Pathway to Japanese Literature

Before/After the Earthquake

Pale Sun Cliff

White Chrysanthemum

How many brightenings until the yellow pistils stand out—the disarray of white chrysanthemums, this morning still cold.

With yellow pistils ever more prominent, the White Chrysanthemum's flowers—all small—bloom in disarray.

Crisply this morning bloom in profusion—the White Chrysanthemum’s leaves cast shadows where soil appears purple.

At the White Chrysanthemum flowers where my solitary heart of this morning fixes its lingering gaze

O fragrance of White Chrysanthemum—though I know not why, your serene blooming in full splendor makes me weep.

As much as they bloom, the small chrysanthemums within the hedge cast shadows, gathering in stillness where sunlight is faint.

Living alone—somehow relaxing as midday deepens—yet I long for wine amidst these chrysanthemums in full bloom.

While gazing at this hedge-enclosed space that narrows my view, the radiant faces of white chrysanthemums become limitlessly clear.

Chrysanthemums by the Hedge

At Kamakura Komachi-en

In the sunlit hedge, white chrysanthemums—Komachi chrysanthemums—bloom past their prime while stillness lingers.

White chrysanthemums—fragrant yet serene; quiet sunlight bathes their tranquil forms.

How many calm chrysanthemum shadows grace the brushwood fence—the sun shifts its path, leaving none illuminated.

That which scents the air—sunlit blooms and shaded blooms—a cold chrysanthemum fragrance indistinguishable in origin.

In sunlit spaces observed—quiet reigns; the chrysanthemum fragrance drifts through a day spent in leisure.

Grass Spikes

Parents' ceaseless longing—pheasant's cry Bashō

The boundary between sunlit patches and shadows came into view—something swayed ceaselessly upon desolate spikes.

Japanese Nutmeg Nuts

On the nutmeg tree grew Japanese nutmeg nuts; ripened, they did not fall.
When I picked up the fallen ones and looked—nutmeg nuts frozen with dew, the beloved bullets of pointed nuts resembling even the head of a green child, my cradled child's.

In the cold morning, cradling nutmeg nuts as I gathered them; my child's palm firmly held one.

The bluish-green of nutmeg nuts gathered while stooping; earnestly placed in that morning's frost and dew.

In the palm of my green child, clenched with effort, one small nutmeg nut was grasped tightly.

A frost-tinged nutmeg nut pressed firmly down—why did this child's palm burn so warm?

"Do you think even nutmeg nuts feel dear?"—stroking my green child’s beloved hair.

The green child’s pointed head—so resembling them—ah!—gathering these frost-laden nuts.

This morning too I saw them manifest so vividly—nutmeg nuts—"Here now! Here now!" urging my child to gather.

At nutmeg roots dwelled Kaya-no-ki Jizo reverently; children stood there amidst mist-draped tree droplets.

Nutmeg nuts tumbled where frost gripped belowground—sifting through them still, how dear they stayed.

On the Rattan Chair

What play engrossed this absent child? Only the back of their swaying head was visible upon the chair.

In absent-minded head-shaking—the figure from behind—seeing it as my child, I could scarcely catch my breath.

My child played alone so well—how long had it been?—not a single sound uttered in the bright midday sun.

My child played deeply engrossed; following behind while peeking and smiling，I held my breath.

That child, being young in solitary play—if they got too carried away—would raise their hands and shout.

Cockscomb Seeds

Basked in today’s sunlit warmth—harvesting seeds from cockscombs cut and dried to completion.

Stems and leaves both crimson—the cockscombs’ roots cut and beaten into the ground—their clustered seed husks.

Red seeds forming grains seeping into palm sweat—softly rubbing the cockscomb seeds.

Today too, I diligently completed—the cockscombs’ thousand-gold pills placed in a cloth bag.

Pale Sunlight

Before one knew it, the cold seemed to set in; walking while gazing at the shadow of bamboo and boiled herbs on the cliff in pale sunlight.

The dried leaves of bamboo-boiled herbs rustled; both wind and sunlight cast shadows.

Now withered—within the husks of hibiscus fruits, silk-like hairs shone as they dried and split.

Winter Clear Sky

In the sunlit spot, two buds of the strangely rare gentian were opening.

The winter thistle in the sunlit spot, blown upon—the swaying shadow of a butterfly held such unreality.

Moon and Moso Bamboo

The full moon deepened into midnight—the wind swayed Moso Bamboo's finest shoots mightily.

In the glaringly bright moonlit night came rustling—the swaying of Moso Bamboo brought that piercing cold.

In the dread-filled moonlit thicket—just as I wondered if the light wavered—the shadows of leaves stirred restlessly.

With eyes awakened, I thought regretfully—this prayerful heart might not be forgiven—as I faced the moon.

Nutmeg and Chestnut

The chestnut burrs of the old chestnut tree at this temple had withered again before the nutmeg tree.

The nutmeg tree remains so verdant, yet the deciduous chestnut stands starkly withered.

Crape Myrtle: Trial Piece

“The crape myrtle’s bloomed! Look there—at the edge of the neighbor’s temple’s thatched roof.”

“The crape myrtle has bloomed at the temple after so long. Why not go see it while you’re out playing?”

The crape myrtle bloomed crimson; beneath those flowering shadows, the temple girl bounced her handball.

The crape myrtle had bloomed crimson—someone gazed at it; someone said it had bloomed crimson.

Soft as Buddha’s palm—the faint red of crape myrtle shines through.

“Go tell them ‘The crape myrtle has bloomed crimson’—even Mother might come to see it.”

As they came and went, murmuring “How red, how red” while gazing at the neighboring temple’s crape myrtle.

The peak of the crape myrtle’s bloom had passed; perhaps it was time to put up some spaced-out shoji panels.

Father: Trial Piece

This Father lifted him up again and again—“Look here, boy! With these red flowers—where do you think you’re going?”

“Look here, boy! The crape myrtle’s bloomed—so red! So red! Let’s pick some and see!”

“Look here, boy! The sea beyond can be seen—isn’t it beautiful? Let me lift you up to see!”

Tea Flowers

Still early in autumn, yet already the temple's tea flowers spilled over around the tea plant's base.

More than the faint tea flowers did the thick blue leaves evoke sorrow—when plucking a branch.

Hakone's Winter

Upper Reaches of Sukumogawa River

Mountains and rivers soaked their shadows in winter’s deep pools; camellias grew thick, sheltering their blooms.

Sukumogawa River—in the cold shade’s rock bed, the slimy ice’s surface held a blackish hue.

Hakone Reed Lake

Tōga Island Asebi soaked through and standing - on the rock bed toward dawn congealing icicles this.

Awakening near my parents’ pillows, I listen to the passage of cold coming through the lake.

Lying between my parents, I realize—how could their breathing be peaceful?

With my parents on New Year’s Day, I saw—the pampas grass across the entire mountain has aged dreadfully in their tassels.

Regarding Mother—though I tried to pass it on by speaking before Father alone—the cold remains intense!

Hakone Old Road

Hakone Road—in the shade of mountain pines, one or two thatched houses stood cold, drying wood shavings.

The sunlight struck the stone-paved path of the mountain pass—this brightness! To think it winter.

Though midday still froze the crags' recesses; deliberate treading deepened the grasses' autumn hues.

On frost-frozen grass leaves where midday’s harshness lingered—spreading kraft paper, I ate a boiled egg.

By the brushwood fire, the sake’s color boiled in the flask; chanting intently, I performed the spirit summoning.

The day was cold; now when I looked up, through pine branches shone the oak’s splendor.

Briar Berries

In the hollowed hill’s terraced fields, along their ridges—briar berries strung like beads, yet how deep the frost lay.

Short Winter Days

Oh, how short the days were—the frost on the undergrowth in the back thicket kept freezing.

At times—

At times—there was leisure; even the swaying of the kaya tree's soaked branches caught my eye.

Piercingly cold and brightened, the nearby small bamboo swayed; watching through the glass door, I waited for the meal.

Reading a book, my heart found peace; at times I, being kind-hearted, would bake mochi and such.

Cockscomb

The cockscomb shone translucent from its crown—each successive lower leaf burned crimson even as they faded.

The hibiscus that had bloomed early already withered—how long would this crimson cockscomb remain?

Camellia

In the pool where sansho fish dwell,
the mountain camellia must glow crimson—
spring.

Enoshima Gleanings

In the shade of red camellia flowers on Shimayama, rubbing my feet, I rested with Mother.

The thread of the flower wreath the children wove pierced through the vivid camellia stamens.

Tenjinyama Gleanings

When the moon shone large upon the holly oak, a horned owl opened its eyes and hooted "hoo-hoo".

Song of the Hakone Mountain Foothills

Mountain Spear Cedars

Last winter, having visited Hakone,

The spear cedars facing the sunlit mountain's mystery clustered together, their leafy thickets growing dense.

Scorched by frost and largely withered, the aged spear cedars of Nabihoko basked in sunlight's touch.

Upon cedar tips glowed sunlight's hue beyond winter solstice—faintly warm—while distant mountains lingered in view.

Even blue cedars within shadowed ravines, their crowns charred, witnessed winter readying its departure.

In deep stillness—scorched yet enduring under snow—the layered leaves of spear cedar thickets stood poised for spring's approach.

Cedar Days

Lately in these serenely bright cedar hills during fair weather continuing many brown-eared bulbuls took flight.

On winter hills the desolate cedar grove—in sunlit patches here and there—I gazed my fill.

In morning hours when piled fallen leaves lay dampened with mist even the scorched cedar fence's hue appeared richly deepened.

How cherished grew—through crimson seas of sunset glow shining—the clustered cedars' splendor time and again.

Morning at Denjōji Temple

Snow-light sharp and pure—Komagatake's whiteness; before my very eyes, the northern slopes wore shadows deep.

Each gravestone covered with snow—how beloved to behold, like a child’s.

The snow piled white in clusters on the haze tree clung to its branches yet rested distinctly on each fruit cluster.

Nothing compared to this whiteness—how exceedingly bright was the snow on the miscellaneous trees behind the graveyard.

The snow fell; without any particular reason, I baked kaimochi, turning them over while stoking the fire to a red glow.

Standing amidst the snow-clad bamboo, I sensed their vitality—spring had arrived, glowing crimson.

After the snow had fallen，the morning lay quiet; in the northern light through the large window，he read a book.

The Snow of Dogashima

January 28th – he visited Dogashima.
The next day he returned home.

The Hakone road already showed its charm; a few mountain pines with snow piled thickly came into view.

The ridges' ridges, the fields' fields—snow lay heaped in paddies' shapes. O the charming snow! O the charming snow!

Beneath snow-white thousand spear cedars I gazed; the crags I traversed grew piercingly cold.

O brightness! The snow heaped on cedar thicket leaves—when I thought it might tremble, it settled into stillness before me.

Through evening crags came a packhorse treading snow, its large straw sandals piercing horseshoe prints.

Though the facing mountain still held light, dusk's thin white waterfall fell with icy clarity.

The evening cold bit deeper—against white snow and rocks—could that have been a riverbank siskin crying?

Listening for siskins in the snow, a figure sat arranging Go stones—no lamps yet lit.

How dear—secluding with wife and children in this valley's depths under snowlight, enduring day's end cold.

They quietly entered the kotatsu as day ended—the cold after the snow that had kept falling and ceased. Deep snow—in this valley’s hot spring inn, the steam trapped inside must have been keeping them warm.

The rocks of the rock cluster—layered snowlight deepened into dusk even as darkness grew.

He slept near the great bedrock of the night stream valley crackling with frost.

Early Spring Breakfast

On February 13th—Satō Sōnosuke; Ōki Atsuo; my wife; and I—the four of us ascended the back hill; burned fallen leaves to warm sake; and took our morning meal.
After strolling briefly about; we returned home.

Sunlight burned upon white bamboo grass at cedar roots’ edge—ah; this tranquility proved unbearable when gazed upon!

Within cedar groves—picking up fallen cedar leaves while continuing to gather them—there arose an unforced simplicity.

Sunlight pooled clear—ah; such stillness!—while bear bamboo’s clustered sasa grasses burned bright even in their depths.

Through permeating warmth of gathered sunlight’s clarity; my wife and I gathered fallen cedar leaves.

Damp undersides of sunlit cedar leaves—still faintly chill to touch—yet spring had arrived.

Sweeping through fallen leaves, my steps of their own accord kept heading toward a sunlit spot.

In the mountain hollow where sunlight barely reached, even the blue cedars—half-scorched—all bore no flowers.

The mountain still bore few flowers in the lingering chill; on the withered branches of hazel trees, bramblings gathered.

In the faint light of early spring over the hazel wood, this morning the shadows of bramblings darted swiftly.

The friendship that came to the hill to warm sake became all the more precious for its rarity, making spring’s tenderness dear.

The snow-bent green moso bamboo evoked pathos—split cleanly into three, white fissures raced through its length.

Touched this cold—could it be bamboo flowers?—they climbed again the crags above the bamboo.

Spring was still in the sharp prominence of the blue-green trifoliate orange's thorns—a cold touch to the eye.

The young cedars in the cedar hedge—even their leaves turned crimson like lacquered leaves.

Continued Journey to Dogashima

February 17th – Mr. Maeda Yūgure, my wife, and I visited Dogashima as a trio.

Kazamatsurimura

Spring was still early in the vegetable field—a white chicken foraged in sunlight—water flowed freely toward distant fields—the window shutter opened lonesomely—a girl alone gazed out at the green vegetables outside.

Envoi

This spring—the waterwheel stood; water droplets grew large again beneath budding willows.

After alighting from the blackout-stalled train, there was a moment's pause; the conductor remained on the warm opposite bank.

The sun hung small yet; already along pine-winded stretches of spring-tinged Old Coastal Highway travelers made their way.

In Koyamada's snow-thawed paddies dwelled a chicken foraging faintly bluish things.

It was still February; by the waterwheel's side an open window framed someone watching blue-green vegetables.

In the Seto River, someone soaked a rice tub; spring still young, the white rice grains appeared translucently white.

A rough straw mat—spring still young—yet the spilled sunlight’s rose hue warmed; a piglet kept crying.

Not growing weary of gazing; someone lingered in loneliness—the water swayed in the shadow of heavenly bamboo’s red berries.

Yumoto Station

Gazing up at the mottled snow on the foremountain, words grew somewhat abundant while waiting for the mountain-climbing train.

A mountain abundant with oaks—its many folds—on the prominent oaks’ branches, patches of snow froze white.

Kashiyama’s prominent oaks—the piled snow took on a fawn-dappled clarity and brightness.

Mountain-Climbing Train

This mountain had many old oaks; as we looked on, there was no patch of light snow left unfrozen. Was that a hawk's nest or a cluster of roosting trees? We ascended while gazing at the distant treetop of a solitary cold zelkova.

Was the frozen snow melting amidst a storm? At Myōjōgatake, mist rose ceaselessly, deepening into mouse-gray.

The withered mountain had been vertically burned through with a broad firebreak—black where snow lingered.

Valley trees' budding twigs contained crimson; the rain fell delicate—spring must have come.

Dogashima

The self-frozen rigid snow struck the dog's tooth fern on the rocky ledge, shattering white with a brittle clink-clink.

Dogashima—spring seemed near—the snowmelt water roared and churned unlike yesterday.

Snowmelt haze lingered on the ridge; the withered mountain's slopes kept meeting the bright sun's touch.

In the valley bottom, icicles hang in rows from the thatched house, steeped in the color of dried miscanthus—winter prepares to depart.

Gazing at the still waters of the forest spring, one catches sight of a fish with crimson fins quivering.

By the well at the rock’s shadowed edge—seeing sasnekazura blooming where waters soak—they passed on.

Though it is called spring, the valley nooks still lack color; bridges here and there, rocks blown bare by wind.

The sunlit withered miscanthus across the way—spring has turned faintly warm.

The sway of the prominent blue female dwarf bamboo in the opposite valley appears chillingly cold—yet this is not winter’s doing.

My gaze met the evening sun on tsuga trees—already the chill had set in; I retreated indoors.

The restless spring chill of this bathhouse—why then had I left my child behind and come here?

While urinating on hardened snow yet hurrying ahead, the friend called out to the lantern.

At times attaching a crimson lantern, he looked up at the underside of cedar leaves deep with snow.

Luncheon on the Hill

February 18th, clear – With Mr. Maeda, we warmed sake at that familiar back mountain and conversed joyfully.
Afterwards, we strolled back from Mizunoo through Ogikubo.

Hazel flowers glowed deep crimson—in the distance, Tanzawa Mountain’s snow kept melting away.

Snow-white Mount Afuri’s towering peak—against it lapped a blue sky.

Voicing aloud the hazel flowers’ full bloom—the quietness of sake boiling in the kettle.

Thickly splattering as they dripped—the vermilion-lacquered male hazel flowers were blossoms of early spring.

Under the sun, they warmed sake in tranquility—today too they came together to delight in this.

In early spring's faintness, they warmed sake over brushwood fire and watched white cotton clouds come and vanish.

They meticulously warmed sake—the cedar leaves from cedar mountains proved good for kindling fires.

Burning cedar leaves in sunlight to warm sake, they listened to clear-day waves roar during intervals.

Naturally, the leaf fire did not linger; in the kettle, sake made its sound.

In early spring—perhaps oak leaves—sunlight struck where wind seemed trapped, casting dappled glimmers.

I lay drunk on withered grass awhile—until my body grew warm and my heart found its course.

In Hazama-ta, at the field's edge where the rapids' roar resounded—spring must have drawn near somehow.

Snowmelt haze still lingered—the bunting’s voice traversed Matsuyama’s heights.

Upon the mountain ridge, the evening glow barely clung—even its lingering brilliance now faded into dusk.

On the grassy cliff where mountain papayas reddened on sunlit faces—along Mizunoo Road, I walked loving this.

Now that I thought of it—that sound had been a waterwheel; as I crossed Oak Hill, a spring-like scene came into view.

Ah, early spring—in the paulownia grove, paulownia seed husks scattered as wagtails took flight.

The path threading through the bamboo thicket lay clear; cold light at its hem—did a murmuring stream flow there?

Briskly spreading bamboo stilts' strides—a multitude of children; the wind beyond the thicket.

My friend called out to stop the child carrying a mandarin orange bag; perhaps feeling lonely, they bought five or six.

These days, mingling with fields and mountains, mingling with people, playing to exhaustion—that is so dear.

On stacked hay, the shadow of heavenly bamboo berries swayed; children burst into clamor beneath the clear sky of dusk.

At the farmhouse where my wife went to borrow the restroom, red camellia flowers were already in early bloom.

I stopped by Mr. Fuchikawa’s house; my friend was absent.

With a crackling sound, they burned the stiff mandarin leaves—the hearth grew large at Mikan Mountain’s house.

My friend’s mother brought forth a great basket of mandarins; though still unaccustomed.

In the evening breeze, carrying a small child on his back—ah, the old man came to the fork in the mandarin orchard path.

Welcoming My Younger Brother

February 25th. My younger brother came.
We went to the back hill and warmed sake as usual.
A drizzle fell; later turned overcast.

"I wished you might come by chance—and since you have, dear brother, warm the sake now."

At Shibaoka Hill's Tsubara—young pines in early spring; go and admire them even as you warm the sake.

In the cedar's splendor where faintly warm sunlight fell—what joy he felt seeing his younger brother there.

This day remained somewhat rainy and dimly dark; only the Turkey-red clusters of hazel flowers kept swaying.

The sake bubbled merrily; I came with my younger brother to this early spring hill and built a fire.

Mistletoe dangled like ornamental balls in early spring; even the rain on the zelkova trees felt familiar to behold.

On the grassy cliff where my wife had found mountain papaya flowers blooming red, I dug them up with my younger brother.

This rocky terrain—burnt grass stretched on, mountain papaya flowers blooming here and there—Mizunoo drew near.

Where the sun dwelled—darkly dim Mount Mematsu; spring rain grew familiar, field skylarks' voices.

In the evening damp, I headed to Mount Mematsu, to field and mountain—and discussed our parents’ matters with my younger brother.

The fallen leaves by the roadside grew sparse; spring when violets should bloom drew near.

Five White Plum Varieties

I

During this white plum's glorious bloom—not having frolicked with my parents—how I found myself unwittingly...

How joyful, how joyful I felt rejoicing at the white plum blossoms in full bloom—yet my younger brother did not come, nor his wife.

In this world where we share the same parents, here I stood with my beloved younger brother beneath the white plum tree.

Having aged, I found caring for my elderly parents lonely—white plum blossoms.

This spring as well—with my aged parents sorrowful—I, having nothing to do, did not wander far.

II

Plum blossoms bloomed brightening the sky; each time they went outside, the child raised their voice in delight.

Held in my arms, my child touched a plum blossom; its calyx glowed red at the branch's tip.

III

When I have this child walk, holding in both hands the shadow of plum blossoms now in full bloom—how dear this walking child is.

Plum blossoms bloom—my dear child attempts to walk, kicking up small red shoes.

IV

Plum blossoms bloomed white and serene; as I gazed upon this tranquil day’s visage—how pleasant it was also to eat grass mochi.

V

This morning—in the breath of the mountain’s swift wind—all plum blossoms shone white.

Spring was now the peak of plum blossoms; whenever the wind rose, the turkey faced directly forward and came.

Spring Evening's Brief Respite

In early spring’s evening sunlight that still shines bright upon the finest miscanthus—there lies a moment’s respite.

Mountain Villa’s Late Spring

Spring of Mizunoo-michi

Beneath Judas tree shade on back hillside slopes—though sparse in bloom—all violets flowering bore deep hues.

At lower ridges where red sumac roots were dug out while peering about came heard—high-voltage lines' lonesome drone.

On burnt turf where sumac blazed along high ridges' underpath returned new student with mother trailing behind.

Morning unveiled yellow dandelions' dew-heavy sheen; summoned horse moved off when scolded sharply away.

Going mountainward saw spring too wrapped modestly within hills' yellow shikimi blossoms' quiet glow.

Gathered spilled evening light through mountain pines came I serene while meeting clouds along my way.

Cherishing the Haze

Having voiced spring’s evening haze in the mountain outskirts—though it could not be called beloved—I secluded myself in the hills.

As evening approached, seeing white clouds upon Twin Peaks—spring had fully arrived.

Thick and thin, the distant mountain haze; madder-red hues cast as evening grew familiar—the day’s light had leaked away.

The spring haze in countless layers along the mountain ridges’ pleats—I would gaze upon this calming sky as evening approached.

The spring dampness of wildfire smoke still white—evening had become shrouded in mist.

Spring returned as the wildfire the mountain village children warded off burned crimson through the dusk.

Today too passed peacefully; jade-green bracken ferns were bundled and soaked in lye.

Spring in Solitude

The spring mountains—cedars now tinged green—and before one knew it, the bush warbler’s song gave way to the siskin’s.

When one spoke of spring—cedars with blue-green scales blew forth pollen, seeming to mist the air.

The male hazel flowers, dripping thickly with vermilion lacquer-like sap that fell in heavy drops, were blossoms of early spring.

People's words—how I detested them! Yet this loneliness of secluding myself in spring was unbearable.

Even now in spring, before the small thicket’s flowering shepherd’s purse—gazing at them brought no solace; I simply sat there looking.

Perhaps someone known came—voices admiring the size of the butterbur sprouts.

Front Garden Vignette

Gazing upon the lingering spring haze, the raspberry's single-layered white flowers glowed bright.

In Naodo’s spring dampness appeared that morning a tender butterfly skimming the earth.

At the window where kerria blooms hung down—there, a child stuck out their face to gaze at the sky.

Upon the easily fading sappanwood flowers fell rain that hinted at summer’s approach—how dazzling that morning.

On butterbur leaves, a thin-winged dragonfly emerged and crawled; the sun’s illumination grew deep—summer must have arrived.

Mizunoo’s Late Spring

Summer arrived gently; the new mulberry’s slender branches bearing green flowers had become worth seeing.

The raindrops glinting on mulberry buds showed their size; manure buckets were loaded as they led the horse here.

After the rain—the crimson buds of Japanese knotweed lay softened underfoot; a mottled carpet of sprouting green.

The mountain path facing the sun was hot; after the rain glittered the light of black sand gold.

Mizunoo Village in the mountain hamlet bustled today in the fallen and accumulated crimson of camellias.

By the water’s edge, young andromeda trees—small though they were—clustered faintly and seemed to bear flowers.

This spring—beneath the budding willow where a waterwheel stood, the waterdrops already grew large.

In Kirihatake, more than the number of downy stalks grew butterbur leaves abundant—spring too passed onward.

This village too seemed to have passed through spring; in the gleam upon the bamboo grove's surface, people plowed the fields.

The well-dampened thatched hut sat low; the silver-gray rain fell on a single Japanese pepper tree budding with new shoots.

Due to the mountains, even the deep mountain azaleas must have bloomed; gazing at how the sky had brightened, they descended.

The sun at noon—behind Myoujingatake, the wildfire smoke seemed anything but ordinary.

Spring Rain

I

The rain falling on the Moso bamboo outside my window remained somewhat cold as I was reading.

The faintness of rain falling upon my thicket-shaded dwelling had filled and enveloped it.

II

Upon sandalwood's faintly blooming flowers fell rain—its downpour dense yet appearing fine.

III

At my dwelling's bamboo grove in spring dusk—profound Buddha's flame—the konjac flowers bloomed.

Note: "Buddha’s flame" refers to what hung before the trumpet-shaped flower.

At my dwelling's bamboo grove in spring dampness—as midday deepened—a sound stirred at the eaves.

IV

This dampening rain—spring rain—through the trees passed a horse whose hindquarters had faded to crimson.

Bamboo Thicket’s Spring

I

Yabukanman—also called shikeman—resembles Chinese milk vetch, opening crimson-purple flower spikes.

Opened the washroom window in morning light—dewy Yabukanman flowers met my eye.

At bamboo roots in back thickets，Yabukanman blossoms had taken crimson hues—already they'd withered away.

II

The beard-entwined konjac stem stood prominent—spring now deepened its claim.

In purple konjac shadows lingered soil-deep where toads kept hidden.

When spring thickets dimmed and no croak resumed，even solitude grew detestable.

III

The child peering into the bamboo grove at my dwelling wore a necklace of red camellias.

IV

In the morning dampness familiar to bamboo roots, shoots sprouted—these were joyous days.

Spring had passed and summer seemed to have come; bamboo shoots fresh and dewy had roots with purple warts.

Wart-covered thick-rooted bamboo shoots—digging their roots scattered them into the deep purple field.

Now in spring as I dug searching for bamboo shoots，even the neighboring thicket seemed to stir with anticipation.

The soil-clinging still-young bamboo shoots—raking aside fallen leaves，they were dug out with fingers.

Spring at the Mountain Temple

I

The plum blossoms too had just begun to open; why not pay a visit and see them at the mountain temple as well.

At my dwelling, both in the earthen floor and outside, young bamboo sheaths extended while white dew gathered.

II

Denjō-ji Temple: spring clothed old trees with blossoms and brightened every corner—the mountain’s serene tranquility.

The mountain temple cut and sold many branches of scarlet and white peaches during their peak bloom.

III

The two temple-dwelling old women must have felt lonely; though they gazed, there lay only the sky beyond the flowers.

IV

The camellias that someone had seen so vividly red when coming and going fell and piled up beside the mountain gate.

Behind the child who was picking the crimson camellias of the temple priest’s wife, someone emerged—how poignant it was.

V

This spring too, as he led forth the pilgrimage group, the host priest remained bustling.

The day was long; the old women of the pilgrimage gathering chanted Buddhist prayers beneath mountain cherry blossoms.

VI

Now the plum fruits were still small; with the fine rain falling somewhat densely, the temple was cold.

Where could Father’s temple—surrounded by flowers—be? The children left behind gazed out at the spring rain.

The mountain temple’s spring had deepened too, and on Akita butterbur’s large leaves, the rain made its sound.

VII

Returning from the flowers of Yamato Road, a monk who hadn’t rested for three or four days was digging bamboo shoots.

How long would the chestnut treetops remain poignant, as the neighboring kaya too formed its flowers?

VIII

The mountain temple turned its garden into a field, buried potato tubers, and prepared to await autumn.

The temple’s bantam chickens devoured every bud, leaf, and stem of the white mustard; though chased away, they returned again.

IX

At the half-opened window sat a cat—the temple on a spring day when some tree’s shadow fell upon the shoji.

This temple, with its scarce funerals, let the safflower dyes fade unnoticed while all its leaves now sprouted forth.

Note: The head priest was from Akita.

§

Perhaps a grave swept clean—cedar blossoms scattered once more, dampening the ground around.

In the ritual water where cedar pollen had finely gathered—this morning when viewed, all that had floated now sank.

At the graveyard’s rear, a packhorse carrying manure buckets lets out a loud sneeze—mamenbushi flowers.

At the graveyard’s rear, a packhorse carrying manure buckets let out a loud sneeze—mamenbushi flowers.

Note: Mamenbushi is a shrub that grows quite tall.
In spring, it hangs pale yellow flower clusters.
That shape resembles the flowers of an alder.

On the edge of an unpainted wooden stupa, a grasshopper nymph alighted, its pale green wings.

Before and After the Earthquake

Hibiscus Season

Hibiscus flowers that bloomed at dawn and wilted by dusk—their crimson hue made the water sing.

Every morning came the postman.

In the thicket's shade came one who knew—the small cottage where red hibiscus bloomed was an owl's house.

In morning light we praised crimson hibiscus; refreshingly with Wife did I tear bread and eat.

The quiet heart deepened still—fragrant wood hibiscus held no midday stir indeed.

On an autumn day when light stayed calm through earthquakes did hibiscus flowers keep trembling.

The hibiscus blooming with each dawn at my dwelling had now passed their peak.

Dew.

On the tips of bamboo shoots, the evening's large dew had already risen like a living thing.

The tips of bamboo shoots retained dew; even while swaying, they must have found coolness—perceiving that coolness.

The white dewdrops on the bamboo shoot tips swayed and swayed, their swelling light radiating forth.

On the bamboo shoot tips, dewdrops radiated light—if someone had flicked them, they would have scattered and flown away.

On the bamboo shoot tips shone a large dewdrop; the child's finger nearly touched it—someone hesitated to stop them.

Japanese ginger bloomed.

At the bamboo roots, faint flowers were said to bloom—truly faint were the bush Japanese ginger flowers.

At the bamboo roots in the summer morning sun, flowers bloomed—could this faint coolness have been from Japanese ginger?

This autumn

While the morning glory’s dew had yet to dry, my wife attached wheels to a wooden horse and peered.

Where sesame bloomed beneath a faintly crimson lingering sun—there doves wearing prayer beads called out.

My child pointed at the white moon, yet could not reach even the height of sorghum’s clustered ears.

Let me spend this autumn gazing at three clumps of cockscomb growing ever brighter, then two.

Autumn in Mizunoo

O autumn—white were the clouds, how tranquil this world remained!
In the mountain village here at Mizunoo, bush clover bloomed along the channel's edge; water droplets splashed upon the bush clover, and the waterwheel turned without cease at that water outlet.

Envoy

The glow at Higuchi where the waterwheel turned—was it the setting sun striking the water?

Wisteria and Pine Cicadas

Through aged wisteria blossoms on Mount Ihari - clouds passed like mist one might think

Summer returned - on Mount Ihari's wild peaches scattered sunlight had grown distinct indeed

Before Kiri no Kihara's flower-bright field spread purple water already

Unaware of willow catkins clinging in her hair moving onward - oh wife pushed the baby carriage

Willow catkins crossed dock-flower cliffs wind-borne shining as they went

Pushing upslope under clouded sky - one tree bore white karatachi blooms

Noon sun found mountain karatachi too keeping sparse thorn-tipped white flowers

Pine flowers stand arrayed in yellow; the shadow of clouds faintly hazes the day's face.

If you go to the mountains—shining yet cool—even the pale spores of blue ferns declare it summer.

What grass might she be digging up? In a sunlit spot beside the wind—small and bent over—the wife crouches.

At Matsuyama where a child waits for their mother stands a parked baby carriage; pine cicadas sing.
Already they sing—these pine cicadas—and listening comes realization: this Matsuyama too burns with heat.
The ripe wheat blazes bright; over sleeping child-face in baby carriage’s nest let there be shade-drawn hood.

At the Mountain Villa

While the midday sun blazed, dimly still did the Nandina flowers remain in bud.

Rainy Season Mountain Temple

Denshōji Temple's peach trees stood oppressively dense; yesterday and today, the rain kept falling.

Dimly viewing the peach tree's thick leaves, the mountain temple children spent their day; no rainy night came to them.

The temple boy's wife emerged during a break in the rainy season's rains; the round plum fruits had already begun to color.

With an umbrella held over the baby carriage, she went out beyond the temple grounds at the rainy season's end.

The entrance path of this temple stood desolate, yet still somewhat bright with bellflowers.

The lingering rain fell thick; beneath a large umbrella held low, what seemed to be a girl came climbing up the slope.

Under rotting oak leaves sodden with lingering rains,

The rainy season temple lay deeply dampened—with chestnut spikes and the fragrance of plum leaves after being stripped.

The person cutting the sparse-eared wheat by the temple came to rest at dusk, rejoicing in the rainy respite.

By the temple side, during a brief rainy respite, they cut wheat stalks; each handful fell at the roots.

In the rain, they grabbed handfuls of wheat—dropping one bundle to lay it down before hurrying on to cut the next.

At the mountain temple, the wheat harvest had been completed that evening; only the sweet potato leaves made a sound in the rain.

Morning Light, Evening Light

In the morning light—already in full bloom—the single-petaled white magnolia flowers brought delight.

Along the crematory road where they bloomed in succession—the magnolias became fine morning light arriving.

The hibiscus flowers deepened ever more—this path must have been the one leading to the crematory.

In morning shade they bloomed—cool magnolias—and learning they never saw evening light brought sorrow.

The wind rose—brightening evening light—where summer buckwheat flowers lay heaped where cut and discarded.

In evening light that rustled through early rice ears—white sesame flowers already bloomed intermingled.

In the mountain field’s lush udo thickets, the wind rose—if one were to say autumn had come, would they have been surprised? (A Correspondence)

Through the thicket into the sweet potato field—ears swaying like a cat—the blowing wind too was autumn.

During the day—here at the mountain house too the sun blazes bright—only children remain where the cockscomb glows.

In the evening light of the outer garden—when one sees the crimson of blooming knotweed—the wind must have arisen.

The evening light held pathos—yet the knotweed flower spikes swayed heavily with joy.

Autumn grasses bearing cool blossoms even in their basket—over that horse fence, the black horse was grazing.

The mountain still bore green chestnut burs; at day's end, evening cicadas sang in the drizzling rain.

In the outer garden as dusk fell, they carried potted trees; what powder was this heaped up—white like powdered snow.

Tea Flowers

Since the earthquake disaster, with unrestricted access to the vast neighboring villa, one may come and go to play at will.
Simple yet expansive, indeed.
Ah, this autumn.

Autumn came early; tea flowers scattered softly—ah, in this world of brief fair weather, how fleeting it all was.

Though meager, now being sufficient—ah, how he delighted in the neighbor where tea flowers bloomed fragrantly.

They gathered in the sunlit garden with its broad expanse; even if the shared midday meal was insufficient, it was well.

In this garden where kumquats ripened abundantly, ah, how splendid autumn had reached its peak.

Though viewing impermanence as constant, the sunlit spot where tea flowers bloomed grew desolate—ah, how fitting it was.

The heart that communed with mountains and waters had naturally shifted to these tea flowers.

Dwelling in the mountains, unaware of the passing days—ah, to encounter sunlight where tea flowers bloomed.

Oh, this sunny spot in the garden—gathering around in intimacy, they viewed the tea flowers.

In the sunny spot where tea flowers bloomed fragrantly, they mended the broken brazier and brewed tea—ah,

Along the pilgrimage path, at the temple's sunlit spot, the tea flowers too had bloomed, some likely scattered.

Tea smoke lingered over the grassy field; where sunlight fell, faint reddening began.

In the withered grass where still-red knotweed mingled here and there, they made their meal by spotting and eating it.

My child kept spilling their meal.

She swept away the crimson leaves of grass clinging with rice grains—"Ah, pitiful"—under the scorching sunlight.

Chopsticks in hand, my child gazed longingly at the red dragonfly's shadow—ah, the bean chrysanthemum flowers.

My wife said they must have been last year’s fruit; I said they must be this year’s.

In the sunlit area where withered grass blushed faintly crimson, tea fruits spilled—autumn deepened once more.

Noticing and gathering tea fruits—how faint they were—two, three, four—rattling them in hand all the while.

For my child picking tea fruits—the red sweater too had come undone at the seams.

Wasabi and Udo

Wasabi and Udo

The good uncle from Sunari in Kai brought wasabi on this fine spring day.

The old man came laughing, casually carrying a bundle of thick-stemmed eight-shaku udo.

The pale red sprouts grew unevenly while large udo stalks bound with rope—there must have been twenty.

“Look here!” he said, bringing along the child who had carried the udo. “Come and see,” he called toward the field’s giant udo.

At Fuji’s base where heaven soared, mountain fields held freshly harvested udo stalks still faintly reddened.

Seven large mountain lily roots were planted seven times over across seven garden spots for contemplation.

The roots of mountain lilies were cold, yet their bulbs—thick-layered spheres—swelled with vital breath.

Having buried each lily bulb one by one in this spot where lily sprouts would emerge, the Old Man returned.

The Old Man said: “In the mountains, crickets grow in abundance; in the capital, they sell them by the pinch.”

In early spring, on the ridge of a mountain rice field, the wild cucumber bloomed from the ground though its thorns grew thick.

They pickled unripe astringent persimmons—as the miso’s fragrance permeated them through and through—until both persimmons and miso grew flavorful indeed.

Shiitake mushrooms—autumn brought them forth; in those mountains, even oaks had aged and decayed beyond measure.

Dried persimmons stood dusted white in winter sunlight—faintly growing old yet contentedly sufficient.

Grandly circling Fuji’s five skirt-hemming lakes—having viewed them all—they returned along my spine.

Crossing mountains with back-ladders bearing barrels—men swayed under their loads while Sunari girls bore them on sturdy backs.

When crossing the mountain—even if the mountain girl rode upon the back-mounted barrel—she rode with unhurried grace.

Purple akebi’s clustered flowers—I counted them as I awaited the day you would come.

Momentary Respite

The echoing grind of grated wasabi—Fuji River’s rapids surged and subsided upon the water’s surface.

In the wasabi fields, they cleared the sandy patches; at Fuji's snowmelt rapids, bubbles churned and swirled.

While planting wasabi and dividing udo that morning—I, abundant and content—played.

The thick-stemmed udo with pale crimson sprouts—I commended them and apportioned them to my good method.

The pale crimson udo pickled in vinegar—excellent in the pot; the sake I enjoyed, I drank sip by sip.

Personal Sphere

This spring, at the neighbor’s temple where water did not pool, the camellia by the well simply turned red.

The neighbor’s daily words were painful; the crimson camellias too had begun to fall into the thicket.

The old plum tree, abundant with blossoms now fully open, seemed to have reached its brief peak.

When I returned from the thicket, the words my child spoke had recently begun to feel painful.

The Red Bird’s manuscript selection remained unfinished; butterbur sprouts stood fluffy, flowers bursting open.

When I looked this morning, the flower bed was ruined; again I was startled by my child’s large footprints.

While in the bath, I and my child listened to the spring rain—it must have been falling upon the moso bamboo and plum trees.

The child looking at Rodin’s Hugo head was startled by a faint earthquake in the night.

Desiring to see a crimson sun in midnight's depth, my child peered by the small window.

The owner of Suzume no Yado (a child welfare advocate) at Kisogawa Bridge came and requested a name for that hill.
Thereupon,

If many children play upon your hill, may it be named Child’s Hill.

When playing with children morning and evening—if indeed they grow weary—it becomes wise to cease play.

Bamboo's Autumn

The wind rose, and the finely falling bamboo leaves all scattered toward where the sun shone.

The bamboo sheaths scattered incessantly; how faintly the sounds at the sunny edge crept into the house.

The Great Earthquake: A Record

Heaven's Will Descends

For years the world had grown arrogant in heart—now it had incurred Heaven and Earth’s divine wrath.

The earth shook, roared, ascended; the living world—instantly emptied—was crushed.

This great earthquake—there was no way to avoid it; prostrate, they remained, surrendering to each tremor.

O holy one of the land who proclaims warnings to the world—appear now! Divine punishment had descended.

The Sovereign humbly received heaven’s divine wrath and the august light that illuminated oneself.

The people’s calamitous days had arisen from hearts that had forgotten what lay beneath the Land of the Rising Sun.

On the first day of September 1923, the entire nation shook and roared—let this warn future generations.

Cow

When the sound of a cow grazing in the bamboo grove was heard, clearly the earthquake had come to an end.

A cow stood in the moso bamboo grove under faint sunlight; the earthquake still continued, it seemed.

Spring Shrike

Winter Seclusion

Winter seclusion had likely grown desolate.
The neighbor said their side received sunlight—that neither bush clover nor miscanthus had withered—that all was well; watching this warmed my tranquil heart.

Envoi

By its own doing, it had grown desolate—the dividing fence of the bush clover gate too had withered and lay fragrant.

Sunlit Place

Though I gazed in idle reverie until it faded, the bush clover was not cut for being withered.
The susuki grass too had been cut, fluffily.
In the lingering warmth, the one who had cut them bundled them up and carried them away.
The sunlit neighbor’s garden—the pleasantness of it all.

Envoi

The bush clover had withered completely, and the susuki grass had been cut; the pleasantness came to where the sun gathered.

Tender Spring

Looking at the soil—how intensely the earth's scent rises—spring remains tender.
Butterbur sprouts are trodden upon somewhere.
Where do those butterbur sprouts emerge?
Whether settled frost lies somewhat shallow or fine rain falls somewhat frequent,
the back thicket and violets blooming there still do not harmonize.

Envoi

In the neighbor’s tender spring too—kindling fires, they gazed fondly upon plum buds.

The handle of the temple well’s pump—when I looked this morning, the spring rain had thickened, and it had been moved.

Emerging Spring

Winter shifted through its transformations—through wind that leaked cold through gaps; through huddling in houses that had completely crumbled; through fine drizzling rain; through frost that settled only to melt; through earthquakes that shook and subsided—until haze-veiled days had naturally grown calm.

Envoi

Unbeknownst, harmony seemed to have arrived—the earthquake-shattered earth of the mountain ahead budded hazily.

Adonis

Though I secluded myself through winter but could not endure it fully; on cold days, even I shrank.
Though my wife hurried to await spring, the house that should have been tranquil had collapsed.
The thin-iron drum cherished by my child—its crimson side now peeled away—she heaped soil upon it, determined to plant at least something; Adonis flowers plucked from the frost arrived, two or three clumps.

Envoi

The thin-iron drum cherished by the child had peeled away; they would plant Adonis flowers and gaze upon them.

Spring Shrike

Pleasant spring—this morning, in the grove of white-flowered plum trees, a young shrike came and perched.
While they ate, applying kinako to grass cakes where the mugwort proved good—there was the fledgling shrike and the child’s shrike.
Rustling footsteps, still-faltering notes—the bush warbler practiced its song.
The bunting practiced its movements.
Swaying the still branches, it played at swaying.
It flitted from branch to branch.

Envoi

The plum trees had grown large, and the neighboring house stood bright; through flowers at their peak flew a young shrike.

One time

The voice of spring birds swaying on branches, the glittering sound of flowing water, the morning wind resonating through pines, the evening wind trembling through bamboo grass—unbidden, I was moved to pathos—dazzled by pathos, I discerned what must be.

Envoi

In one breath I composed a song—how delightful these recent days were, yet vexing—and my thoughts grew concentrated.

Tranquil.

"Child, go play. Father will play too. Let us call Mother. She will come and play."
In the sunny spot, horsetails sprouted.
Among the horsetail sprouts, mugwort too sprouted.
Beneath the dried reeds' purple undersides, in the faint warmth at glowing roots—ah, how poignant—white shepherd's purse flowers clustered.

Envoi

In spring days that soothe with gentle warmth—amidst mugwort fields—they spent their time treading upon flowering shepherd’s purse.

The fragrance rose intensely in this spring-laden mugwort thicket—how poignant it was when they stepped on the damp earth beneath.

Spring grasses still tender—gathering and mixing, they piled them into the children’s hats.

Horsetail sprouts.

They picked horsetails—my wife and child picking—the pale red stems of horsetails, their green-turning noble powder; even as it pained me, my wife picked them too, and the little one carefully gathered them—that very littleness.

Envoi

The little one carefully replanted each horsetail they had picked one by one.

Seed Sowing

They dug in hoes, sifted through densely, smoothed it out—the soil became good earth.
In last night’s spring rain dampness, this morning they sowed seeds—poppies, nasturtiums, Ise pinks.
Sunflowers were spaced well apart; loquat and luffa were planted close together. As for morning glories and evening glories—though unsown—they were left to grow naturally by the fence’s base.

Envoi

Leaving footprints in the piled soil, the child sowed seeds; the patterned seed bag glowed in the sunlight.

Wooden Carved Doll

Lately,

Lately, I have found ease.
When I compose poems, whether good or bad; when I grind ink, whether thick or thin; joyfully have I written dazedly, sorrowfully have I written dazedly—simply delighting in it.

Envoi

To sing is to find my own joy; alone I seclude myself in this delight.

Moonlight and Fish

In the old man’s spread four-handed net, the moon cast two fish.
That fish’s crimson lips, this fish’s azure dorsal fin—if considered real, they chilled; if seen as illusions, they blurred.
Indeed, creatures that breathe—the sky above water shone brighter, yet parted from water, the sky grew desolate.
The fish of this moon in the Xunyang River of early spring.

Envoi

Under the pale moon of Xunyang River in early spring, he set low the four-handed net.

The moonlight was already hazy; fish leaped into the four-handed net at the water’s edge.

With its mouth open, a tiny speck of red stained it—the small wooden carved fish, so charming.

Fish seller

The fish-selling old man on that long day, his wide-brimmed sedge hat swaying as he shouldered his carrying pole, fluttering one hand about—the front basket held few fish, the rear basket many.
The rear basket dragged along the ground.
It must have been heavy indeed.

Envoi

The day grew long for the old man in his sedge hat, the rear basket hanging low on the carrying pole.

Rice and Wild Geese

When they pounded rice, they stepped on the pestle.
When they shot wild geese, they drew the bowstring taut.
How charming it was to step with the feet.
How poignant it was to pull with the hands.
The rice pounders looked downward; the goose hunters looked upward—this way and that.

Envoi

As they pounded rice, drowsily stepping on the pestle—they pressed down this side, and that side sprang up.

When they shot wild geese and released the bowstring, the bending bow’s tip seemed to have spun back around.

Rough-Carved Bull

Was it a child of Takasago’s Botansha who, imbuing life, carved it roughly?
Crude yet standing still—the bull; small yet possessing solemn power.
A man’s heart—oh how purely it longed! With passions burning deep below—unable to endure them, yet enduring still—they must have carved playfully while at play, achingly desolate in their desolation, never revealing it outwardly.

Envoi

The roughly carved wooden bull’s horn lies cleanly broken—could they have imagined it?

A Day’s Stroll

This child gazed like a father might, coming while contemplating spring mountains shrouded in mist.

The girl carried her younger brother tied to her back; his feet brushed against and kicked the barley sprouts stretching upward.

She stood watching, no longer advancing, while other children sucking on sweet herbs played near this child.

Down this path too firm for tender feet, through tiger canes with mottled sprouts, the child pulled onward.

This path—too firm to tread through tiger canes' bright mottled sprouts—the child pulled onward by hand.
The windbreak hibiscus by the field fence had withered completely; the spring sunlight glistened.
On the crumbling cliff, hazel buds' crimson had faded; rain splashed soil that clung and showed through.

My child pressed an ear to the utility pole, absent-minded; dandelion buds glistened on their hat.

When going to the mountains longing for spring—how poignant that Buddha’s seat caught the eye.

As a child stood in the barley sprout field on the round hill, the back mountain whitened with glimmering snow.

Having seen hazel trees blooming along ridges—having forgotten even to return—they passed by with the child.

Mountain Villa’s First Autumn Day

Scent of Grass

A child looked at the sky—alone, head bowed low in quiet sunlight filtered through weeds' fragrance.

The sun still traversed heaven's path, not yet waning—in deep grasses my young child bounced and became enveloped.

The weeds' flowering peak would not last long—oh that shaking youthful hair, those tender long locks.

In grass-scented air my child bounced without end—then suddenly wrestled, and the father tumbled down.

Haircut

“Look there—the wild chrysanthemums in the wasteland,” “look here—the broom grass,” “the lamb’s quarters reveal themselves in stem and leaf,” “cosmos flowers tangled together—see them all,” cried the parents as they circled through the sweltering heat of steaming grasses while cutting hair with calls of “Let’s finish quickly!”—seating the child upon fine bamboo.

Envoi

Though autumn had come, the grass’s scent lingered warm; they cut the child’s hanging hair with pity and affection.

Moonlit Night

The moon pressed its light upon the grassy wilds; the buds of blooming flowers that night had surely swelled full.

In the evening moonlit night where weeds bloomed smokily, walking through revealed even the melancholy.

When the bending, flying shadows of birds were seen, the moon’s light shone upon the mature grassy plain.

The resoundingly singing insects' cries seemed to have reached their fullness in the moonlight upon summer buckwheat.

Momentary Respite

How many autumns I spent in these mountains—observing deeply the pivot of fruits and more—and came to know them well.

Autumn Cicada

The autumn cicada's voice - tinged by chestnut burs catching the eye - cried *tsukutsuku*.

The mountains again with the tsukutsukuboushi's cry - their sound refreshingly cool - autumn had arrived.

Evening Cicada

In the morning light, evening cicadas cried; the child awoke and had already been listening to those evening cicadas.

When one heard the evening cicadas crying, the slender moon’s light seemed to have whitened.

When you heard a single evening cicada cry, the sound continued as the dawn's evening cicadas joined in chorus one after another.

In spring’s pure dawn, evening cicadas surge in sound—oh my heart-spirit, swaying and piercing through.

The child’s fleeting awakening holds pathos—having heard the evening cicadas’ voices, they slept again.

Sunflower

Lying on the second floor for so long, only the drooping calyxes of sunflowers now remained visible.

The sunflowers' round disk florets had blackened yet still radiated heat; the child peered out, swatting at irritating gnats.

Soot-blackened yet round flower heads—the sunflowers' blooms had all ended beneath the sweltering western sun.

Green Miscanthus

Morning light flowed over green miscanthus; the topknotted child chased fluttering butterflies.

At the peak of day when miscanthus roots glowed ever more fiercely, a lizard emerged, its mouth red and agape.

A Corner of the Garden

The ephemeral nature of yellow mountain roses blooming anew—when one gazed upon the shadows cast on the sunlit garden path.

When one saw the sandalwood's midsummer buds, the red plums—dried on one side—emerged salted.

Rainy Day

When one looked at the rain-misted Moso Bamboo, the remnants of last night’s typhoon must indeed have lingered within.

The Moso Bamboo had become oppressively drooping; looking through gaps in the rain, someone would have swept it away.

When one looked at the rain falling on persimmon leaves, the round fruits grew ever greener, bouncing frequently.

Listening to Insects

How poignant were the insects' voices of early and late night—as time passed, their tones and hues shifted ceaselessly.

When one lent an ear and listened faintly—where a single insect's note rang clear—there swelled a full chorus.

Perched alone came a voice traveling through; under moonlight—pure perhaps—it swayed while crying.

Moonlight had filled the sutra repository; a single katydid chirruped its voice.

In night's depth where lamplight settled on unripe persimmons—the cry of an insect pierced through.

Moving the sickbed to the study in the bamboo grove

As autumn deepened, I grew familiar with roots intimate with earth through gazing—through sleeping would come understanding.

They must have grown slender on their own—at sunlit edges of things, shadows kept drawing in.

The bending of small bamboo in sunlight shone bright yet ceaselessly cool—autumn had arrived.

While gazing, evening must have deepened—sunlight on hemp had wholly shifted to bamboo roots.

Lying there so thoroughly for so long, I fixed my eyes on a single dewdrop clinging to bush clover leaves.
The white moon was in the sky.
The moon crossed through midday in its fullness—both yesterday and today, the sea kept raging.
The Eighth Month’s waves became sound—autumn reached its fullness of its own accord.

Detached House Garden

On a bamboo branch cried a horseguard cicada; to the measure of the fine night's coolness I bathed in hot water.

When evening flowers bloomed white with powder-like petals, splashing water filled every corner as insect voices surged forth.

The bamboo shoots' splendor gathered dew with ease; nearer drew the sound of evening's milk-distributing light.

My child’s voice faintly sensed the evening coolness awaiting stars’ birth on the loquat branch.

Bright was the evening heart awaiting stars’ emergence—yearning yet unsteady, this swaying heart.

In the splendor of bamboo grass where dew clears and pierces through—on this star-and-moonlit night, sitting in dim quietude, I too shall preserve myself.

Temple Thicket

Autumn came early—around the roots of small bamboo, the water-plants bloomed crimson in their entirety!

In the morning hours when scattered sunlight cooled the small smartweed, the Japanese ginger too seemed to rise with autumn's fragrance.

As the wind rose, bamboo leaves fell in delicate fragments—all scattered toward where the sun shone.

The bamboo sheaths ceaselessly scattered—at the house's edge in sunlit places where sounds grew faint.

The bamboo grove rustled in tranquil sunlight; my child’s naptime drew near.

The autumn sunset that penetrated deep into the bamboo grove was serene as evening approached.

On the Japanese ginger leaves lingered two or three flies at the edge of the path near the sunny spot.

When the bush ginger bloomed faintly, without invitation from the temple child, my child too emerged.

The temple field maintained its solemnity even in summer—the erect stems of konjac leaves spread taut and clear.

Evening Calm

Summer still—on the brushwood gate where evening shadows lingered long, ivy flowers bloomed thick and close.

Hungry and lying in sweltering evening calm—how delightful even dragonfly wings' coming.

Mars approaches.

Illness Relieved

The slope path in evening shadow is broad; running up in a row are me, my wife, and child.

Around this time of night, the large red star Mars drew near, growing intimate with the east.

Splashing water and waiting for red Mars on this clear night—the father sat in a large chair, the child in a small one.

To the sound of waves, I sat facing my wife; on such a night, small birds might have come through the star-converging sky.

A Starry Night

The sound of waves, having been forgotten by day, throughout this star-converging night seemed elevated.

Even during nights when heaven's plain lay vast, housebound I continued my hurried writing.

In the sandy white pomelo blossoms that fell like detonators, I pondered on a starry night.

Denjōji Temple’s First Day of Autumn

When I looked upon the surface of the morning light—the mountain pines appeared utterly tranquil yet autumnal.

Morning light—you who perceive coolness—where brown cicadas sizzled their voices, there too dwelled niinii cicadas.

A small temple bell had been placed upon the earth, and scarlet irises bloomed.

The bell’s wart shone in sunlight adjacent to irises yet remained unstained—autumn had come.

At Denjōji Temple, hibiscus on ancient boughs blossomed at dawn; beneath such radiance did tremors shake.

In the Noon Garden

The naked child lay sulking on the ground, narrowing eyes too bright for the sun.

The Moon Reaches Fullness

When the small bamboo thicket resounded, the bee larvae were at work in the moonlight.

At the temple hall ruins—already scattered the white sesame—how the moonlight shone upon them!

Round and shadowed—how bright the moon shone tonight in the swaying splendor of small bamboo!

§

The moon’s path seems to shift slightly—compared to last night, the wind feels somewhat cooler.

Season of Autumn Storms

Neighbor's Autumn

In the bush clover thicket, insect voices already swelled; dwelling here morning and evening as neighbors...

The neighbor’s path I had been kindly using daily lay fragrant with bush clover and susuki grass through these familiar days.

Autumn came early to the neighbor’s—burying the path where bush clover and susuki grass now reigned over the view.

Viewing the bush clover and susuki grass as neighbors brings tranquility; now there’s little left for us to exchange in words.

In the neighbor where Sashinami’s fragrance lingers, I delight in viewing bush clover and susuki grass.

Cherishing the Self

Ah, my life—no longer young, I had reached the time to earnestly reflect upon myself.

People are not always healthy; viewing the green of lamb's quarters under morning dew, they desire their meal.

Thinking of "The Admonition on Moderation in Drinking"

The rice eaten while the morning glory’s dew had yet to dry was faintly cool and must have been white rice.

In strict abstinence from deep wine lay awakening; while gazing upon Japanese ginger flowers, I came to realize.

The illness was not severe.

White rice I had not eaten for a long time; smartweed spikes formed their grains as the hot days persisted.

An Inconspicuous Gate

At the pivot of an inconspicuous gate, morning glories continued to bloom and climb, entwining themselves.

Though I wiped away the gathering dew, those morning glory flowers set to bloom tomorrow may yet diminish.

§

Though I gazed while time flowed, did the crape myrtle keep blooming ever more crimson?

Amidst the crape myrtle's radiant blossoms—a voice—I startled at the child crying "Father!"

§

The faintly red plumes of pampas grass glowed; perhaps he drew near to the beloved child.

“O young child—this morning dew on plumes of still-red threadlike pampas grass—Father shall protect them.”

The back hill's depths had grown cool as pampas grass aligned its crimson plumes.

In the bamboo grove where one dwelled, leaning through yesterdays and todays, crimson water ribbon flowers bloomed by the ear.

Dividing the plumes with crimson water ribbons—the bamboo roots stayed ever damp; ah, how fine that bamboo grove.

Faintly cold—my ailing body's innocence plucked golden water ribbon plumes.

Autumn Night

Kudamaki is an alternate name for the bell cricket, used in my hometown.

In the early evening when bell crickets still sang nearby, fairy tales continued to be read beneath the familiar lampshade.

Bell crickets crackled in the nearby outer thicket; the moon hung round and tinged with longing crimson.

The boy found pleasure in their chirping and popping sounds—throughout the night he rejoiced, crying "How splendid the bell crickets are!"

Though the bell crickets had crackled through the evening, now that the child slept only their lingering tones pierced through.

The waves' roar resounded unceasingly—yet a single bell cricket's voice pierced through undrowned.

Fine Night

Brighter than usual was the moonlit night—palm leaves and dangling gourds swayed as the wind rustled through them.

Though the fine night and moon were bright, every visible weed turned its plumes to sere.

As the autumn storm rose and the Moso bamboo rustled, the moon tilted serenely.

Tennis began; the child accompanied as well.

As the autumn storm rose, clumps of pampas grass scattered, and the white tennis ball bounced away.

Sleeping Visage

The moon watched—did my sleeping child, with brows arched bright, smile faintly below?

Deep into the night, my child’s slumbering visage glowed—could it have been that the full moon’s orb had come to dwell here?

The child, radiantly aglow, mingled with—how poignant—the gazes of father and mother.

Mother and Child's Night

While cherishing even the moments when crickets sang, taking soothing herbs, the child rocked at the mother's breast did not sleep.

In the night when cricket voices pierced clear, my child with black eyelashes was soothed.

In the deep drowsiness of mother and child's night, the crickets' voices soaked into the steady rain.

The crickets persisted in their chirping through the night; the rain fell colder, unlit by any lamp.

At dawn when mother's milk dripped onto the child, the crickets' voices chilled and ceased.

Bamboo Window Rain-Viewing

The dawn rain in the outer thicket—reflected in the yellow filament of the light bulb within the glass-window pane.

The dawn rain—pure in monochrome upon bamboo leaves—opened the glass door as its sound came standing forth.

When listening to rain falling on bamboo leaves—the shaking naturally spilled over, then pooled anew.

Clarifying yet still murmuring—the sound—as falling raindrops swayed the bamboo leaves in their rows.

After the rain, the green of bamboo leaves grew vivid; dripping droplets reflected upon those leaves.

Seeing the dwarf bamboo leaves—growing mingled with Moso roots—sway, it seemed rain approached.

While watching the rain fall on bamboo leaves, time grew long—one after another, down the trunks, water flowed visible.

A shrike perched on young bamboo; a friend, finding it intriguing, came to see—and that very shrike sang.

Likewise, Night Rain

On the bamboo leaves, rain fell and lingered; blue though it was, a lamp’s shadow flowed—seen flickering like flame.

Hibiscus Blooms

Hibiscus bloomed by the window—an aluminum pot and rice container placed there—the morning sun shone.

In the morning light, hibiscus bloomed in full at the thatched house—how fine and dear was my home.

My child sat at the red hibiscus gate—how the autumn morning sun shone upon them.

The earth’s surface still unsteady; hibiscus facing bloom trembled in faint sunlight.

A shrike arrived

Piercingly came the shrike’s cry through the rain’s aftermath; still, the stems of green persimmons remained wet.

When the shrike cried urgently in its bird-voice, the crisp evening wind rose—autumn arrived.

Neighbor’s Wellside

White hibiscus and red hibiscus bloomed in layered profusion—the white one’s fragrance lingered in solitude.

Japanese gingers bloomed in the bamboo grove.

If I plucked forget-me-nots and Japanese ginger, dimly in that time before white flowers took hold on their buds...

Dew-moistened young Japanese ginger, clad in layered leaves still faintly aglow, had been plucked early.

Lonely in fragrance, the Japanese ginger flower—where sunlight filtered through—stood as a single cluster still moist with dew.

The autumn rains fell long; as Japanese ginger flowers rose from the earth, a chill seeped from below.

Typhoon Season

The typhoon’s roaring winds tore through the flowering ginger; someone draped a towel over their head and tied it tightly around.

The fine rain did not cease.

In the grass debris, the red of smartweed soaked—this autumn rain dripping thickly seeped into the ground.

Upon the cockscomb leaves chilled blue by the rain’s aftermath, there existed a heart that gathered earnestly and concentrated.

Dayflower

A chill rain fell on the dayflowers that morning; the evening and morning papers arrived soaked.

Dayflowers bloom in succession to what—from the summer of green plums through to the lingering autumn rains.

In the rain where dayflowers mingle with asters, even the barbed-wire fence feels dear.

If you take them for dewdrops on dayflowers—count them and see—they outnumber, strung together as lapis lazuli comma beads.

White Bush Clover

The morning rain fell incessantly; since the white bush clover had not yet scattered, I observed.

The 210th day had finally passed; white bush clover distinctly scattered as the pattering rain ceased.

White bush clover's dew unparted—on the child's head, ever more endearing, scattered flowers clung.

My Child

When I thought to love my child—while drawing lines to separate from others' children—it had already tilted.

Naturally resembling his father's child—being fierce and unable to endure—what touched the hands that did not throw.

Cockscomb of Autumn

When the wind blew upon the cockscomb, crimson leaves rose in flame-like commotion.

Cockscomb—its upper leaves yellowing rose one after another; lower leaves swayed and fluttered as flames spread.

"My child, look! The garden blazes with cockscomb’s lion-mane, shining bright this morning."

The cockscomb’s finest parts blazed up, and the Ninth Month’s rains fell without cease—no moment when they cleared.

Listening to Autumn Night Insects

On rainy nights when my bowels chilled easily—I went to bed early and cherished the insects' cries, those that sang enough to be heard.

The more I listened, the more clamorous and sorrowful grew the insects' voices; tilting my head, I lay awake.

One insect sang with peerless grace; those outdone grew ever clearer in their solitude—strangely lonesome.

Insects gathered close and clamored; though they chained their cries in succession, it only grew more desolate.

The voices of insects heard in two grasses and three colors—how desolate they grew by the nighttime privy.

When listened to carefully, the voices of insects crying at the back door and in the garden competed; those at the back door were sharper.

The crying insects varied in their refinement; the more one listened to voices at their fullest, the night dew grew ever dearer.

Skylarks, singing in continuous succession while hastening, passed through until the dimness of night without growing cold.

As dawn approached—perhaps resolved to make this moment their limit—the crying insects grew ever clearer.

The rooster crows; the insects’ voices, chilled as by starlight, surpass the dawn.

The moon increasingly waned.

The bow-shaped moon came to rise late; in the pumpkin field, the voices of katydids.

Hand Warmer Ashes

Autumn birds scattered away; with ears attuned, on that rainy night I fiercely guarded the lamplight.

§

To the hazy moon, a light rain joined; as the night deepened, the coldness of my body became evident—I replenished the hand warmer ashes.

On rainy nights when insect cries did not continue, I took out three or five tablets and chewed them.

§

On nights when human presence waned, the large shadow of a spider with glinting eyes loomed.

In the darkness of the utterly ruined house, trilling loudly, the bell cricket must have taken up residence.

Sunflowers withered.

The sunflower florets' seat had ripened black; even the autumn sunlight felt wistfully nostalgic.

The sunflowers—before one knew it, their blooms had ended. Though lacking brilliance, they were gazed upon.

In five directions, five had ended—the sunflower’s large black circular florets, ah.

Sparrows came to the withered florets of sunflowers and pecked at the seeds with unhurried ease.

The sparrows, pecking at sunflower seeds with heads bowed—how lonely their crowns had become.

The sunflowers’ florets too had withered; swaying and shifting, the sparrows grew quiet in the fine sunlight.

The large-flowered sunflowers had withered; dried in the sun—their seeds, mice had taken them all. Red spider lilies came into bloom. Red spider lilies with crimson spikes standing by bamboo roots—when seen that morning, they had sprouted in number. I gripped their still-young crimson spikes tight between my fingers—this year at the bamboo roots. In the thicket where the child’s bare skin looked cool—how many crimson red spider lilies had emerged. When the mountain wind from the temple grew cold, red spider lilies simply continued blooming—both outside and inside.

Red spider lilies crimson all around the temple mountain; the shadows of equinox pilgrimages too multiplied.

My garden too had at last grown desolate—by the lamb’s quarters in the morning rain, red spider lilies emerged.

Because the child lay buried in her hands, the red spider lilies stared intently and released their moisture—ah.

Mid-Autumn arrived.

Autumn, intimate yet faint—outside the bamboo grove, the persimmon's new leaves turned red.

Bamboo Grove Reverie

Atami Wanderings

I. Mountain Villa Rain

Mr. Ikuta Toshiro arrives.

The spring at my dwelling was not yet deep; the plum blossomed white, the leaves of small bamboo yellowed.

When the misty rain falls, faintly; when the bush warbler sings, dimly.

“Ah, friend—the day has passed; O tranquility of this mountain!”

II. Viewing Shōyō Sensei’s Sōkisha

Twin persimmon trees—was that Sōkisha? Their branches still lonely in spring—O that hill where you must have been dwelling, where white plumes were blooming in their glory through this misty rain.

III. Shōyō Sensei

Through the charming spring drizzle, wearing his haori inside out, bamboo staff in hand, stepping over several stones with childlike playfulness, voice raised in cheer—the old man returned.
Beneath the persimmon tree, beneath the white plum tree, he came rustling back.
It must be Sensei.

IV. Sōkisha in Early Spring

Twin persimmon trees, five or three plum trees—in this garden spring lay quiet as light rain drifted down.

In spring rain glistened the old persimmon's roots; the fatsia sat drenched where one gazed.

How lonely grew their whiteness in this February rain—the plum blossoms.

V. Sketch

Here, having come—something had made me honest—I was drawing Sensei’s face.

Should I grant him large ears? As I faced and drew my joyful Sensei.

Sensei's one cheek brightened—through the glass pane, the light of white plums outside seemed to reflect.

VI. At the Plum Grove

As I wonder, "Is this Kino-miya?" over there, river plums scatter white upon a cluster of stones.

Along the path over the hill where plum blossoms bloom bright, the hot spring town comes into view, its steam billowing up.

As far as the eye can see, white flowers appear pure and faint—truly a plum grove.

In the plum grove with white flowers, the day clouds over; the stream's murmur too dims as it flows.

VII. From the Plum Grove

Beneath pine shade, the thatched hut stood inconspicuous; white plum blossoms seemed to envelop it (Bashō-an).
The evening shadows of the white-flowered plum grove, viewed from below, grew ever more tranquil.
A crane with black-tipped tail feathers made no sound—only a forest thick with blossoms remained.

VIII. Returning to the Mountain

My dwelling too—how strikingly the plum blossoms’ glory shone, white and radiant among the clumps of small bamboo.

The voice of my child awaits to welcome—come dashing through that small bamboo thicket where plum blossoms shine white.

In the five or six days we haven’t met, this child of mine—how those keen eyes won’t grow accustomed to Father.

White plum blossoms—as I eat my meal in my bamboo grove, I have forgotten the weariness of travel.

Bamboo Grove Reverie

Bamboo and I

Even gazing upon them I never tire of gazing; growing closer only lets me grow closer still. There exists a faintness just as things are—neither interfering nor hindering. Bamboo remains bamboo and I remain myself; thus does bamboo rejoice.

Bamboo Grove Reverie

While admiring the bamboo in the grove through passing years, I lived well here in deep contemplation.

In the bamboo grove, I enjoyed sake in tranquility; people of old indeed must have secluded themselves here.

In the south of the bamboo grove where sunlight lingered, I savored fine sake in this world.

Leaning on my own bamboo and basking in the sun, I heartily enjoyed and drank sake.

In the sunlit bamboo grove, beneath roots where bell herbs grew, young shoots greened early while swaying in haste.

While heating sake in the bamboo grove as it grew peacefully calm, I cast aside persimmons.

Winter Day

Indoors

The sunlight passing through the glass door did not shine brightly; while having someone peel a barrel persimmon and nibble at it, I drew a pen sketch.

The wool shawl—glossy and soft—lay placed on the desk; faintly traced was the windowpane’s shadow.

Truly, the bulbul’s cry chilled the air; by the window in the sunlight with my child, I still drew pen sketches.

On the broken wall where the winter western sun clarified its light, shadows grew intimate—the window frame and bars.

In the folds of the window curtain lingered the day’s light; two flies remained without parting.

Dried Persimmons

Day by day, the red dried persimmons flourished; in the mountains, white-eyes gathered in numbers.

Midwinter came; dried persimmons brightened beneath the eaves, and the Moso bamboo grove appeared endearingly.

The child woke, eyes wide and round; by the window, dried persimmons glowed red as a white-eye alighted.

In the dim morning light, awakened suddenly to see—white-eyes alighted joyfully on persimmon fruits.

White-eyes had come to the persimmon fruits; when I looked, they seemed not yet aware and did not peck.

Beaded morning-dried persimmons in their splendor—I simply gazed up at them.

White-eyes flocked to the dried persimmons; in the morning light at the window, I enjoyed this with my child.

In the hush, small white-eyes swayed through the branches, pecking at perfectly round persimmons.

Small birds came and enjoyed the day; as for the dried persimmons, I took pleasure in them but did not let them eat.

Beside the child gazing up at the small birds visiting the dried persimmons, I too stood looking upward and said something.

The small birds playing with dried persimmons—how forlorn they seemed—some pecking, some tilting their heads upward.

White-eyes scattered on the dried persimmons, hushed in their quietness; the occasional shrike that came by, so large in comparison.

The white-eyes gathering to eat persimmons must have been cold—moving to Moso bamboo branches while chirping.

When the bulbul came, the white-eyes scattered and fled; at the shrike's cry, the bulbul soared away—what remained red were the dried persimmons.

At my back door—the dried persimmons that ripened and fell; a mouse carried off the red ones.

On the lower branches—only cold stems remained counted; the persimmons at the treetop glowed all the redder.

The Mountain Burning of Myōjōgatake

Serene yet fearsome wildfire—over the mountain pass, two masses of yellow smoke rose.

Listening to things crack and burst, they crossed the ridge—the immensity of the mountain burned beyond.

Two mountains shook and roared; the burning fire's flames raced alongside as they rose.

Thinking it a quiet noon—yet amidst this calm—two mountains burned ablaze as chants rose in unison.

Roaring, the sky shook as voices resounded; the breadth of spreading flames claimed dominion over the mountain.

The mountain's single slope—even as it gently inclined—echoed with roaring ascent; crimson wildfire blazed wide across its breadth.

In mid-spring upon the opposite slope where fire raged—hues born within flames blazed with pristine clarity.

The spring mountain parted veils of mist; each roaring fire burned clear through haze.

The fire spread—how strangely calm this hazy spring day—as the mountain slopes teemed with clamoring children.

The flames spread rapidly; smoke rose, intensely white at each mountain base.

The fire spread unrestrained; the spring mountain's haze quivered as it blazed up.

The blasts of flying embers from the wildfire were no ordinary thing; "It spreads and burns onward!" resounded the chant.

The bursting of bamboo grass was indeed profound; as the opposite mountain’s roar quieted, a whirl of fire swirled.

Blazing on the opposite mountainside, it roared fiercely; I saw the trampled snow.

The mountain roared fiercely; along its slope ran children whose own unleashed fire whipped wildly.

The spring mountain's ridge roared with burning flames; when I thought how desolate it would become in their sudden vanishing.

Though things burst and roared without cease, the mountain beyond the hazy distance lay tranquil in its patterned beauty.

A white cloud trailed along the mountain ridge lying somewhat distant from the great wildfire.

Through mountains where spring haze settled quietly, I walked while listening to fire's deep-throated roar.

The mountain fire on the opposite peak had burned out, leaving utter desolation; in the dimming twilight, bush warblers sang (Kowakidani).

The opposite mountain's evening chill came early, intensely black—this slope had burned to utter desolation.

The mountain's layered peaks drew near along the ridge; the evening sky close by as fire glowed red.

On the layered peaks of Sagami's ridges, a fire burned—the time when night appeared crimson indeed.

Along the ridge, slender mountain fires—several strings in succession glowed red; tonight would surely turn cold.

Along the ridges, the night fire glowed red; pondering deeply with reluctance, now one had to descend.

June at the Mountain Villa

Alone, I thought.

Lightning fell upon Mount Kunbara and Bhandaba’s rock cavern.
This peerless (Buddha’s Child) entered the mountain cavern and engaged in Zen contemplation.

(Elder Shirikuda’s Gatha)

Lightning fell upon the rocks of Mount Bhandaba; I too would sit amidst that lightning.

I, within the bamboo thicket, partook of sweet milk-rice, contemplated all aggregates, focused my mind on detachment, and resolved to occupy the peak.
(Elder Gōsara’s Gatha)

Into the bamboo grove poured sunlight—like Gōsara, I too would sit.

In this radiant noon I took delight—the faint Nandina flowers trembling too.

Brightly I took delight—the green grass mirrored bamboo leaves dripping.

Lamb's quarters grew.

In my garden during breaks in the rainy season’s rains—where flowers should have bloomed—lamb’s quarters grew thick, and a green frog croaked.

Days that were neither bright nor rainy but humid continued on and on; the lamb’s quarters stretched upward, their growth simply tinged red.

The neighbor, still poor, came to pick red-tipped lamb’s quarters for food.

Back Hill

When bamboo grass was chewed, longing arose; my child and I passed by, exchanging faint words.

Summer had already come; the giant Western hogweed's flower spikes stood in full array, taller than my child.

The spiral orchids glowed faintly crimson; lying in the grass, she thought of the child soon to be born.

As the child bent down, the sunlight outside knew no bounds; the procession of ants appeared in perfect clarity.

Vividly they hung this morning—the chestnut’s pendant flower clusters she had waited for so eagerly.

Through a break in the rainy season, slipping out to the neighbor's field, she gathered fallen plums—the fallen plums of our house.

One evening

The red-glowing mosquito-repellent incense smoldered—she sat facing her child，eating steamed buns.

Because the child said “Draw the running train with crayon，” I was drawing where the fire burned.

The white moth’s faint purple hue upon the layered wings of its back—this night deepened.

Persimmon Leaves

Upon returning from the journey

In the evening when sunlight streams and moths swarm incessantly, I find myself struggling to make out the red bush clover.

The yabu myoga flowers have passed their peak; having returned home, I gaze intently at my child with whom I have yet to play.

At the bamboo roots—a single cluster of red spider lilies—this morning of the Autumn Imperial Spirit Festival, I found them.

Persimmon Leaves

When I secretly observed the white cat, it played alone in the garden where moonlight spilled.

On the wooden shingle roof where wet persimmon leaves clung, the moonlight arrived as night deepened.

The moonlight turned cool; the akebia pods remained green still.

Aster

Mr. Utsuno Ken’s Garden

Even when glanced at, somehow tranquil autumn plants—neatly ordered as they basked in sunlight.

In the sunlit part of this garden, asters bloomed in clusters, joyous—autumn had indeed come.

Harvest

After the autumn storm had passed—on a morning when the sky remained uncleared—stepping outside, the scattered plum leaves stung the eyes.

The mist over shadowed terraced fields hung melancholy; these days one heard they had been reaping in succession.

Fig

On the fig tree, the neighbor's young master has climbed up; one or two [figs] he seems to have eaten.

Cracks in the Ice

Cracks in the Ice

Death Face

The gauze covering the face was removed; she had truly died—even the sharpness of her nose.

O sharp nose of this death face—it was this aunt who had dealt most harshly with my mother.

The aunt who had been strong-faced—how frail she looked in death, white hair dyed.

Aunt's child Jiro had grown up—as he solemnly arranged his feet properly，everyone wept.

“Jiro—I weep without cause; though I resolve not to cry，my voice falters.”

Thinking of Childhood Days

When I looked upon my aunt's death face, the day we blew clay doves with hollow, fluttering sounds made me weep.

The child placed a pheasant on the pheasant cart and ran; as a young one, I pulled it along in play.

First Night

The night lamp glowed crimson—even the deceased must have truly dreaded this piercing cold.

In the cold night of mingling and gathering at the warming place, the seething sake simply waited.

Though drunk on wake wine, the kelp simmered in the bleary night turned bluish and sticky.

The wake wine sobered quickly; they stirred the fire, and when heads grew cold, donned coats.

Second Night

Having placed a large turnip on the three-tiered stand, they arranged the carrots with their crimson dangling roots properly.

To have danced my late aunt’s cheerful dance—one ought to drink this fine sake.

May my aunt’s august spirit, having ascended to divinity, deign to witness this—with tears streaming down, I performed the hand-clapping dance.

Crematorium Road

In the brisk winter clarity where all things' essences purify,

In the pasture of the field hollow, a herd of cows bends low; the quietness too profound, not a stir to be found.

The racecourse fence gleams white; around here, turnips and daikons pattern the terraced fields.

The winter sky reflects the blue of the sea; the crematorium road ascends as it winds onward.

Those who depart leave no shadow; like the wind, winter’s light too has flowed away.

Against the winter sky, a chimney stands white; my aunt’s coffin too has arrived and come to rest.

They were sold at the tea shop.

The world of humans is ultimately dim—winter’s hue clarifies in blue bamboo popguns.

Third Night

Somehow having spent through drunkenness—on this very night—someone raised a harsh voice and scolded another.

I must have gotten drunk on sacred night sake—the turtle dove went off mimicking its soft cooing sounds as it slept.

The girls delighted at their scheme of sleeping amidst everyone yet ended up bedding down all jumbled together while crying out “Fish!”

Bone-Gathering

In this transient world before the crematorium, they discarded the sun-warmed coarse tea and departed.

Having gathered the bones and returned to the hillside's frost haze—if only this constancy could last—people coughed.

On winter-withered asparagus, berries remained—somewhat red where they had been parted aside.

Day of Making Gratitude Rounds

Making gratitude rounds hither and thither—the day was cold; in the high treetops, a hawfinch’s voice.

That ice manufacturing company was operated by my cousin.

They moderately operated machinery during short winter days and occasionally visited the icehouse's ice. As they gazed at densely packed ice formations, hot tears fell before pure white cracks in corner-hardened slabs. Frost crystallized on iron pipes already whitening them; ammonia gas must have chilled effectively. Outside moved a night bird's large shadow while desolate cold permeated the ice factory's glow.

Elephant's Trunk

When the baby elephant lifted its abundantly drooping trunk to eat, its eyes seemed to smile.

The elephant's trunk hung straight ahead—wrinkled and sagging. "Child," one said, "go ask where exactly its nose begins."

How curious—when the elephant ate with its trunk, beneath that very trunk there must lie a mouth.

When one gazed upon the baby elephant shivering in the cold, its dangling trunk swung ceaselessly.

In the flickering sun that froze stiff the feathers on its lofty crest, the ostrich walked rigid with cold.

In the evening shadows, swaying forth in desolate chill, the camel arched its beard.

A spoonbill heron pecked at a dangling yellow loach; a domestic duck stood poised to steal it.

The teal ducks playing in the pond found it cold; those left behind hurried to catch up.

Plum Calyx

Spring had yet to come; busy writing without respite, they had a bath drawn and passed the evening.

Already bright beneath the plum trees, the child's bicycle wheels raced along the path below.

I showed her—the chattering child who opened her mouth—the outward-facing plum with its lovely calyxes.

In one direction they bypassed the neighboring temple—white plum blossoms bearing nothing but calyxes.

"I'll only bathe with Mother!" declared the child, while her mother soaked alone gazing at plum calyxes.

The plum calyxes glowed red and indistinct; I soaked in the bath and played at squirting a water gun with my child.

Plum stamens reddened, bristled with tiny hairs under frequent rain; the vaccination notice had arrived that morning.

Songs of Remembering the Nation

Afflicted yet with no way to attend; with whole heart enduring, I offer these songs of longing for the nation.

Enduring this heart that longs for the nation, my child sends forth—yet spring by the window remains shallow still.

The heart that longs for the nation murmurs—reed ducks scatter in chill disarray; may the waves not rise, O dream.

Could it be that we the people and I give no thought—to having encountered our Emperor’s august imperial decree?

Thinking of the nation and conveying the imperial edict—how fierce the vigor of our Lord who made the great bird stand!