Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Autumn of Contemplative Form*

Preface

Emptiness and Reality are back and front.
It is noble because Reality becomes Emptiness and Emptiness becomes Reality.
In time—first observe the truth of True Form; observe it deeply; attain depth; then rise still higher—this I wish.

In True Form there exists no boundary between new and old.
For it remains ever true and new.
That which we call old has simply been observed until overfamiliar.
Ephemeral trends perish with their time.
Yet people believe they may elevate their poetic realm through naught but fevered pursuit of novelty.
But how could they know?
Here in this East—in this autumn where we chase after that West's antiquity to forge newness—there in that West does seeking paths through this Eastern essence ever seed fresh winds' genesis.
Thus comes one to wonder: what now could be new?

I say again.
It is the truth of True Form that remains ever correct and new.
No matter when observed, in being true, there is no wavering.
The *fueki* (eternal unchanging) advocated by Bashō is the spirit of true poetry that flows through this eternal current.
The orthodox style of poetry is grounded in such a spirit.
This spirit is precisely that which forms the quintessence of our Eastern art.

The poems in this collection will likely be deemed old through contemporary eyes.
That is fine by me.
The height of the poetic realm depends on the height of contemplative form itself.
Nobility cannot be obtained through skill.
It is that person’s innate halo.
Therefore, rather than being carried away by so-called novelty and never satisfied, I should simply pursue the true path of poetry single-mindedly.

In this collection, I included poetic prose (I dislike the translated term "prose poetry") and long poem-style verses.
In poetic prose there exist two types: colloquial vein and elegant vein.
None were written as poetry in the purest sense.
For me it was more truthful to modestly consider these as still being poetic prose.
On the other hand I chose the long poem-style because the content warranted such a form.
The long poem form originates from the *Man'yōshū*, but mine differ from those of the *Man'yōshū*.
I adopted that form to suit the content of my poetry.
The excellence of this form lies in the undulation of a single flowing rhythm—like that of string music—which seems to cease yet continues, and while continuing becomes ethereal only to seem to cease again.
That was precisely why I wrote it down without deliberately separating lines, just as it was.
In any case Japanese works seem to be truly written down naturally in this manner.

Moreover, I do not consider most of the popular free verse these days to be either true poetry or even free verse.
No matter how I consider it, they are merely prose with lines separated—possessing a rhythm more lax than that of certain superior writings—and amount to nothing more than a crude conceptualization of thought expressed wantonly and unmusically.

Poetry is poetry.
What should be valued in poetry is its elevated spirit, its rhythm, its fragrance, its artistic aura.

June 1922

At Odawara

Hakushu

Part One

Simple Garden

Old-Style Garden Autumn 1921, at a Certain Person’s Villa in Jōshū Tomioka

Burning Maple Leaves Autumn 1918, at Nagoya Tsukimizaka

Mountain Correspondence Winter 1918, at Denchō-ji Temple in Odawara

A Certain Person’s Garden

A lonely garden, a quiet garden, an old-fashioned Japanese garden, a refined garden—yet one perfected, deliberately composed, a subtle garden.

Lonely, yet sunlight fell upon it.
All was the tranquil brightness of mid-autumn.
A brilliance without brilliance.
A garden without sound, without human presence; a serenely quiet garden, a subtle garden.

Who created this? In any case, an old-style garden favored by tea masters—though devoid of any true nature, its form reflected the heart.
Had even its creator been lonely? The heart manifested itself as it was.
That it had aged without one noticing, had naturally come to possess a view imbued with wabi.
A haiga-style garden, a subtle garden.

The sun had passed slightly past noon; the sky was high, yet from somewhere thin layers of clouds gathered whitely only to scatter away. The Thujopsis trees on the artificial hill, pines with winding branches, scattered winter bamboos, moss-covered rocks, stepping stones in the gourd-shaped pond, the small pavilion at the water’s edge—gathered together, they formed a single image. A garden without movement, a subtle garden.

The surface of the murky pond lay rusted away—a garden devoid of color or fragrance—yet beneath the shadow of a small stone bridge in the corner lingered two or three tattered floating lotus leaves, while upon the pitiful withered leaves below rested a belated ethereal dragonfly. Only the translucent red wings of that dragonfly could be said to glisten faintly—that was all there was. A garden without even a rustling breeze, a garden utterly still, a subtle garden.

A garden too far removed—unfamiliar and estranged from the world.
At times, something would well up soundlessly from the pond’s profound depths, spreading crisp ripples that seemed poised to surge outward, yet even these would retreat to the heart without leaving trace or echo. Then the dragonfly too would abruptly take flight, alighting here and there—or perhaps not alighting at all—barely disturbing the stillness before disappearing into some unknown quarter.
That was all—a fleeting, insubstantial motion.
A garden without voice, a subtle garden.

Even so, the sun was shining.
All shadows lay upon the pond's surface.
Neither shining individually nor rustling, they separated from one another, created depth and shallowness, remained casting identical forms upon the same spots—and thus simply awaited dusk's dimming veil.
A hopelessly desolate garden, a garden of profound presence, a subtle garden.

A wagtail came.
Oh—it was bobbing up and down.
At the edge of the upturned roof of a small pavilion that had grown slightly cold, no matter how much it shook, the yellow tail only hastened its pitiful trembling.
A garden that remained utterly still no matter how much time passed; a lonely garden; a profoundly desolate, subtle garden.

Burning Maple Leaves

The maples turned crimson.
The garden’s maple trees turned crimson.
They had become entirely crimson foliage.
When I opened the shoji and gazed intently, I was now struck with astonishment at how this garden could have so many maple trees.
Both my wife and I were now struck with astonishment that we could have been living in one of those maple-filled houses until now.
This morning, once again, the crimson leaves’ luster shone with particular intensity, and the maple beside the young pine glowed red so brightly it seemed translucent.
The still-yellow lower leaves and those on the backside—those too would likely wither before long.
Ah, as one watched autumn deepen, some crimson leaves already began to fade and flutter down without any wind.
To us in our loneliness, even that was just the right degree of solitude.
Simple crimson leaves, quiet crimson leaves—on the lower branches of those maples, two sparrows had come to chirp.
Because it was a cold morning, that was a chilly chirp.
Even two sparrows must have felt lonely amidst nothing but crimson leaves—and when I thought this, our own lonely journeying figures came reflected back into view.
The maples turned crimson.
The garden’s maple trees also turned crimson.
They had become entirely crimson foliage.

The maples turned crimson.
The garden’s maple trees turned crimson.
They became entirely crimson foliage.
When I remarked, “It has gotten cold,” my wife replied, “Indeed it has,” pulling her sleeves together against the cold morning.
Being on a journey, the cold must have pierced all the more deeply.
Even so, after living here for twenty days, this cottage had somehow grown old and still felt like a home for the two of them.
The two of them had seemingly settled in.
When I said, “Shall we try burning some maple leaves?”, my wife readily agreed, “Let us try it, since we are lonely,” and stepped down into the garden.
When I swept with a bamboo broom while crouching, my wife gathered them.
With a rustling sound, fallen leaves rustled against each other; as we gathered them together, autumn seemed to have reached its end.
On Enshū-style wet stones and in hollows of withered grass, fallen leaves appeared all the more poignant while soil’s moisture seeped excessively.
The maples turned crimson.
The garden’s maple trees also turned crimson.
They became entirely crimson foliage.

Smoke rose.
Smoke rose.
From the shade of the garden's maple trees' autumn foliage, smoke rose.
As I burned the maple leaves and crouched in the shadow of the faintly hissing white smoldering smoke—"It's warm"—my wife too crouched, shielding her hands with both palms.
When I added blue trifoliate orange branches to the fire and mentioned having had a long cold, my wife felt lonely, saying she too seemed to be coming down with one.
"Take care," I reflected—falling ill on a journey leaves one anxious; I too had been unreliable this time—as I added more maple leaves to the fire.

“Really now—still, I’m glad you recovered quickly,” my wife said as she added more maple leaves to the fire.
“That’s all thanks to you—you stayed by my side through it. I’m truly grateful,” I murmured deeply, coughing from the smoke.
“Not at all,” she replied, rising to gather crimson leaves from across the garden.
“Let’s return home before you fall ill again,” I urged. She nodded: “Yes, let’s go soon. However they may speak of it, one’s own home is best. Traveling brings such loneliness—such unease.”
Here especially, where frost lay thick enough to turn into snow at any moment, the fire blazed crimson all the brighter.
Smoke rose.
Smoke rose.
From beneath the scarlet maple leaves, smoke rose.

The maples had turned crimson.
The garden’s maple trees had turned crimson.
They had become entirely crimson foliage.
Having fallen ill during our long journey left us anxious.
Even Bashō—that saint of haikai—must have known loneliness when illness struck him on his travels; did he not write of dreams where he wandered withered fields?
When I said, “We must cherish each other—life itself is what we should treasure,” my wife laughed forlornly through her tears.
“Fine smoke,” I murmured. “Lonely beautiful leaves.” She added while feeding branches to the fire: “If only we could stay warm a little longer—” As I looked up to see whether any foliage remained on the boughs, another shower came tumbling down.
“Enough now—enough,” she declared. “We’ve burned sufficient leaves. Let us prepare breakfast.”
Smoke rose.
Smoke rose.
From beneath crimson maple leaves’ shade rose smoke.

Mountain Correspondence

People say mountain dwellings are lonely.
When one leaves human settlements even a little, it's not that one doesn't feel somewhat carefree—yet even so, if one doesn't encounter others, loneliness inevitably takes hold.
The occasional voices of passersby—driving packhorses, draped in straw mats, ascending and descending the rugged path behind while shouting "Heave-ho!" and "Hup! Hup!"—caught one's ear, then one's eye, imparting a sense of reassurance.
Finally came word that the small baby had died; even bringing a small coffin only deepened the sorrow.
The calls of all living bulbuls, shrikes, thrushes—startled by the dry leaves of trees—grew familiar: kek-kek-chaw, chow-chow, keer-keer.

Even when the sky cleared, winter days remained short; before one knew it, a yellowish tinge emerged, and the wind shifted as if at sunset.
Stepping out onto the veranda and gazing absently, there seemed to be nothing amiss, yet a desolate loneliness seeped into my very being.
The tilted thatched-roof gate stood visible ahead; from there extended a single path growing ever deeper into the mountains on this side—and to think this place resembling a sparrow’s nest was my dwelling proved unbearable.
On the utterly decayed outer pillars—perhaps because they were well sunlit—cacti and agave crawled and entwined themselves, yet two or three forgotten strands of prayer beads had already begun rotting away, tattered and frayed.
This was the temple where the Buddha dwelled.

What shivered coldly were Moso bamboo shoots, the Japanese torreya tree beside dwarf chestnuts, withered paulownia branches' buds, incense smoke from the grave field. The red camellias by the well had scattered completely; only the white roses that had bloomed in the garden yesterday remained fresh, but this morning someone came and cut them down. Wherever the white pampas grass plumes swayed, even a single white chicken, buffeted by the wind, refused to vanish. That was a lonely manner of swaying.

What faded into the far distance were the shadows of sparrows, the lingering winter sun; even the winter shower passed faintly onward—yet before one knew it, it had turned to snow. The Hakone area was all the more so—a stark white expanse of snow-covered fields and mountains.

If one considered it simple, it was simple; if one called it lonely, it was lonely.
Though I could endure being alone, the very act of us two lighting an old ether-like lamp to console ourselves only deepened the sorrow.

Even if I told myself that others were others and I was myself after all, I could not forget that person—so I waited for letters; when a touching sorrow arose, anger followed.
Even to the mail carrier, I offered a cup of bancha.
Yet even so, the day’s newspaper only arrived after sunset, so I could not read it properly.
At night, when even the sound of waves grew distinctly audible, I found myself worrying about tomorrow’s weather—until moonlight shone upon the white shoji screens, I neither closed the storm shutters nor retired to bed.

When I stood at the toilet late at night, the moon hung clear over the mountain behind, and even each onion in the field turned a vivid blue.
The insects had ceased their singing, and that alone was striking.
As I drew in my neck, the cold when coughing proved truly incomparable.
Hoping at least not to catch a cold, I wrapped a muffler around my neck—but when I went to wash my hands, the water had frozen.

Such has been my state of late.

Part Two

Song of Autumn Mountains

Dawn at Mount Fuji and Two Other Poems — Autumn of 1921, when I traveled with my wife Kikuko via Gotemba to Izu Kina Hot Springs; poems from that time.

Song of Distant Mountain Ranges — Autumn 1921, in Jōshū Tomioka.

*Dawn at Mount Fuji*

At the dawn of heaven and earth’s creation, the formed and forming lofty peak of Fuji—a wondrous white-clad summit—stretching across Suruga and Kai provinces, spreading its skirts in eight directions, anchoring deep with widespread roots: a peak eternally crowned with snow. Soaring thus in majesty, its stern yet righteous visage—a form beyond compare—since ancient times imbued with divine austerity, as a god grown ancient unto this very day.

By chance, I journeyed forth; halting mid-course and turning to look back, my wife and I came to gaze reverently—Ah! The sun’s radiance grew indistinct, and as dusk deepened, clouds rolled to shroud the sky. Thunder roared fiercely—blue pillars of lightning, flames leaping from those pillars—and then, rumbling hailstones flew.

At Gotemba’s station road here—having slept through the night until midnight passed—in the still-profound outdoor darkness, already awakened was a pack of hunting dogs: rising vigorously, dragging chains aside, leaping up and barking urgently. “Could these be nobles off to morning sport?” Ah! With the clamor of them flying down in company for a time—then they must have departed.

The shrill blare of automobiles and even the throaty roar of horns grew piercingly clear in the frost-laden depths of night—then suddenly rushed off somewhere in frantic haste.

A bone-chilling draft seeped through the door’s gaps; even so, dawn must be drawing near.

The voices of dawn-proclaiming birds crying out in lingering breaths; echoes responding from nowhere—as foothill fields shook and resounded, unwittingly I awoke; eyes opened, I too was here.

When I gazed intently, stretching my neck—stiffly drifting thick fog; ravine forests; small folds of marginal mountains; still-suspicious blackness—piercing howls raged fiercely; rapid-fire sounds pierced through lingering predawn darkness.

Even as my valiant heart swelled and sways beyond restraint, peering through revealed whirling mists—lapis lazuli clouds drifting upward—amidst innumerable stars strung like jeweled necklaces. Ah, sublime! The lofty peak of Fuji now stood revealed in this very moment, clad in purest violet morning radiance.

Is this a dream? Ah, this was reality indeed.
Not a dream—it was reality indeed.
"Wake up—wake up."
Truly, this was the Fuji of the Land of the Rising Sun—the sacred peak where the deity Konohanasakuya-hime peacefully resided. Behold, it became visible and near as dawn broke.
Urging her to rise, he shook his wife awake; called out again for her to awaken; they rinsed their mouths, then purified themselves; joined sleeves in the chill; drew near with quiet intensity; and gazed thus in rapt absorption.

A moment arrived.
When some time had passed, the dimly bright hue at the mountain’s edge—that quietude aglow with the pale birch hue of dawn—in which, whether before sunrise or not, two crows cawing hoarsely took flight together, their wing undersides ever more tinged.
With a flutter, two mountain doves also raced onward.
When my wife saw that even those who came to gaze were couples, and even the flying birds seemed paired—"How delightful," she said as she watched. I too smiled as I gazed.
And indeed, the standing silhouette of Fuji—pale crimson like a lotus—gradually clarified into luminous purity; its summit area took on an even deeper crimson, glowing with a glossy vermilion radiance.
If one looked closely, high in that sky, there was something faintly swaying.
The blizzard raged high; faint snow smoke rose, and that smoke drifted endlessly.
Ever redder and redder, the flickering ascent of snow’s flame-like heavenly path never ceasing—vanishing endlessly, vanishing ceaselessly.
Ah, how sublime—that tenderness, this desolation.
Though I gazed and gazed, I did not tire; it eluded even words, even the brush.
Ah, how awe-inspiring—Fuji's lofty peak, the august peak that steadies the Land of the Rising Sun, this divinely wondrous peak; gazing up at this rarely seen summit and beholding it anew this morning, I—with none but my wife—found tears flowing beyond what words could convey.

Song of Distant Mountain Ranges

North of Kamuro in Kozuke soared Myōgi and Arafune—mountains reaching to heaven. When I ventured out to gaze distantly, as daylight waned and I strained my eyes: ever more distant stretched the ranges, ever more towering rose the peaks; ceaselessly merging with sky, layered folds growing colder—countless folds, countless pleats—at last dissolving into the realm of clouds.

Though this was but a transient journey, when evening fell, I could no longer bear staying indoors and went out to stand alone.

The wind blew across the river rapids; in the river wind’s freezing gusts were the high cliff I faced and traversed, and the distant northern mountain range I gazed upon.

Winter had already advanced: silk-gloss clouds, cirrus curls adrift amid crowds of ice-congealed stratus—layered clouds, clouds of wabi-gold—indistinct from underglow clouds or faintly gleaming mountains. Even what was already unreal, even what had no discernible end—where sunlight struck, a fan-spread rainbow: several strands pierced through and cascaded.

A desolate glimmer; platinum streaks worn with wabi austerity; upon the layered folds of dark and pale peaks, within the small creases of mountains diverging in their folds—rain mingled and poured down, a soft golden mist.

Ah, distant—ever distant mountain ranges; ah, towering—ever towering mountain ranges; I gazed intently yet they did not vanish, strained eyes to pain yet they did not diminish. Shielding my gaze to peer afar: indeed, a lonely pale sun’s rainbow; looking again and further beyond—indeed, lofty snow on serried peaks; indeed, distant snow on serried peaks—piercingly cold, one after another, continuing endlessly to shine forth.

Autumn in the Hot Spring Town

How tenderly the sunlight fell here.
How aimlessly drifted the steam from the hot springs.
In the direction of the sunlit field stood a zelkova tree, and beside the zelkova was a single spotted cow.
It was tethered peacefully.
In autumn at the hot spring town in the mountain gorge, when I went out and looked, there was also a child crossing the small bridge below, leaning on a staff.
The rice fields with drooping ears turning yellow saw sparrows flocking up at times; in the thatched cottage’s garden along the road, white chrysanthemums showed their full bloom, sesame and chestnuts laid out to dry—when viewed with a leisurely mind, today felt rather peaceful indeed.
The mountains where the sun set ahead, still bright and warm; the white cotton clouds in that sky; even the birds flitting about—all appeared quite poignantly beautiful.
Having come with my wife—the two of us having come—after staying for seven days and growing accustomed, this became the view: near and far where maples gradually took on autumn hues.
Ah, how tenderly the sunlight fell here—how aimlessly drifted the steam from the hot springs.
In the direction of the sunlit field stood a zelkova tree, and in the shade of the zelkova was a single spotted cow.
Tethered, it was placidly eating grass.

Song of Autumn Mountains

The susuki grasses of the autumn mountains, veiled in enigma, swayed and shimmered in lines.
The nameless autumn mountains—grassy peaks—their susuki at the ridges, their plumed susuki—swayed and shimmered.
This evening, he went out to look, gazed across, crossed the log bridge with his wife; when he looked again, they still shimmered.
Some were cutting the susuki grasses; others descended carrying bundles.
Descending and passing by, they rustled as their backs receded; the rustling susuki grasses glittered once more.
In the sunlit space of a gorge where white clouds floated, even the tiny fluttering winged insects, upon closer look, each possessed life, dancing and gleaming.
Tranquil, utterly peaceful. The sunlight still lay deep.
Neither hot nor cold; still the lingering warmth of the day.
The mountain behind the hot spring town—the autumn mountain’s soft grassy slopes—here and there, the rustling susuki grasses, their plumes—today, coming to see them, swayed and glittered.
Ah, how sublime—I too gazed; my wife too emerged; the two of us beheld the rustling susuki grasses, those rustling susuki grasses.

Moso Bamboo and the Moon

All from life at the Wood Owl's house in the autumn of 1921 (Taisho 10).

Bamboo and Cluster Amaryllis

In the bamboo grove by my gate, Cluster Amaryllis bloomed crimson. At each bamboo root, clusters of six or seven blossoms formed, their numbers increasing day by day. Their eerily crimson curled filaments—thread-fine yet lotus-formed—stood in full bloom; beholding them, autumn itself grew pure. The wind too grew ever more imbued with wabi. The neighboring temple and its ancient graves—sunlit spots still held warmth, yet there was not a soul bending to sweep the graves nor approaching to draw ritual water.

Ah, how sublime—the Cluster Amaryllis. I gazed at their comings and goings alone, at times gazing with my wife: how they had multiplied since yesterday, and saw how crimson they remained even today.
Because of the Moso bamboo’s weeping branches, though the sun shone, I was always passing through the gloomy thicket.
Though desolate, I had grown accustomed to finding solace here.
The peace of mountain dwelling lay in hearing wave sounds through thickets and village flutes joyfully; yet when the Segaki ritual passed, truly desolate—now that no visitors came, I could not endure; venturing out again to look at bamboo roots—turning toward Cluster Amaryllis crimson upon crimson—a hook-eyed wild fox, rear-facing with pointed snout, blew through brush; in the wind that blew and blew, at day’s end—ah!—leaping and vanishing as they disappeared.

Song of the Bamboo Grove

In the bamboo grove of my dwelling, when I looked upon the evening light shimmering, at each dampened root of those bamboos, something scattered, glowing deeply.
At each segment, something lingered and glowed.
Upon the pale green leaves of that bamboo grass, something swayed and glowed.
Those golden glowing things—the minute specks that seeped into the eyes—after the rain had fallen and cleared away, swayed with particular beauty.
Lonely and watching, they vanished ever more beautifully.
Even as they swayed, I simply watched; even as they vanished, I watched again—enduring and enduring until day’s end, still and still feeling lonely.
In the evening light of my dwelling’s bamboo grove, on this side of the sound of wind through the back mountain pines.

Song of the Cicada

The cicadas' cries resounded—two of them—their cries resounded.
When the two ceased their cries, another began resounding from this side; a single one persisted resounding.
Moso bamboo's partial sunlight; mountain pines' distant sunlight.
In the distance lay a glittering sea; nearby spread mountain mist; at the mountain's edge came the time when the mountain's Segaki Ritual neared its conclusion.
Through golden autumn sunlight—slantless and clear—the cicadas resounded incessantly; urgently they carved their cries; two cried, one cried, then alternately they hastened their singing.

Haiku

Two cicadas cried; then another joined alternately.

Halberd Cedars of the Knoll

At my dwelling’s knoll veiled in enigma stood several cedars; rustling, the cedars had gathered. A grove of Halberd Cedars arrayed their halberd-like forms—when seen in this dawn shower, when seen through deep mist as winter showers fell—the mist enshrouded them; in the mist-rising sky grew ever blacker their towering forms, settled ever heavier below, stood aligned ever more anciently: all cedars of ink painting—chillingly solemn at first glance, profoundly lonely and sublime. Ah, how sublime—the Halberd Cedars of the knoll; scattered clumps of dwarf bamboo; persimmon leaves; vine-wrapped plum branches—though they displayed their hues in varied array, drenched in late tenth-month showers, their leaves neither withered nor fell, neither thinned nor faded; only their surfaces faintly tinged russet like velvet’s burnt umber, while deep below—black or blue—they aged and settled into timeless antiquity. A figure both lonely and lonelier still; a heart that endured and endured to stand eternal. Ah, how sublime—the winter Halberd Cedars, cedars of the knoll near the sea! In the vortex-forming mist of cedars, one could discern neither the boundless sea nor parse the vast sky. At times, stray migratory birds scattered in disarray; a crow with leaden wings faltered mid-flight; drawing near, the cedars swayed. Ah, how sublime—the Halberd Cedars in the rain. When gazed upon, they swayed faintly; swaying faintly in the falling rain, they rustled with a soft susurrus.

Torreya and Chestnut

Denso-ji, a small old temple; in this temple’s mountain cemetery stood Torreya and chestnut trees side by side.
Standing together, both had aged.
The Torreya stood by the chestnut tree; the chestnut tree stood by the Torreya’s side—weathered and worn, already ancient.
O Torreya, since when had you aged? O chestnut, since when had you stood?
Torreya and chestnut, weathered upon weathered, yet still their flowers bloomed; year after year they bore blossoms.
The Torreya bore faint flowers; the chestnut bore dew-laden flowers. Upon that Torreya grew small nuts; upon this chestnut grew green burrs. When winds blew, even these nuts and burrs would scatter one after another—withering until they returned to earth.
There was none to see them, none to know them.
Pilgrims to temples and graves occasionally crouched as they passed by, yet none looked up, none turned their eyes; thus only two trees remained—Torreya and chestnut, weathering their solitude.
Ah, how sublime—the Torreya and chestnut trees. Though the leaf-shedding chestnut bore winter’s chill, the evergreen Torreya stood ever taller beneath the winter sun.
While the chestnut grew ever more sparse, the Torreya grew ever darker; beneath Hakone’s feeble setting sunlight, it rose sharp and solitary—no, endured alone, ever blacker.
On days when sleet mingled with rain fell, on nights when snow flew with wind, they stood frozen in bitter cold.
Intimately they stood enduring.
Ah, how sublime—the two aged trees; their forms standing closely side by side; trees neighbored in loneliness—to behold these vulnerable two brought tears flowing forth.

Moso Bamboo and the Moon

There was something rustling and swaying.
In the deepening midnight, something swayed.
Outside my window’s glass panes—when peered through—frigid clouds ceaselessly raced, casting shadows by the moon.
Though the full moon hung perfectly round—pallid and shadowed—it grew ever fainter as it tilted. Ah, how cold—there swayed a bamboo.
Above the layered droop of Moso Bamboo’s heavy cascades existed a solitary towering form swaying.
Eyes awakened; the night wind arose; rustling and swaying played.
Drooping front and back while cascading, it swayed playfully with light and shadow.
Though the full moon hung perfectly round—pallid and shadowed—amidst flying clouds and clustered masses suddenly slipped through; in that moment one thought it had abruptly brightened.
Visibly rustling—swaying saw-saw-saw—the illuminated Moso Bamboo beneath that moon’s intensely fox-fire glow seemed to come alive and dance: brightening nearby while whirling with vigor—yet when looked upon again, something darkly faint-shadowed it; swayed stilled then swayed stirred.

This night—ah—the night birds did not sing; the neighboring temple beyond the thicket had silently closed its storm shutters. At times, only the sound of the river’s shallows and the waves’ roar mingled and resonated. That too remained distant; it felt remote. Ah, how sublime—in this mountain night, something roused my eyes awake; was it I alone who swayed and rustled here? Swaying and rustling as if playing solitary; swaying and rustling beyond my vision’s edge—once more it made a rustling sound.

Rough Waves Plovers’ Song

Isonaga’s gently undulating shore—this beach where rough waves towered high.
Tonight they grew ever higher.
The storm persisted, the west wind fierce; throughout the night not a single fishing light was seen. At times even rain swept through, and in the blue glare of lightning, the thorns of key-shaped fiery branches cast a piercingly sharp light.
The instantly thundering surge waves.
At times even hail came flying—what birds were these thrown into chaos? What birds were these scattering apart?
When seen with the eye, they were countless; when heard with the ear, they seemed on the verge of vanishing—the faintly crying birds: Hundred Thousand Plovers, Rough Wave Plovers.
In the sky above spiky rough waves, knowing no way to alight, no way to rest—merely flying and scattering apart—the plovers.
This sea—its bounds unknowable; this tempest—its measure unknowable; past the early night and nearing the late night, plovers trembled their wings in profound darkness; plovers drenched in this rain, in this lightning, glittering.
Some voices scattered distantly; some flocks slanted into disarray; others turned toward land; others retreated piecemeal; still others skimmed the waves, startled into flight as they nearly fell—now vanishing, now flaring bright—growing ever darker with dread, ever bluer in hue; plovers crying ceaselessly together, plovers freezing faintly.
How long would they wander utterly lost? How long would they fly without cease?
Rough wave plovers of Isonaga’s gently undulating shore.
The thunderous roar of heaven-striking waves crashing in reverse surged upward—ah, how sublime!—and again, in every direction, thrown into chaos by the blue menace of lightning, they cried out as they scattered.

Winter Mountain's Edge

Winter 1921, From a Stroll in Odawara Outskirts

Winter Mountain Crags

The mountains of Tamakushige Hakone grew ever shorter with the shortening days; when deep winter arrived and frost descended, past noon, even the sun’s gaze remained unseen.
Though the mountains opposite were bright, the high mountain crags on this side knew only cold winds and scattering leaves.
The soil had already frozen hard; beneath the rock ferns on the crags and among the roots of withered trees, icicles steadily formed and hung down.
Crackling, they broke off icicles; crunching them as they went—ah, cold! How cold it was.
My wife also said, “It’s cold.”
On the high cliff where the two walked, sparse branches scattered tiny glossy black fruits; when they looked up through the gaps, in the blue of the sky—high and clear—there were clouds coldly rushing, and others faintly dissolving.
The long-tailed bird flew and called; as they halted their steps, crouched, and gazed down—ah, how cold! The crimson leaves at the valley’s edge, emerging from the hoko cedars’ shadows, burned red in a solitary flare; those autumn leaves were mirrored in the deep pool.
A wabi-sabi solitude and stillness unknown to others.
Beneath it lay scattered rocks, and those rocks too were faintly dim.
Winter was yet more hushed.
Ah, how sublime—the zelkova’s dead trees towered before the gazing eye as one walked on; the waterfall fell, its shadow hastening the sun’s swift rays. Ah, how sublime—the mountain’s edge held faint sunlight.
When I looked down, there already was Tōnosawa—hot spring vapors rising thickly, flickering lanterns visible; the sea came into view, fishing fires lit.
This mountain crag—a familiar mountain crag; it was not a journey come from afar, nor was it a path to be hastened.
The two of us did not put it into words—nor were we newfound companions—so we simply descended the homeward path in a desultory manner, bit by bit as dusk deepened bit by bit; we merely descended, merely made our way down.

Winter Day Terraced Fields

The winter terraced fields of the hill hollow were terraced fields of intimate joy, terraced fields steeped in wabi-sabi brightness. Scattered patches of mustard-tea harvested fields; rust-red hues, warm hues; coffee-colored soil faintly dampened. In the lower fields, several Inamura Shirogane fields had softened into hat-like shapes; the upper fields bore green stripes where barley had barely sprouted. The flock of birds moving through the field shook their tail feathers deliberately, then soared into the sky. Ah, chill—the wagtail flock swarmed and flew, yet left no mark upon the eye. Somewhere a bulbul cried out, but the wind’s clamor went unheard. In the low sunlight’s reach, amidst a quiet thatched roof and a garden sunk in purple wabi-sabi—devoid of people—persimmon fruits could yet be seen at each back door. The path ascending the back hill appeared as a Moso bamboo grove; in the sunlit clearing above the thicket, people picking mandarins were clearly visible, and sparks from someone loudly talking while striking a flint for tobacco could also be seen. Rarely did it grow so clear—the withered kuzu leaves near and far, autumn-tinted grasses, shining pampas grass—all found peace in this state. Ah, how sublime—here in this hill hollow: terraced fields bright yet aged with wabi-sabi; joyful yet wintry terraced fields; in their sky, a flock of birds soaring—the pale yellow wings of wagtails rippled like waves, their shadows never pausing, never pausing.

Fallen Leaves Journey

As I walked alone through this mountain crag, only fallen leaves lay piled and damp.
As I trod upon fallen leaves while walking, somewhere a bulbul flew and struck a high note.
With a rustle, the oak’s withered leaves near me made no further sound.
On the sunlit side of the grassy cliff grew susuki grass; upon their plumes too, fallen leaves were caught.
The grassy autumn foliage was still warm, but upon it too, fallen leaves stirred.
The mountain opposite, the small hill on this side—all that met the eye were dead trees.
When I saw the creaking waterwheel, the red horse on the upper crag shaking its tail hairs, and the horse driver blown about by the whistling wind—all were things of this cold winter.
The chairs of the small teahouse above the stream were also piled with autumn leaves, and across that stream, fluttering down went the falling leaves.
In mountain hollows lay several clusters of thatched houses; upon seeing a revolving waterwheel—its waters had dwindled nearly away.
Keyaki Plain lay cold to the eye; fallen leaves scattered like rain. Upon closer look, they grew ever denser; with their rustling voices, loneliness deepened.
Along the rough path of mixed trees where the wind howled, along diverging trails—even here, the end remained unknown. Following the wind’s whim and my own footsteps, wherever I walked there were only fallen leaves; before and behind, only fallen leaves—rustling, fluttering, filling sky and earth with their voices.

*Fallen Leaves Meditation*

Brilliantly shone the moon while fallen leaves scattered like rain.
Ah fallen leaves - seeing their shadows made autumn seem already aged.
Ah fallen leaves - hearing their voices made winter feel self-summoned.
Neither aged nor young stood this self.
Though night held clarity it brought no dazzling light; cedars stayed green while neighboring mountains grew gaunt.
Through withered branches showed distant moon; wind-blown leaves fluttered without end.
When would that day return? What age makes permanence dwell?
In this transient world where years shift unceasing - I exist yet see only what lies behind.
Still beyond remains ever distant.
Yet error had been made.
Profound shame drew tears.
No resignation found nor harmony glimpsed; knowing little of self meant enduring humbly.
Thus matters stood.
Longing persisted unrelieved.
Even unendurable this wabi-sabi born through being stayed slight reliance.
Rely simply; guard what must.
Alone thoughts would dwell.
Now alone walking commenced.
Ah poignant finality! Leaves must scatter.
Entrust leaves to wind's care.

Under the shining moon, in the Kitayama wind, amidst the night storm—let shadows be shadows; fluttering, only fluttering voices.

Haiku

“I too shall leave it to you, Issa-bō.”

Early Spring in the Bamboo Grove

From the life at the House of the Horned Owl in Odawara, in the early spring of Taishō 11.

Narcissus and Chrysanthemum

The silk gauze of the window curtain; beyond the glass door, the short day; the short day’s slanting sunlight.
The silk gauze of the window curtain; the narcissus and chrysanthemums in its shade; the thin glass vase on the plant stand.
The single-petaled narcissus that bloomed this morning; the winter chrysanthemums arranged one day long past.
Cold and white narcissus; slightly warm yellow winter chrysanthemums.
The narcissus’s blue leaves were taut; the winter chrysanthemum’s leaves were half-withered.
The narcissus was the narcissus’s shadow; the winter chrysanthemum was the winter chrysanthemum’s shadow; that vase too existed as a glass shadow on the chestnut-colored sand wall.
The glass was transparent, the window curtain translucent; at the slanting sunlight’s brightest hour, winter still appeared serenely beautiful—no unreliable shadows here—softly familiar it was.
The thin glass’s shadow also swayed.
The second-floor study where I was with my wife; the afternoon hours were simply tranquil.
The steam rising from the kettle; the smoke from my lit tobacco; they swayed on that wall.
My wife’s shadow; my shadow also existed.
When observed in their present form and reality, the narcissus and winter chrysanthemums were truly poignant now.
When observing the shadows of the narcissus and winter chrysanthemums, which did not reflect reality—there was no reality; it was lonely.
A bulbul cried as it soared nearby; the sound of waves resounded far in the distance.
Someone declared the world impermanent; he could not consider it enduring or dear.
Though I dwelled in the mountains and was apart from the world, it was not that I wholly detested society; though I keenly felt it as vexing as swarming flies, when no one came, there was no means to know; though my wife and I were there together, even so being there, at times there was only loneliness, and we did not meet each other’s eyes.

“Listen, my wife—there is something falling.”

“Listen, my wife—there is something falling.”
Faintly, something fell.
The night deepened past early evening into profound stillness.
It began to fall.
Something—what could it be?—began to fall.
A sound arose; it fell more intensely.
It seemed to be rain.
No, it seemed to be snow.
It was snow.
If it was snow, then it was the first snow.
It fell heavily.
This truly rare snow indeed fell heavily; it began to fall in earnest.
Rustling, making sound again; quiet it was, merely deepening.

“Listen, my wife—this falling snow fills and fills; merely in this darkness it dances and deepens, falls and accumulates.”

Haiku

By chance, waves resound—the snow of night.

New Year’s Night

Ah, carelessness—a sigh escaped.
“Don’t trouble yourself—there’s nothing to speak of.”
“And, my wife, roast some brown rice tea.”
“Let us speak of the coming spring, of narcissus flowers, and of the child soon to be born.”
The depth of this New Year’s night—for we who dwelled in the mountains, though no different from any other time—today was especially good indeed.

Truly, now all was quiet indeed.
What more was there to say?
May God alone protect the tranquility of this night.
In the midst of heart-filling joy, I thought only of poetry; you were peering in.
It was quiet; it was merely poignant.
Only the sound of a moving brush existed.
A shift of the body; only breath existed.
Then, the night too must have been nearing dawn.
"Listen," I thought to my wife—"the rooster seems to be crowing."
"Listen again—it is the sound of waves."
The two of us sat up like this—truly now were just the two of us. How naturally the breaths of our two lives came into contact.
How intimately they passed through each other.
"I will peel a mandarin orange," I resolved.
"I will sit close to face the fire."
"I will add a little more charcoal," I determined, "then wait—for the crimson sunrise over the sea on the morning of the second day."

Butterbur flower stalks

Ah, fresh butterbur flower stalks.
A rare bitter fragrance it had.
He skewered one butterbur flower stalk, then two, then three onto small bamboo skewers; coated them with miso; grilled them over flames; ate one thinking “Ah, bitter!”, ate two thinking “Ah, savory!”, ate three thinking “Ah, dear!”, then sat there thinking, “How lonely.”
In early spring, he listened to the voice of that snow—whether it would melt away—for that brief while.

Early Spring in the Bamboo Grove

In the bamboo grove of my hermitage, the misty rain dampened this morning as well.
It was the misty rain of early spring.
The rain fell unseen.
The misty rain lingered in the bamboo grass; when incense was burned, its fragrance became damp. There was nothing to do—merely brightness.
The misty rain became damp in minute detail; the incense smoke trailed hazily—nothing more.
Quiet it was; merely tranquil it was. When he showed his face and sat intently, a bush warbler sang, a white-eye drew near; bamboo leaves swayed and swayed before departing.

The scattered remnants of last year’s dead leaves evoked loneliness yet felt no true cold; amidst some sprouting green, spring already resided at the bamboo roots.
If this good dampness continued to moisten [the earth], bamboo grass, kudzu, and butterbur stalks would sprout forth in profusion.
In the bearded thicket, arum plants and violets would soon bloom.
Though the sound of the pine wind subsided, there was no extraordinary solitude.
Along the rugged ascents and descents of Urazoe, even a horse passing sporadically—at times tinged with green—and the loud-talking people too grew familiar as they passed through wet.
He added quiet-heart incense again and again; thus today too was serenely tranquil indeed.
Like misty rain falling, I cherished in minute detail these thoughts of early spring.

Croak-Croak Frog Song

Croak-Croak frogs of early spring: one croaked, two croaked, croak-croaking in succession; suddenly ceased, croaks muffled, then abruptly surged back to croaking.
Ever more earnestly did they raise their voices in unison and croak.
The Croak-Croak frogs in the nearby rice field—when listened to closely—shifted their calls.
Their voices shifted, one by one—Ah, how charming—their croaking manner became visible.
Facing this way and that, leaping about, then diving into water; hiding themselves, inflating their cheeks—the appearance of their throats as they croaked and croaked became visible.
Ah, how charming—the frogs in the nearby rice field; the green root parsley dampened; the paddy banks still appeared new.
The voice of rain beckoning rain through the night—though cold, it was not truly cold; though lonely, something laughed.
The frogs called friends and croaked again; their voices resounded far even in distant fields.
Ah, how poignant—the frogs in distant fields. When I listened again, separated far away, beyond the sound of rapids in night’s darkness, indeed distantly, hazily they croaked.
They drew near, approaching closer as they croaked.
Like distant waves lapping the shore, like a far-off wind blowing near, their voices traveled through the night sky—resonating ever closer, then ceasing—only to resume their croaking.
The nearby rice fields too now vied in swelling chorus.
Early night passed and late night deepened; the voices still resounded, likely until the night broke into dawn.
The Sprouting Yellow Moon formed a circular halo; faint scudding clouds near and far; drenched and glimmering stars—until the hazy stars’ silhouettes grew pale.
Croak-croak, and again croak-croak—throughout the night, the night as but one—the young frogs of early spring, with all their voices, and again with all their voices, here densely they croaked.

Song of the Standing Withered Row

From life at Shien Sousha in Katsushika Koishikawa during Taishō 5 (1916).

However, with the exception of *The Sound of Birds Singing*, these are works from that time.

The rest are Taishō 10 spring works.

Song of the Standing Withered Row

The weir of frost-laden Nogawa—when I came to behold it this morning with a sigh, unbeknownst, the water volume had dwindled, and ice spread without gaps.
The dried susuki grasses, the withered grasses on the earthen embankment—frozen solid, pale and harsh; the rows of standing withered trees on both sides growing ever paler and lonelier; their treetops minutely aglow against the snow sky’s ash-gray hue; the slender twigs in the lower air continuing their delicate branching—though I look, I do not tire; intermingling, they form a net-like pattern and show through.
The rows of standing withered trees on both sides; when viewed from below, a single row—crows perching occasionally huddle on their frost-laden branches, while scattered migratory birds fill that sky where thin smoke rises.
When the wind blows, they sway faintly; when snow falls, they accumulate ever more; through bitterly cold midnight showers, through moonlit dawns where light descends—attempting to vanish yet remaining faintly, failing to manifest even in reality—they are merely desolate, sparse, and futile.
The frost-laden weir of Nogawa; this morning too, ice had spread.
Along both sides of that river, dead trees continued without gaps.
Ah, how pitiful—the rows of standing withered trees.

Itako Inlet

Ah, Manchurian wild rice—within its thickets bloom sweet flags—Itako Inlet; when I journeyed far seeking it, Dejima of Itako from days past had fallen into ruin and now lay in winter.
The traveler’s lodging, nearly vanished into nothingness—when he awoke after a night’s sleep, frost-laden willows by the water’s edge stood silent; not a single sound stirred. In the ink-wash sky’s haze, their branches hung deeply white.
Their branches reached down to touch the water.
They also reached toward white reeds.
In its shadow lay a small thatch-roofed boat thoroughly frozen with frost—rime crystallizing in minute detail—its gunwale and thatch pure white, oar and rudder utterly blanched.
As he gazed intently at the inlet’s tranquil scene—smoke rising from that boat ascended straight as a single thread where no wind blew—lingering feebly before dissipating.
The smoke from Hiroshige’s painting became manifestly transient when viewed with mortal eyes.
Ah how poignant—the willows by water’s edge; ah how poignant—the moored skiff; how utterly desolate they appeared.
Just then—bursting through thatch and towering over frost-crusted gunwales—the red-combed rooster of dawn had already begun its crowing cry.

Night Snow

This night too, snow fell.
That night too, snow fell.
The voices and spirits too seemed to vanish—falling, accumulating, vanishing white snow.
When white snow fell faintly, the fleeting moments remained clear; yet the fleeting moments of white snow vanishing—faintly they vanished once more.
The ephemeral feeling of white snow—there was no way to transfer it to my own being.

The Sound of Birds Singing

Caw-caw cried the crows; peep-peep cried the chicks; sparrows chirped-chirped in chatter; the pheasant longing for its young on the burnt field struck shrill notes through the night.
The sound of birds in their present form crying—how poignantly it resonated.
Autumn wild geese traversing the heavens—when spring arrived, vanished without trace into distant cloud realms with echoing cries.

Rice Pearls

From life in Katsushika Koishikawa during Taishō 5 (1916); spring works of Taishō 10 (1921).

The Song of the Saint of Assisi

The Story of Saint Francis of Assisi.

Saint Francis lovingly cherished the sparrows.
The sparrows too revered him in return.
If he were a person in the flesh, then he too must have been lonely as any human.
He must have been lonely and poor.
Because he was lonely and poor, he remained humble and was ever sorrowful.
He must have been exceedingly sorrowful.
Therefore, through his unfulfilled state, God was revealed to him.
When He had Saint Francis stand upon that holy path, the sparrows followed in his wake, alighting upon his hands and perching on his shoulders.
Then, chirp chirp, they sang.
Ah, how pitiful—addressing them as "little sparrows," he stroked and caressed their feathers, continuing to soothe them as he proclaimed: "Deceive not, covet not; be natural, be righteous, be upright. In childlike innocence, connect with the divine heart of heaven and earth—yet how sorrowful you are!"
He preached the holy teachings.
Because he lovingly cherished the sparrows, the sparrows too revered him in return.
Because the holy words were easy even for the sparrows to understand, the sparrows reverently received them, rubbing their wings and bowing their heads.
Chirp chirp, they sang again.
Thus they no longer vainly desired things, became frivolous, deceived others, or stole.
They were truthful and at peace.
At such times, dew filled the grasslands; insects chirped vigorously; under winds coolly carrying the fragrance of unadorned wildflowers, the sky became perfectly clear in its rounded expanse—and as not even a single speck of dust lingered, the Saint’s head faintly emitted a halo. The ten fingers of both hands he extended shone radiantly, while even the sparrow upon his palm beat its wings joyfully until it too gleamed. Before him, the flock of sparrows forming a circle each faintly manifested their own halos as they cried ecstatically and frolicked.
Saint Francis looked up to the heavens: “O Lord, your servant has become thus—precisely because of this poverty, I preserve within this single body all the world’s treasures cast aside yet akin to Your own. How grateful! Hallelujah—” and as he praised and prayed with flowing tears, the sparrows too cried “Hallelujah, Hallelujah,” lifting their eyes and shedding tears as they gazed upon the heavens.
The saint in human form and the sparrows in avian form; the sparrows and Francis—morning and evening, it was ever thus.
Ah, how wondrous—this is no ordinary worldly matter.

Because of his warm divine heart—through his vast, expansive divine heart—since he cherished all that exists, his heart reached even God and must have connected with the sparrows.
Ah, how wondrous—could such a saint have truly existed within the present world of humankind?

Rice Pearls

I

Pure white jewels, white jewels—ah, how poignant.
White-jeweled rice, jewel-like rice, rice-jewels—how poignant.
Counting them one grain, then two grains, three grains, four grains—the white jewels, how poignant.
On the thin Seto-white small plate—no matter how many times he scooped, ah how poignant—there was only a rustling sound, only a rolling noise; gathering them yielded fewer than ten grains, collecting them failed to reach ten grains. Rustling and rolling—these sounds came from the bottom of the empty chest, the hollow rice chest.
Pure white jewels, white jewels—ah, how poignant.
White-jeweled rice, jewel-like rice, rice-jewels—ah, how poignant.

II

Pure white jewels, white jewels—ah, how poignant.
White-jeweled rice, jewel-like rice, rice-jewels—ah, how poignant.
Counting them one grain, then two grains, three grains, four grains—the white jewels, how poignant.
Gathering them yields fewer than ten grains; collecting them fails to reach ten grains.
Now that I shall soon starve, and my wife too shall waste away—pure white jewels, white jewels, how poignant.
Though I speak of the white jewels of rice—these helpless white jewels of poverty—even the sparrows desire those grains. Whoever is hungry is the same: the sparrows come peeking, starving they cry, crying they play, playing they seek food—and in their seeking, the rice-jewels, how poignant.
Sparrows, come! Come, sparrows, come! Peck intensely at this rice; if you hunger, devour this rice! If you were not starving—if it were delicious—if you sang joyfully and sweetly—then these white jewels, how poignant.
As for us—this self of mine, and my wife too—it is fine if we do not eat now; it is fine if we do not eat.
Pure white jewels, white jewels—ah, how poignant.
White-jeweled rice, jewel-like rice, rice-jewels—ah, how poignant.

III

Pure white jewels, white jewels—ah, how poignant.
White-jeweled rice, jewel-like rice, rice-jewels—ah, how poignant.
How many days had I endured this severance, how many nights this gnawing hunger? This self of mine lived in poverty, lived without means to sustain life—ah, how poignant, these grains of rice, these white jewels. Having scraped together a pittance of money—barely enough to exist—I went to the marketplace clutching a torn bag, begged "Please, deign to put just a little rice in this," and they poured it in—rustling, they deigned to pour it in.
When I ran out in joy, people exclaimed in surprise, "Give us money!"
Having forgotten, I blushed and said “I beg your pardon,” left the money, and ran out again—from behind, they called out about the rice.
Startled, having forgotten again—"Please forgive me"—this time properly, I hoisted the sack of white-jeweled rice onto my shoulder and turned back.
Rice-jewels, white jewels—how poignant.
Is this reality truly reality? No dream—it was reality indeed.
That reality—the reality of it—was indeed a delight.
White jewels of, pure white jewels of, pure white jewels of, white jewels—ah, how poignant.
White-jeweled rice, jewel-like rice, rice-jewels—ah, how poignant.

Dog and Crow

I

For the dog pup, a white rice dish; for the crow chick, a blue rice dish. Each morning and evening came the same serving of rice. When someone called out, “Eat your own portions,” the dog pup found its meal wanting; the crow chick found its meal wanting. The dog pup craved the crow chick’s rice; the crow chick craved the dog pup’s rice. Each strove single-mindedly to seize what was not theirs; each schemed single-mindedly to steal and devour—until there was nothing but cries, barks, and bites.
Their own meals were already plentiful.
Yet not deeming their portions enough—why then covet another’s things? Why hunger for what belongs to others?
Was it because they were equally pitiable? Because identical meals were laid out?
Dog pup! Crow chick! Ah, how pitiful.

II

Ah, how pitiful—to the left and right, the crow chick and dog pup drew near.
Looking this way, the crow chick was pitiable; looking that way, the dog pup was pitiable.
O birds and beasts of two realms.
Things made all the more pitiable, things made equally sorrowful—which to separate, which to divide?
When someone, raising both hands this way and that, lightly tapped and stroked them soothingly, wings fluttered and tails wagged.
"If you're hungry, then eat," someone filled a palm with cow's milk—the crow chick came from the right, the dog pup from the left; beak and mouth clashed together, pecking and tasting, pecking and tasting.
Again, without envy, regret, or hatred.
Ah, how wondrous—birds of the sky and domestic beasts of earth. When had they grown so accustomed? Why then were they now so intimate?
Behold—when I saw these creatures harmonize affectionately in my palm, when I saw them rejoice anew, this self of mine gazed left and right, and tears flowed unceasingly.

Child and Mother

From life in Azabu, 1913–1914.

Azabu Hill

Azabu Hill lay hazily veiled in light mist, spring still early at the lonely temple—when I visited with my mother, children had gathered in the sunny spot, flying kites and spinning tops.
When I stopped and gazed, my cropped hair came to mind.
As I smiled and looked up at Mother, she too smiled faintly.
Truly—my cropped hair—did Mother too endure this?
My mother said nothing; I, her child, heard nothing. On such a day in such a spring, seeing children play dreamily before us, tears flowed unbidden.

Child and Mother

At the breasts of my mother of sagging breasts—because I, a child, clung and wept—even now she must still think me a child. Ah, my mother.
Forgetting even the heavenly sun’s light, drowning in the colors of my physical form, unaware of sake’s troubles—when I returned drunk and exhausted, she would hold me just enough to take the sake’s edge off, just enough to not harm me sorrowfully; “If you’re drunk, rest early,” embracing me, propping a pillow, covering me with quilts, tucking my feet in, gently patting down my hem—gently patting down my hem—when I think of my mother of sagging breasts, how could I not weep?

III

Faint Things

Taishō 2 (1913), Azabu.

Things Faint

A dream was not reality.
Reality is more precious than a dream.
Nothing is more futile than illusions.

That which is faint lies beyond control.
All beautiful things are fragile.
Precious things need not even be spoken of.

Human life is fleeting, while sunlight defies command.
That which dazzles proves yet more transient.
Stars, moon, gentle breeze, thin clouds—the sky yields to their passing...

All that falls from above pierces the heart.
Rain, snow, hail, sleet—even these melt into nothingness.

Frost settling on soil, dewdrops, mist, fog, haze, evening rice stalks—even the faint mirage of water offered nothing to rely upon.

Smoke may indeed evoke pathos, yet being ungraspable was of no use.
Whether one went to a mountain dwelling or to the fields, there was no way to dam the flow of water.

The bagworm that plaintively trilled and the faint glow of fireflies' tails—even sleeping birds found no rest in spring's sorrowful heart.

If it were a color—Rikyū-nezumi (tea master’s gray) or mizu-asagi (pale water green). Though yellow lay faint, its warmth led people to call it egg-colored.

Waterweeds, hyacinth roots; in the sea, rose-like seaweed; water shields with their odd flavor bloomed in turbid, murky swamps—yet in clear water, no fish dwelled.

When speaking of flowers—bellflower, alpine butterwort, garlic flower.
If one bloom opened, it became a single-flower plant; if two blooms opened, a twin-flower plant—no one knew the true flower.

Leaves—sansho leaves, asparagus.
Vines—peas, wisteria vines.
The poppy held no grudge, yet because of its leaves its fragrance remained fresh; the person clung to no attachments, yet wasted away solely on memories.

Ah, how poignant—the treetops.
Delicate things: bamboo branches; the fine hairs of sedge roots—those roots upon roots; silk thread; udonge; carrot whiskers.

Distant things: the mountain path.
Wearied yet hastening are the autumn birds; precisely because the sky offers no place to rest, they must longingly wander afar.
To the medaka in the glass vessel—were one to recognize that, would it not prove futile?

Those in nests left their nests; those without dwellings sought homes. Squirrels spent their days in fields and mountains; pilgrims did not linger long. How long would the snail bearing its shell continue to carry it? The path of a ship being gazed upon; fireworks at one’s back; a basket of musk-entwined flowers having passed by; the faint awkwardness of people’s collars lingering still.

The sorts of flute tones; the station road’s morning departure bells; the faintly white buttons of beryl in the uninhabited hideaway; the kikurin jewel deepening into night.

Shadows were lonelier than anything else.
The shadows of dancers and fans, purple shadows of twitching rabbits, vase shadows and plate-rolling apple shadows—these might have made even Old Man Cézanne weep.

Summer meant liqueur; Sunday mornings meant sipping through wheat straw.
Hot black tea belonged to spring's twilight, ice cream to snow-falling days, Japanese tea to autumn's deepening—though no Rikyu presided over this ceremony, its loneliness grew profounder still.

Monotony dwelled in seasonal transitions, post-festival emptinesses, flower songs swiftly fading into oblivion.
A katydid chirped upon a silent-film drunkard's silk hat.

Cold things yet colder: pearls, mirrors, mercury globules, forked serpent tongues, the eyes of courtesans.

Things that profoundly permeate the body: oil, perfume; a person who can reach an itchy spot with a comb.
Things that spill forth are scalp debris and tears.
Things that well up are springs, milk, lice, sobs after a kiss, bugs on crimson roses, termites.

Things prone to error are human paths, abacus beads.
Things easily led astray by are: the words of a procurer, the path of love, riddles, magic tricks, Nishikata-chō in Hongō—the sorrow of being smitten and deceived.

Unforgettable is faint compassion.
First: sensuality; second: the taste of wine; third: poetic toponyms of penitence.
There is no need to ask whether the one I long for exists or not—Miyakodori; even forgotten forget-me-nots remain dear.

Though shallow, the clear stream's Japanese iris.
Falsehoods thinly clarified—loneliness again.
Things without truth are truly lonely.
Things with truth remain lonely still.
Truth alone proves unbearable.
To be born human—how poignant still.

When one reflects, all pierce the heart—the impoverished; those estranged from the world; the pitiful; the famished; destitute, cold, unfulfilled; irresolute, insipid, anchorless.

Things unreliable; difficult to grasp; difficult to express; difficult to voice; difficult to discern by ear; easily forgotten; impermanent; fragile—in final reckoning, though no Buddha exists, this world stands lonely.

Perfectly round things; wheel-like things; things that advance parallel forever without meeting; things that revolve; things without beginning or end; smoldering things; things that tangle as they vanish—all evoke pathos.

Though they say "art endures while life is brief," things that perish easily are but the way of this fleeting world.
Songs, rhythms, hues—all are but a dream within a dream.
Though I do not deem reality a dream, reality is more fleeting than dreams; because it is sorrowful, all the more fleeting—more fleeting even than illusions.