Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prelude

Buds pierce through.

Knife-like buds

A single one

Cleanly, it pierces through the azure sky.

The spirit of Lyric Poetry is imbued with the subtle ecstasy and passion that music possesses, whispering to human hearts.
The moment of gentle harmony and admiration, experienced by none after hearing good music.
The love that immediately guides the self to the qualities of a virtuous human.
When everyone sees something good and beautiful, the precious reflection that one must also become good.
That which is rooted in the most excellent spirit invites tears from the innermost depths of human hearts, washing and purifying them.

In memories of days of innocence

Muroo-kun.

Time passed.

Upon receiving notice of the publication of *Lyric Pieces Collection*, I found myself recalling once more the figure of you in your youth from days gone by.
When I first met you, you seemed lonely, you seemed pained, you seemed sad.
When I first encountered your poems, I was struck by the fresh clarity of their voice, keenly sensing the vividness and joy of water from a newly sprung fountain.
You were also natural and childish, yet pure as chestnut buds with silver down—a sentimentalist.
That was a bud endowed with a strong, special truth, confidence, and precision.
That chestnut tree grew day by day into the full form of a mature tree.
Day by day, the manifestation of your innate love, weeping, and passions grew more intense.
It may be improper to say this, but I felt a deeper purity and attachment toward this *Lyric Pieces Collection* than toward *Love’s Poetry Collection*, and sensed within it the savory taste of reminiscence.
And I even recalled my own past self who, upon first discovering these lyric pieces of yours, was struck by no small wonder.
Both your and my glorious youth had already passed.
When I remembered, I could not endure the contrast between past and present.

I say again.
This Lyric Pieces Collection was none other than what I had long awaited.
I truly awaited the day of its publication, craned my neck in anticipation, cherishing your joy as my own and wishing for it to arrive even a day sooner.

May glory once more be upon my Muroo Saisei.

August 14 in Odawara

Kitahara Hakushu

Lyric Poetry Creed

(1) Thy pupil now makes a slight movement.
Emptiness has been revealed.
When the pupils have fully opened, thou dost flap thy wings most intensely.

(2) Thou dost believe thou wast born when many humans expected.
Pray that a few earnest critiques may be bestowed upon thee as sustenance for thy spirit.

(3) Proclaim thou that to think of a lover from days gone by truly resembles thinking of young grass beneath snow.

(4) Poetry is an eternal religion for me.

(5) When I attempted to climb, blood flowed from the cliff.

Lyric Poetry Creed

(1) Love composing’s moment more than poetry itself.

(2) When you pray, fruit snaps from branches and falls; when you pray, blue turns crimson and formless things manifest.

(3) Press pupils together in prayer.

(4) Mountains stand still—behold their teeming wombs; listen to living stillness breathe true life.

(5) When thou dost receive my kiss—always—thy radiance shines through time’s veil.

What I find infinitely nostalgic are the lyric pieces by Muroo included in this collection.
Among all the poems he has published in the past, there are none as filled with honest, bashful emotions as these lyric poems.
They are indeed poems tinged with a transparent blue, like beautiful shells.
And their rhythm possesses a rare sharpness that cannot be found in any Japanese lyric poems that have appeared before.
And this collection is Japan’s only beautiful Lyric Pieces Collection since Brother Kitahara’s *Memories*.
In this kind of art, I believe it will not be easy to seek anything superior to this henceforth.

Hagiwara Sakutaro

The five fingers of a human hand are like the rare five-petaled scent Arajieiu that once bloomed in the flowerbeds of Miyako Haarlem.

Louis Bertrand

As your friend since childhood days, I truly did not know what words could express this joy upon your third work, *Lyric Pieces Collection*, being published.
Above all, every one of the lyric pieces gathered here had made a profound impression on us all in those days.
The strength of your poetry lay in how its sensitive, beautiful, delicate emotions—free from abstraction—were expressed rhythmically with truth and power.
Was not the most precious aspect the part that transplanted truly beautiful, fine emotions into those who had read this...

July 17

Tanabe Takatsugu

Something burning beneath the snow

Borne on the wind,

Unaware, it journeys into light.

Spring and autumn deepen—something burns.

I began compiling the manuscript around May and finished all the work on the evening of July 12th when a great typhoon assailed the capital’s sky.
From over two hundred pieces that existed, I selected some and discarded the rest.
As I gathered them by digging through old magazines, small paper scraps, and tattered manuscript bindings, I felt my heart swell.
At that very moment, days and nights of violent winds had become a fearsome typhoon raging through the suburbs.
It sought to reduce the small garden’s dahlias, sunflowers, and chrysanthemums to fragments.
The sunflower leaves that had grown over ten feet tall were torn and riddled with holes.
However, they did not fall and clung firmly to the base of the earth until the end.
I compiled the manuscript on this day and wrote a letter to a composer.
And I grew terribly tense at the thought of putting this book out into the city and having it placed on friends’ desks.

Author's Preface

I marveled at how the poems collected in this volume were both fresh works of my own making and had been written with the innocent, guileless sincerity of my boyhood days, finding myself reciting them aloud time and again. Truly, if the short poems in this collection could be read and savored with a candid heart—as if reciting an elementary school reader—I would feel profoundly heartened. I knew that such a naive "lyric poetry era" would not return to me again, nor could I seek it out once more. Just as there surely comes a time when people must love this "beautiful lyric poetry," just as it is a path everyone must walk, my true desire to gather these poems here lay in all of this.

I wanted especially young people to read this book as well.
I felt a desire to have others think about and understand—the tormenting yet affectionate passions of boyhood we shared,the beautiful hopes,guitless misdeeds,boundless admiration,and pity—all these myriad things.
A boy’s heart can only be understood by a boy.
The same content,harmonizing with these poems of mine,wes what I believed could be understood for the first time.
The torments everyone feels and the hearts pursuing hopes must surely clash within this collection,I thought.

Everyone says, "Boyhood was fun."
“Boys are sacred beings, most distinct from both gods and humans,” Dostoevsky has also said.
The force that grew like a young tree truly overflowed only in that era.
It was the age of cleverness—the "most blissful age of the mind."
Once something was seen or felt, it was an era when roots immediately took hold and were planted.

I still feel it.

The sharp memories of seasonal changes felt in boyhood and the keenness of those sensations—truly, I know not what to liken them to. Just like an insect with quivering antennae, it always possessed a soul that tingled with profound insight. It was because childhood’s purity and wisdom had grown gently yet fully as they were meant to be—preserved with exactitude through those years. “Learn from children how to treat others—children remain untainted,” Tolstoy said.

I was raised in a northern country of deep snow.
The early November showers turned day by day into sleet and then into beautiful snow that enveloped mountains, fields, towns, and every house.
The townspeople covered north-facing windows and doorways of houses with straw and mats.

Snow piled on both sides of roads reached roof-height, and at night light leaked through snow-covered windows and doorways.
Outdoor activities being naturally prevented by snow, we children would sit indoors warming by fireplaces through terrifying blizzard nights.
Around that time I wrote haiku and drew small vignettes, gradually opening my heart to nature.
Though constantly possessing an intensely sociable heart full of longing, I also fiercely cherished solitude.
After reading or pondering things, I would often immerse myself in self-created sweet melancholy while contemplating "un-childlike" matters by snow-lit windows.
This became for us boys something both joyful and sorrowful—like secret hideaways of the heart where we always retreated.

As if unable to endure the snowfall lasting until April, around the time when spring’s floating essence began to stir beneath the snow, a particularly tormenting power welled up in our bodies.
We boys, feeling a deep girl-like affection for one another, always chose our poems’ and haiku’s subjects from among those friends.
The beautiful boy friends would sometimes discuss poetry, exchange fervent handshakes and kisses, and take endless walks under blue twilights that never seemed to tire.

We composed various poems during our strolls here and there and around the meadows.
While singing like the wind, I would grow impressed by my own verses—there were even moments when tears came unbidden.
What I witnessed pressed upon me with sad insistence.
In those incomparable instants—frail yet beautiful and sentimental—we considered our very existence there a blessing, and as if it were our youthful destiny for things to be so ordained, we fancied ourselves nothing less than the world’s greatest poets.
We knew neither humility nor shyness.
We remained perpetually overwhelmed by arrogance and self-regard, deeming this perfectly natural.
We showed no restraint toward companions who seldom read worldly books.

I love lyric poetry.
Especially do I love the hometown I have traversed, love itself, and sentimentality.
"The chirping of small blue-beaked birds is lovely."
This I want to praise.
I want to commemorate that era which comes but once in a human life.
I want to tuck it just as it is into the hearts of young people now coming after.

Of course, poetry’s merits cannot be judged by anything beyond personal preference. As for how deeply these verses pierce into the heart’s innermost chambers—I can say nothing definitive now—yet I trust people will open these pages with smiles of goodwill and kinship already blooming within them. I imagine them tasting these words with a “gentle heart,” unburdened by pedantic critique or debate. Only then do I sense that publishing this book has truly been worth the labor.

It had been nearly a year since I published *Love’s Poetry Collection* in January.
To truly know myself who had walked the path up to *Love’s Poetry Collection*, I wanted them to understand this "lyric poetry era" self of mine.
I wanted to tell of a time when even I had fallen in love with beautiful love and cherished sweetly feminine rhythms.
In truth, I wanted this *Lyric Pieces Collection* to be read alongside *Love’s Poetry Collection*, so that you might unravel the rhythm twisted into the warp and weft of my heart’s fabric.
Readers who engaged deeply would surely consider, as they approached the final pages of this collection, how human emotions gradually became frayed or gently grew wild.
I found it both joyful and sorrowful to now gather and behold the flowers and fruits of a life battered by the wind.

July 13, 1918

At Tabata in the Suburbs

Muroo Saisei

*Lyric Pieces Collection* Notes

Chronology

Works from around twenty to approximately twenty-four years of age, with *Small Scenes, Shifting Emotions* being among the earliest.
*Small Scenes...* being among them—the earliest—and *Prayer Gesture* the latest.
Though the poems of spring and autumn seasons over five years were intermingled due to my shifting states of mind, I compiled the chronology as accurately as possible.

Place of Creation

The Konpira Shrine at Amaboin in Sennichimachi, Kanazawa City—my hometown—stood surrounded by lonely hemlocks and towering enoki trees that encircled the temple grounds on all sides; its front garden, still dim even at noon, exuded an air of profound seclusion. From its inner chamber, one could gaze directly upon the Sai River. The banks of the beautiful clear-stream temple were washed by the Sai River; even in summer, its coolness knew no bounds. Across the river, one could view Mount Iō and Mount Tomuro, and even glimpse the distant peaks of the Hida Range.

As fields and places for walks

What I favored most were the Hamaguri-zaka Shindo along the Sai River and, further downstream, the vicinity of the Sai River Iron Bridge.
These lands ceaselessly haunted my youthful heart; with each turning of the seasons, I felt a heightened pulse.
“Autumn Thoughts” was composed at the renowned Kenrokuen Garden; the way the blue, soft grasses grew at the garden’s entrance—their color remains one of those things I cannot forget to this day.

Travel

These are works from my travels to Kyoto and the vicinity of Maebashi City in Joshu, along with the piece titled "Asuwa River."
Asuwa River flows through Echizen Fukui City.
When returning from Kyoto, I once stayed in this town of Fukui for about a month; it was during that time I composed this poem, and I hear the young cherry trees upon the beautiful banks of Asuwa River still bloom each spring even now.
The height of nostalgia.
All my journeys sprang from willful acts of childhood and became rebellions against my kind and loving parents.
Now that Father too has passed from this world, emptiness reigns.
The sorrow is boundless.

I went to Maebashi City in Joshu three times. There, I came to know my esteemed friend Hagiwara. Koide Ishi on the banks of the Tone River, small sand hills, young oak groves, grazing cattle, Mount Akagi, the park—all remain alive in my heart even now. Travel was interesting but fleeting and sad. I obtained five pieces: Tone’s sand hills, ice door, cherry blossoms and skylarks, field horsetails, and Maebashi Park. (Though there are many others, they are not included.)

Seaside

All sea poems were created in a place called Kanaishi, two ri away from Kanazawa City. There were two thousand households there, their hearts all simple and pure. Five chō from town stood Shakadō Temple. Within its tranquil grounds lies the tombstone of Zeniya Gohee. In one of its rooms I spent over a year recuperating through a change of scenery. The temple stood shaded by sand dunes at the edge of a cool pine grove, leading from flower fields to town. Here I first received Roof Garden from my friend Brother Hakushu. From this time my poetic spirit gradually stirred and solidified—looking back now, eleven years have passed. Through serene nuns of surpassing gentleness and beauty, I was given fresh vegetables daily and kind, ample convalescence during my illness. My friend Hagiwara too came from distant Maebashi City to visit this lonely temple. It was May of Taisho 4 [1915]. Here I composed works including Seagull, Seaside Soliloquy, Rain on Sand Hills, Fish and Their Joys and Sorrows, Sitting Amidst Pine Grove, Upon Sand Dunes, Quiet Sky, and Water Striders.

Snowfall

From late October came intermittent showers; by late November, cold sleet fell.
When sleet turned into a long winter, it gradually became graupel and then snow.
Piling two or three feet was an annual occurrence, and at times would even reach over ten feet; the dogs would all play and frolic atop the roofs.
When snow fell, it became warmer instead; people gathered around the kotatsu at night for companionship.
Even though snow fell and sleet froze, the winters of my hometown were unforgettable.

Dark Age

Part III of the Lyric Pieces Collection was mainly created in Tokyo.
In the humid inns of Nezu nestled within Hongō’s valley, where I heard the shrill cries of cicadas from *Cicada Time*, how many summers did I greet with stumbles, foul drink, and debauchery?
*Silver Beggar*, *Slope*—all these are works from the Dark Age that loomed before me.
For months on end, never venturing out by day, I would go to streets steeped in night and immerse myself in foul drink.
That regret renewed itself and sank ever deeper.
Even now, when I recall it, my forehead beads with sweat—this is what remains.
At times I heard bell crickets singing in Hakusan Shrine’s pines; hearing Ueno’s dawn bell, I would return.
The time bracketing those prayer gestures was indeed an era of battling illness.

Regarding Publication

These lyric poems were previously compiled and published in issues two and three of the magazine *Kanjō*; prior to that, they had been featured in magazines such as *Zamboa*, *Subaru*, *Shika*, and *Sōsaku*.

(These are memoranda from June 18, 1918.)

We, no longer seen as friends from our boyhood days...
One must speak sorrowfully.

Lyric Pieces Collection Aphorisms

Part One

Vignettes of Altered Sentiments

I

How lonely the whitefish!
What darkness dwells in those pupils!
What desolation lies here!
Outside drips the midday meal,
my aloofness and
sadness and—
sparrows chirping tentatively, again and again.

II

The hometown is a thing one thinks of when it is far away.

And what one sings sorrowfully

Be it so—

Even should I become a beggar in foreign lands,

There would be no place to return.

Alone in the capital’s dusk,

Thinking of my hometown, tears well up.

With such a heart,

Would that I return to the distant capital.

Would that I return to the distant capital.

III

Lost the silver watch

How sorrowful the heart!

On the rickety river bridge

Leaning on the bridge, I wept.

IV

From within my spirit
Green sprouts forth.
Though I do nothing
Tears of repentance overflow—
Quietly digging up soil
Tears of repentance overflow.

V

For what do I yearn as I write this poem?

Plum and apricot bloom all at once.

Bathing in the blueness of apricot

The Tranquility of Country Living

Today, too, I was scolded by Mother,

I did not press myself against the apricot tree below.

VI

O apricot tree!

Bloom!

Earth, already shine bright!

O apricot tree, bloom!

O apricot tree, blaze!

Ah, O apricot tree, bloom!

Journey

Due to embarking on a journey,
Eyes opened bright.
Blue foreign paper was held in hand.
Though I was home,
I found no peace.

I depart on my journey as if flowing.

Wheat sprouts forth from within the snow.

That green gleamed as if burnished.

Joyfully it stretched forth from the window.

To my fish-like hands, how affectionate lay the snow!

In Kyoto

Though I have loved glowingly,

That which fades grows cold.

My heart brims with pity and compassion.

At the rustling of things, tears threaten to fall.

If I take the blue of snow in hand,

Snow clings sorrowfully close.

Stirred by such deep compassion,

Now let all tears flow forth completely.

Drifting

In my morning's cool heart

The vivid sprouts' pale green

Though bitter,

Oh joy, it has seeped in.

With extraordinary zeal,

The blue and quiet Western paper has indeed been spread out.

It was like hearing a pilgrim’s chanting voice,
in my February’s mournful tone,
in the ancient capital I was about to leave—
a heart that could not remain burning.

Ah, beneath the sky that had cleared so completely
At my journey’s end?

A small bird freezes mid-song and fades away.
Tree buds
The green of wheat abruptly emerges.
If I turn back abruptly, snow falls.
The skylark in winter’s long grass
If I yawn

Tree buds sprout.

Gion

In the night lights of Gion

Even the blue fish swim forth.

Even the blue fish dance?

The warmth of the Kamo River's edge

Without eating, I sing

Summer morning

Though I know not what insect it is,

Crawling up the cold glass of the clock

It chirps shrilly.

In the sorrow of speechless lowly insects

Temple garden

Earth cleared and moistened

Butterbur flowers bloom

Ah, in my upbringing steeped in sorrow,

The temple garden where the bell tolls

On the Journey

If I were to depart on a journey

Something faintly heartening
If I were to depart on a journey
The capital's weariness—intending to awaken and depart
I simply believed as if gazing upon greenery
Even if my heart journeys under pursuit
I marked upon unfamiliar earth
I simply believed in new plants and trees and dreams
Gods and beasts
As there was no limit to the human path
I simply believed deeply and hastened
March
As it thinned, blue and silver

As cherry blossoms bloomed crimson in waves,
March powdery snow fell thickly.
When I gathered snow and took it in my hand,
In the moment of taking it in hand, it vanished.
What could be called sorrow?
In your scarlet gloves,
The snow had already begun to melt thinly away.

Asuwa River

Years had passed without our meeting.

The Asuwa River’s green grew uncommonly dense.

The cherry tree that once stood young had stretched tall.

Oh joy! It came to rest along my hand.

In those days, I too had trodden upon

This embankment’s grass and pale-green hue

Now completely withered in winter, how sorrowful.

I returned from my long journey
Now I stood by the Asuwa River’s edge—

What is it that so foolishly brings tears to my eyes?

Hometown.

The snow melts warmly away,
softly, steadily melting away.

With deep solemnity,
softly,
I blew my breath upon the tree buds.

Sprout.
The pale green of tree buds.
Sprout.
The pale green of tree buds.

Sai River—

The lovely river flows.
On its bank I have dwelt.
Spring is spring, summer is summer’s

Sitting on the flower-adorned embankment,
I came to know the delicate compassion and love found in books.
Even now that river flows

With the beautiful gentle breeze,
Blue waves swell,
To the capital.

How I long for Tokyo Asakusa’s night lights.

Since this morning, without eating a meal,
With a pallid face, I sing—
When my singing voice fades away—
One who died spent from singing.

Today, the shore is thick with groves.
The seagulls break into shrill cries.

Lonely Spring

Sunlight dripping unceasingly,

The creaking water wheel turns slowly.

Against the blue sky,

The mountains of Echigo come into view.

How lonely!

Not a word spoken all day—
When I walk out into the fields,
Rapeseed flowers create waves—
Now already—
How deeply lonely!
Tone’s sand hills—
The wind blows forth and billows up.

Tone’s sand hills, Tone’s sand hills

The Akagi oroshi wind howls and howls.

The wind howls long and hard.

Horsetails grow within the soil.

For what do you stand in sorrow, Tone’s sand hills?

Very well, hold fast to your abandonment.

Even if you spell out your name,

The Akagi oroshi howls,

The Akagi oroshi vanished in an instant.

Door of Ice

Suddenly, the mountain is snow-gleaming.

The mountain abruptly roared and clouded over.

The doors of ice in all directions were opened.

All at once they were about to sprout.

the tender suppleness that the grasses of this land might possess

Today prayers were fervently offered.

The grasses of this land and
In the hearts of people
That there may be good blessings

Ah, today prayers are fervently entreated.

Cherry Blossoms and Skylark

The skylark sang all day.

It sang drowsily.

Brightly, its voice melded with the cherry blossoms.

The cherry blossoms grew forth vigorously.

O cherry blossoms,

Perceive my sincerity.

Spread out in the radiantly streaming sunlight.

The warm and joyful spring’s

Spread through the world of spring.

Horsetail
Precisely because one is a traveler,
Crimson light shines through the small shrubs.
Beloved chickweed, tenderly nurtured,
Trying to pluck it,
heaved a sigh.

Still early in spring,

Chickweed with a sorrowful head—

Though my fingers ache, I dig into the soil wholeheartedly.

Maebashi Park

Quivering are the cherry blossoms.

The cherry blossoms stretch and dream of April.

All is the resonance of water.

Though the azumaya’s withered lawn is sorrowful,

In the garden, what seeds were they?

Fervently sprouting

Sprouting even more vigorously than the ancient trees

The town maiden’s bare feet make gleam

The cherry blossoms, polished by the wind, shine.

Seagull

Seagull seagull

Departing seagull

Humming so lonely,

Along the endless shore it crawls.

Seagull seagull

In the direction of the setting sun, it is drenched.

If the seagull bird does not chirp piyoro

Ah, having escaped the capital,

Along the seashore it crawls.

Seaside Soliloquy

I shed hot tears alone.

I huddled on the seashore.
Why were tears this throng of blue waves?
The surge came and wet my brow.
Behold—upon the drenched sand it emerged.
I embraced my wretched shadow and departed
Clutching waves, waves, sorrowful waves
On this endless shore there was only me
Ah, only I remained alone
It was as if I flowed into the sea’s blue.

Snake

The heart gazing at a snake becomes a snake.

It becomes a silver-sharp snake.

Houttuynia flowers are bluish-white.

The scent of a decayed fountain becomes a snake.

If I think of you, your finger—

With a slither, it becomes a snake.

New Song

Heaven and earth have drooped—the drooping ears

Rain on the Sand Hill

On the sand hill, the sound of rain fading away.

The grass too, silently

The sea too, silently

Delicate summer memories too—
within myself grows faint—
when rain falls upon the grass, the grass stands fierce.

When rain falls upon rain, the rain too grows fierce.

What lies buried in the sand hill—is it your name?

The futile summer memories passing by—

Clusters of beach grasses—a nest of sorrow.

The seagull’s egg unhatched

In brightness it rotted away.

Fish and Their Joys and Sorrows

Floating up is that pale blue fish
The tranquil phosphorescence and its sorrows and joys—
Even so, my heart cannot depart
In treetops tenderly seeking to stretch
My fish have begun to swim again
Were one to touch that skin with a finger
The fingers glide with ease
Like a small fish

Red Sumac

A single gold-striped bee
Sharpened its blunted needle
Harmed grasses and departed
Dragging golden thread through distant sky

Part Two

Timeless Grass

Greening in autumn light.

Timeless Grass, do not deign to pluck it.

Greenery stretching tenderly southward toward the sun.
That dream too grows cold.

The light has settled at the water's edge.

Tomoyo—secretly sprouting green.

Timeless Grass is so deeply poignant—

That white finger too—do not deign to touch it.

Eternal Day

Even when in the fields, I alone—

Alone, I embrace my soul deeply—
In a whisper, prayer has ignited.

Today’s fierce trembling of my body
Does the wheat make the green quiver in fear?
I was gentle, but
From the darkness of the path I have trodden
Happinesses escape away.
Do not pursue the fleeing things.
My skin is cleft,
Blood-drenched, I tremble—

Precious—this living of mine.

Tears welled as if from the depths.

Autumn Day

That which vanished in a fleeting moment—

That which vanished in a fleeting moment—

Is it not the shadow of a dragonfly?

On an autumn day like glass,

Things that pass as shadow-strikes—

Is it not the shadow of my lord?

The distant barber’s silver scissors.

Is it a shadow crossing over the waves?

It is not from thine eyes—

My eyes grieve and see shadows.

Lyric Piece

Days without meeting.

Autumn has seeped into Batta’s bones.

When taken in hand and looked upon, strengthless—

The silver limb lies snapped.

Lyric Piece

Closing eyes swiftly,

Thinking of you and making the sign of the cross,

The ardent thing

Becomes a single line of smoke

I climb up the deep blue bamboo.

Moonflower

Autumn quietly raises its hands

Autumn quietly advances.

Parting the indigo of the lovely moonflower

showering down chill

I sit on the green grass
In the distance I see you white
White clouds
Those who would call upon the white clouds
Truly it cannot be counted
Things that could fly have turned to stone alas
In loneliness they cry out
I have become an evening bird alas

Early November

Ah! This dazzling autumn shower!

Katakawa Town's slope road ascending

When one gazes at the brightened sky,

Already around Katamachi—

The autumn shower has misted over.

Early November

The slug has frozen on the tree.

The tree has split in two.
Winter has already come to stay.

The sea journeys through the sky.

Jellyfish.

When autumn comes,

jellyfish on the shore

are cast ashore,

become like glass and die.

Frost.

All that must wither has withered.

Beautifully,

stark naked,

soon I will pray to the frost.

A snake climbing a tree—

I saw,

I saw a snake climbing up a tree.

In the world, I saw a lonely figure.
Is it a snake coalescing in the sky?

The tree stirs faintly.

A windless white daylight

Before the storm comes

Rustling, autumn flows onward.

On the grass, on the water

Eeteru becomes silver-winged insects,

glistening as they

flutter about.

Gazing at the trembling wet trees,

The storm is now in the distance,
It seems to be gradually approaching.
Around the grassy thicket

A gentle breeze before the storm arose.
The sky shifted slightly.
It stirred somewhat.

Stony shore.

There, the brushwood in rows,

Crimsoning, crimsoning,

Dyeing the dragonflies,

dyeing the swarms of dragonflies that fly through the sky.

On the peaks of mountains,

Glimmering snow tinged

The sorrowful autumn had ended.

One sits in the pine forest.

The sea’s calm was a white-winged bird.

The autumn’s tranquility was a white-winged bird.

As the white-winged bird faded away,

Huddled in the pine forest,

I had grown accustomed to tearing at the pine’s green.

Sand dunes stretched far in rows.

Through those gaps came the sea’s azure gaze.

When I began to journey to the sea, I cannot say.

I entrusted my soul that feared the sea.

On the sand dunes
On the shore, a multitude of azure waves
Fluttering like seagulls
The days gone by are tinged pale blue

Beyond the sea, death drifts.

Soundlessly, I huddled on the sand dunes.

Drenched in longing for beyond the sea

I was alone—utterly alone.
I was weighed down by distant thoughts.
A tranquil sky.
Where autumn’s sun tilted,
the earth dampened soundlessly.
Ceaselessly against that sky,
anguish persisted,
in an autumn where even flow could not endure,
and blue treetops dried away.

I soundlessly

I drifted into sleep.

Upon the quiet sky and earth.

Water strider.

Water strider.

The water strider skimmed the water and vanished away.

Appeared in the moment of vanishing.

My twilight grew desolate.

What force lies there?

A water strider quivered and choked.

Surging and receding, never parting but layering over

Compassion too deeply passes away.
Surge and restraint layer over one another.
Autumn Thoughts

My sorrows of late—
I walked through my hometown park at dusk.
The lawn grass was thick velvet.
The sky too took on such depth of hue it seemed transformed.

When I sat upon this lawn grass,
I did not think of others' affairs.
Occasionally I struck my watch against the wooden frame,

Upon the effortlessly growing lawn grass

Muttering to myself as I wait for autumn.

Drizzle.

Bleakly, rain falls on the daikon field.

The autumn drizzle rain

The rain soaked through,

Tinged into the far distance.

Ditchside bush clover and smartweed,

Down to every last blade of grass,

Were bleakly soaked by autumn drizzle,

Emitting faint sounds—

Lonely October.

Elegy

Clasping together,
I cried out while—
Light daily swelled with thickening.

No—clasping ever deeper,

Parting.

Frost has fallen on the lawn.
The sky swells like the sea itself.
It is already farewell.
Darkening comes the cold winter.

Before the Snow Comes

Freezing as if in pain,

Boundlessly,

Heart shining,

A sound arises on the dead tree.

When I walk parted from you,

Without revealing itself,

Endlessly vanishing,

The snow piling upon my hand—

Ah, you rake.

Vermilion Leaves

It shakes the dead tree and drops its vermilion leaves.

Beneath it, I could not depart.

The undulating dead tree seeped into skin and shifted.

My skin turned blue with cold.

Now quietly, my solemn heart returned.

Were the vermilion leaves to leave their resting place,

They found no purchase on my flesh.

I went to the mountain,

To that swelling verdant mass

Where light's desolate lucent gaze—

Even there it dwelled

This longing—did it permeate everything?

All trees gathered in spirit

They blend into verdant forms.
Ah—this is no dream—
the desolate light of bright eyes vivid
here still seizes me.

Poem Written on a Cast-off Stone

O God
She grew conceited,
like a hen dove
If her small heart is tormented,
O God, hasten the time we meet.
At the edge of that oft-trodden path,

If a flower blooms
unharmed in the warm light
make it bloom splendidly.
Ah, like blood begetting blood.

Autumn's End

You were ever the silent Japanese thrush,
Young you remained the thrush,
To me alone
You gave cause to ponder:
"Has it come to rest now?"

Insects cried colder each night,
Water surged about my form.
Ah—even that flow freezing,
The stone split with twin reports.

Verdant, verdant, arising beyond the gravel bed.

Though I know not how many days have passed without meeting,

What a longing this was!

Smoke-veiled winter trees

Into the mountain ablaze with autumn foliage, the crimson sun set.

In the stillness, my eyes alone shone.

Though touched by hand, the winter tree’s trunk showed no green.

Those fingers grew utterly cold.

Amidst the rising smoke

Am I the miserable one about to vanish?

In the midst of wire-like grass rustling

In time, there was the sound of me vanishing.

At Daijōji Mountain

When tending to a solitary life,

Ah, a song voice is heard.

Here in the mountain foothills,

Three Parts

Having returned to the capital,

Do not sleep.

Keep eyes ever sharp.

Gaze out at the city’s edge
Throw yourself into the din
Flow onward with deep reserve
Wield surging full-body strength

Appear before you
Shining in another direction
Toward the glittering avenues
Eyes dazzled, clinging to the avenue of trees
Cross the capital’s sea

early summer

the world grew ever more verdant

I ate nothing all day long

[He] wandered through the capital’s streets.

The capital’s streets were endless.
The world became a sorrow-laden place.
The world became fully verdant.

Summer donned green silk robes.
You donned silk upon your garment.
The world turned fully verdant.

Cicada Season

Where do they not—

Shiiin—the cicadas cried out.

Already cicada season had come!

In trying to catch a young cicada,

The child who trod upon hot summer sandy ground

This day—where are they?

In summer pathos

Life fleeting

From the distant streets of the capital
From beyond the sky and rooftops

Shiiin—the cicadas cried out.

Namiki-cho
Hazily
stitching together reality
Namiki-cho in the night mist

When he walked damp,

Chillingly, the body floated upward.

In the sky of the glittering town,

In the tree-lined avenue at night

Ah, returned to the capital—
Would he grow weary from wandering once more?
Burning as it surged.

The night fog of early September

silver beggar

The one attempting to descend the slope was the silver beggar.

Moss grew all over the silver beggar’s hands.

Soru danced in the silver beggar’s hands.

The sorts of apples, pineapples, and such met the beggar’s eyes.

or things like castella and waffles

They all lost their taste.

Waffles and such had truly decayed to an extreme degree.

The beggar prayed.

The beggar sought.

Far away, far away he departed.

celestial insect

the pine trees sagged heavily.

The pine’s new needles sag heavily.

Days unseen in their passing,

When seeking a voice,

From a different quarter

The plaintive cry of insects—something so lonely—

Clustered pines stood.

The temple pine.

When one gazed at the treetops and sought the plaintive cry of insects,

the plaintive-crying insects were celestial insects.

When I looked up at their cries in the heavens,

the plaintive cry of insects—something so lonely—

Ueno Station.

With a chug chug, the steam train departed.

The steam train clattered.

At the hour when the lights were lit

Letting the northern snows pile up—
a steam train panted hot breaths in exhaustion—
through capitals and crossroads
reflecting a distant snow country’s soul.

I stood atop the railroad crossing bridge.
I smelled the scent of snow.
On the bridge where Asakusa’s lights were also visible.

Seedlings

Sword bean seedlings, cucumber seedlings

green bean seedlings, snap pea seedlings

O my friend

With that deeply poignant call,

This year again the seedling seller came.

I heard that voice.

I sensed the cusp of that season.

What an exquisitely subtle mood it evoked!

At the Botanical Garden
The elusive pomelo’s radiance
From within the glass
Fragrant mist blew upward.

O pomelo,
Bind yourself to the azure treetop,
Never part from them,
With deep sincerity,
Through tears,
Bind yourself to the treetop upon the leaves,
And now shine forth in truth.

In the Suburbs

Holding a lonely heart

One day, I walked along a path through suburban rice fields.
Under the cool shade of a tree,
I rested like a traveler.
I was gazing toward the town like a traveler.

By now nearing dusk,
when I saw smoke rising, sorrow welled within—
a heart out of place in this city—
I sank deep into profound thought.

Mr. Muroo Saisei
Though the capital’s end knows no bounds,
my path lay shadowed.
I stood haggard under the scorching sun,
blue-withered yet—

I am that Muroo Saisei.
The brain decays yet weaves untimely peonies.
Though my footing is uncertain,

City Morning

With all cast aside, no year sustains life.

From the awakening of a sleeping draught,
where my eyes reached beyond, green had misted over—
I traced the morning’s delight
entrancingly and beautifully.
Suppose I were to live an ordinary life like others,
I walked the distant shore where rough waves blew.
Yet already—ah—April had arrived.
The cherry blossoms blazed with sincerity, yet resentfully—
I took no part in Loulan’s revelry.
Without resenting the bustle, merely entranced—
with all cast aside,

Always, always alone,

Atop the Slope of Solemn Reflection,

It was I who would descend.

At times starting from morning,
I wandered through the distant outskirts of the capital,
alone and entranced.

I devoted myself entirely to ceasing my breath.

Ah, though April had arrived,
Though the cherry blossoms were damaged, indeed light snow fell.
Sorrow so profound I could not remain seated.
Suddenly, I was overcome with emotion.
One day.

From the attic

Reaching out a hand，I called plaintively for coffee.
Slope.
When I came upon the street corner，
The sun blazed as it sank upon the slope.
The circular rhythm whirled in fierce rotation，

Trees became flames.
I was always, always tearing the canvas.
My friend was always, always immersed in rotten liquor.

Embracing my feverish body,
Together we sought to listen to and grasp the rhythm of the sunset.
In earnest, I sought the evening’s bread.
If it must now end utterly,
My entire body was transparent like glass.

In the midst of the blazing sun about to set,

I danced with spirited joy

“O my friend,
Just listen—the tolling of Kanei-ji Temple’s bell in Ueno,
They are smoldering flames.
I stood with no course to take,
A flame that danced even as it wept.
I did not yearn for foolish rebirth,
You must dance with your brush.
I set fire to my wretched poems,
I would dance in frenzy toward death.”

Behold further.

I tumbled on the slope as the sun sank.

Thus dancing and tumbling,

Was I not trying to climb the slope?

Slope.

I had to climb this slope.

I had to dance while I climbed.

The cherry blossoms already perceived the truth.

Though I stood on both sides of the slope,

I had to return to this abrupt room.

Day was my spirit.

Though there had been nothing immodest about me,

I fear only the slope’s summit.

Now my room lay desolate,
Before me who intended to return,
Were mice meant to crawl here?
Ah, I carried my wretched poems

Silently.

However, I must climb the slope while dancing.

The slope connects from Yanaka to Nezu.
The slope extends from Hongō to Kanda.
Radiant,
In the midst of dazzling blindness, there is a slope.

In the midst of dazzling blindness, there lies the slope.

Fragment

Though I raised the cup,
How lonely lies the metropolis and its crossroads?

Road
The road to seek bread.
A road that leads even to madness.

The road is buried by trains and automobiles.
The road is honest.
Humans' own
The place where souls are trampled.
A road of sunlight and moonlight.
A road of mine and yours.
It is also the road of insects.

At times, love for the hometown

Clearly summer—
it fell upon that road,
mother and father and
a road where love welled up.

Bar.

When one goes to the bar, the moon appears.

Like a dog sorrowfully howling, I drank.

When one goes to the bar, the moon appears.

Steeped in alcohol—even souls come spilling out.

In the City

Dragged along,

Suffocating,

Emitted a shrill cry,

Staggering, I walked.

Gazing at the quietly raining streets, I grew agitated,

Trying to warm frozen hands,

Staggering, I walked.

My velvet clothes were soiled with mud.
My shoes clattered sorrowfully.
My form reflected the unsightly visage of a fallen spirit.
Over the capital’s streets where rain poured down.

While tearing at my hair

Blood-soaked and ghastly, I walk.

Land of Summer

Summer is a deep azure.

Lands upon lands not yet seen

Summer was azure to its very core.

My birthplace,

the land where I was raised—

the city streets of Kanazawa in the land of Kaga.

Serenely flowed the Sai River,

the waters brimming full,

fish darting sharply through.

Ah, on those riverbanks

maiden friends too remained.

Today Tokyo was rain.

I sat all day with longing,

In longing for the emerald land.

Two Pupils

I lived and lingered upon this land.

Pupils distant, stretching with me.

Silently,

Radiant pupils

Distant, merely receding,

Two pupils about to vanish

Sorrow choked,

Fading away,
built up from bitter things like an onion,
radiant two pupils.

Morning sky

The avenue of trees is azure.

Alas—when morning's milk is taken in hand

Life shines.

A morning sky suffused with clarity.

In the Suburbs

On the Fields

The train crawls slowly along.

Wheat and rapeseed terraced fields

The train crawled slowly along.

It was a leisurely train.

Lonely Chair

Leaning against the chair they always came to sit in,
To sink into thought was good.

The day darkened.

I went to visit

the place where that lonely chair existed,

longing for the cup lashed by waves.

Thus I passed the long night.
When would it end—this endlessness?
In profound sorrow

October Note

A clock does not shine unless it is silver; a sail must not be made to bear gold with cloth.

Poems that bow their heads—rise from the depths of a profound spirit.

In longing, smoke clung to the field soil.

The snow vanished like a dream.

I ate your letter.

I ruined my stomach.

I had bathed in the ocean's radiance.

The snow had already come - every mountain smoldering silver.

Standing long facing the offing—
a resonance from beyond came darkly welling up.
Under dimmed sunlight along quivering verges, crimson leaves darted through Ueno Park.
The soul buried its jeweled root deep within the garden; someday it would bloom.

Ah, may all humankind have tears.

Prayer Gesture

Part One

The slope was velvet under the blazing evening sun.

The slope was a green downhill; evening brought the tolling of prayer bells.

Part Two

Jesus stands in the fields at dusk.

I too stand in the fields at dusk.

The green onions wane.

On a summer day

Jesus speaks.

I too speak.

The field glows and bears wheat.

Jesus stands in the fields at dusk.

I too stand in the fields at dusk.

Part Three

Head bowed

Now I press my hands together in prayer to the greenery.

I have become stern-hearted.

I have become a self-reproaching heart.

Lord, at the foot of the mountain I dwell

I grew faint a little
Now among the green trees
In that lofty presence

With head bowed, I press my hands together in prayer.

Part Four

I am like a mere insect.

My eyes bear defilement.

Defiled as I remain.

This day I know
I know the hour of deep penitence.

Part Five

Though I live in the capital,

The deep rural summer thriving in the heart

With each passing day deepens -

The summer of compassionate land!

Part Six

Facing the flow, I cast my fishing line.

All depths profound.

Attempting to touch hidden things,

I cast my fishing line as if in prayer.

From the cliff, tears now fell.

You dweller among fish,

I sensed the flow.

The weight of the waves descended upon approaching shoulders.

I cast my fishing line as if in prayer.