water's edge where reed buds greened,
The child's mother combed her black hair—

The nape’s whiteness, its coldness,
The distant mountain snow’s remoteness.

Mirage-filled sea.

Her black hair soaked to its full length,

There was an ama diver wringing the hem of her skirt.
Because of the moon of the first and second days,
the evening tide’s clamor lay dim.
Smoke and mist are sentient beings—
beating time, growing crisper—
the woman of the marsh who traveled by boat
on a morning when budding willows hazed.

Black hair swayed in the wind.

A haze of gold dust.

Horse

With her traveler’s heart eased today, holding her child, she strolled around gazing at ema horses and such at Bessho Kitamuki Kannon in Shinshu.

“My boy, look at those ema horses.”

“Ah, the horses are frolicking.”

White horses,

Roan horses,

Black horses,

Prancing horses,

Sleeping horses,

Horses lined up drinking water,

Swimming horses,

Horses gazing off into the distance,

Horses turning back,

A lone horse,

Emerging horses,

Disappearing horses,

Thousands upon hundreds of horses,

Foothills full of horses,

The horses gathered in groups among themselves.

The wind blew through the pampas grass.