Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

When I heard news of Bousha's Poetry Collection being published, I felt profoundly gladdened.
While any dear haiku companion's collection reaching print would naturally bring joy, hearing specifically of Bousha's collection emerging stirred in me the deepest delight.
Why this should be so remains unclear even to myself.

As I have previously noted, Bousha wages constant war against bodily torment yet never breathes word of his struggles to others.
That resolute will to endure—joined with heaven’s pillars and earth’s foundation—constitutes a measureless force upholding firmament and soil alike while sustaining even Bousha’s fragile existence.

I thought Bousha was a person of true courage.
He acted without haste or agitation, according to what he believed.
Bousha was a person who not only discovered life in clouds, dewdrops, and stones but also perceived humanity in kites and snails.

With dew poems placed at the beginning, every verse collected here consisted solely of lines like true dewdrop jewels scattering and chiming as they collide.

September 11, 1934

Hototogisu Publishing Office

Takahama Kyoshi

Autumn

Dew path deepens—
Maitreya awaits the age

Night stalls—

Dew scatters—

Behind the boulder—a small lantern in the dew’s hot-water basin

Night-weeping hut—in the dew’s embankment shade

Oshirazu—dew grown full-bodied in emptiness.

White dew—the alpha and omega sun has risen.

In white dew—gold and silver flies have taken flight.

Dew pearls countless as stars through tangled vines.

Spreading wide—the dew mandala of plantain leaves.

White dew flicked away by a little finger—

White dew—a beggar smokes tobacco.

Bellflower dew—crisply it lies.

Bellflower dew—seven treasures shattered.

White dew—a heavenly mirror's expanse
A diamond dew drop—on stone
A string of dew—tinkling through silken awns
Dew pearls transformed into ants in disarray
Above all—dew clings to farmers
White dew’s ripples form—Sun Deity
Jeweled pampas grass tangled—dew congeals

Jeweled pampas grass—dew flows jaggedly
White dew—a mole’s paw pale rose
White dew dazzling—the mole so adorable
To sun and dew—the mole presses its palms together
Dew pearls rolling—the mole burrows in

Autumn heat—hackberry withered at the milestone
New coolness—white palms and soles
Half-present guests in the tearoom—autumn dusk
Sub-temple bell waits and waits—autumn rain
Autumn wind—fickle-hearted, I compose ho-ku
Autumn wind—sleeve beads like naphthalene
"Me"-shaped ema fill the hall—autumn clears
Flickering glimpses of Konjin in the eye—autumn wind

A moonlit path leads to a forest dotted with sparse lights—

Lately, as I sleep—the moonlit basin.

A drunken monk strokes his friend’s head on the moonlit veranda.

The priest returns with a sake bottle in the moonlit garden.

Bright moon—smoke swirls up from the tile stove.

The last train cuts through Katsushika’s moonlit rice fields—

Treading the moonlit path—my Master’s shadow follows.

Exiting the forest—the bride approaches along the moonlit path.

Rafters soak in hot springs beneath the moonlit night.

Evening moonlit night—a mouse appears before the angler.

Bright moon—bead shops laid out like a Go board in Juzuya-machi.

Reed-cutting’s utter stillness—ah, this splendid night.

White birches’ mist resonates with Kegon—ah.

The station calls for milk through night fog—Karuizawa.

Kannon presides—crossroads in flowering fields.

Angler glimpsed here and there along flower field paths.

A lone house peddles fishhooks by flower field trails.

Autumn water brims below—the hot spring basin.

Bunting—a droplet clears beneath evening eaves.

Bunting—a single spill scattering grain by grain.

Dew pearls grown large—the shrike rages.

Raging shrike—flapping wildly skyward.

From heaven’s clash—shrike and chrysanthemum day.

Downstream sweetfish pass—thistle shadows.

Evening cicada—swift mouse nibbles Buddha’s offering.

Evening cicada—tenth-night moonlight permeates.

Earthworms hum—the sacred image made blind.

Earthworms hum—Rokuharamitsu-ji’s primal dark.

Earthworms hum—human child sleeps in grass hut.

Fart beetle—moment upon sorrowful moment.

Rearguard bows like penitents—fart beetle.

Fart beetle—Jehovah saw it was good.

In sightseers’ eyes—persimmons round, red and yellow.

Grape trellis—sunlight sifts through as motes.

Tortoiseshell-patterned beads packed tight—black grapes
Water-filled white bowl holding grapes—ah
Biting into dogwood berries—a faint astringency—the founder’s death anniversary
Above Momijidani Valley towers the main temple
Stone walls solidly built—the temple’s scarlet leaves, ah
Temples’ simmering meat’s fragrance—evening crimson leaves
Wildflowers—hastily inscribed water stupa
Monk’s wife—boiling potatoes while tending the temple kitchen
Patting potato bellies—Kangi Dōji, ah
A gamecock glaring in all directions—the potato field
Potato leaves drawn low over Horse-Headed Kannon
Thus have I heard—the Great Master transforms potatoes into stone
O monks bearing manure—potato autumn
Thicket’s edge—wild yam vines start to twist

Wild Yam fleeing—waves beat the thicket mat
Wild Yam’s body quivers hollowly—dug up at last
In water frost—plantain broad leaves gleam pure—ah
Through downpour flies a single plantain leaf—ah
Plantain drenched like ship’s gunwale—ah
Layering light and shadow—moonlit plantain—ah
A screen begins to tear—the plantain—ah
Torn plantain—still several veins remain

Winter

Before the Ear Mound spread expansively—the year-end, ah.

The short day’s light unspent—crimson persists.

Within Yamanouchi—a single illicit shrine and little June

Great Year—would that Amida Buddha were eternal
Winter drizzle—the monk too partook in motherwort powder
From the bath vessel—one sip taken—winter drizzle
Winter drizzle—again he partook of wisdom-water
Tearful porridge steamed thickly—nighttime drizzle
Evening porridge—drizzled branches too fed to the fire
Sheath hall’s inner spirit hall—evening drizzle
Winter drizzle—Plum Monk tossed into the gruel
Sleeve-begging monks—winter drizzle persisted—Toribeyama
To hear Minase’s sound as winter drizzle arrived—
How fragrant! The winter drizzle had passed through fern valley
Tengai—winter drizzle shelter—a haiku poet
Winter drizzle—features blurred—fire-blowing bamboo

To buy sake—Idaten-speed running—winter drizzle novice monk

Winter drizzle—fire-blowing bamboo like a flute

Plum-blossom mimicry rows upon rows—winter drizzle clears, ah

Winter drizzle—all day the Throat Buddha blows fire

Winter drizzle—a single fruit of enbudan gold

Venerable monk—winter-drizzled belly’s gunpowder meal

As winter drizzle comes—the sandalwood grove lingers at play

Winter drizzle—the novice monk fiddles with the hearth fire

Nighttime winter drizzle—the Founding Master sits upright

Mice too are children of my house—nighttime winter drizzle

Winter drizzle pigeon alights on my shoulder, brushing my cheek

Flowers in hand—Jōgyō Bosatsu—winter drizzle lingers

Crammed tight—the golden signboard in winter's cold rain

Snowy weather—the sotoba stupa's fence had solidified
Peony snow—like iron from woodland springs—ah
Snow clearing—through paper door slits, merciful eyes—ah
Ceaselessly, snow fell through the sky—a kite’s shriek
Moonlit snow had dyed the darkness indigo—
In the shadows—moonlit snow existed—one fragment
White snow crowning the stone—lay drying
Like a single rice cake—snow remained
Swirling—the pampas grass was covered in snow
Someone came—steadily through the snowy gate
Upon the snow—a great heap of snow had fallen

Frost columns have encircled the Buddha-selection hall.
Frost columns have formed layers upon the earthen steps.

Frost columns here—like a comb’s broken teeth.
Frost columns—Master Kansho has hidden away.
Frost columns pulled out—such length!
Frost columns have grown around the stone—
In the winter wind’s blast—a light appears at Enma Hall.
Cold moon—crossing Tengai alone—ah.
Cold moon—as far as the eye can see, paving stones.
Cold moon—like a hole, the black dog.
Bell tower—like a castle—the winter mountain.
Freezing night—the bodhicitta held close.
Freezing night—offering candles to Monju.
Amid fox-fire—a wet nurse atop the rickshaw—ah.
Daruma Memorial—the haiku poet gazes upon monks.

Sick monk—furtively making year's preparations.

Night breeze through the transom—the futon.

Worn-down paintbrush cast aside again—sunbathing.

The former abbot’s patched repairs—auxiliary charcoal.

The sunlit paper doors—even they in the auxiliary charcoal’s stillness.

Bush warbler—the novice monk chants spells while tending the child.

Swift sunrise—winter sparrows at the sutra repository.

Ginkgo leaves fall—boys and girls kneeling down.

Winter camellia—the incense stick’s sheath has streaked away.

Withered thistle—the flower at heart's core burns to ash.

Silent swaying—the withered pampas grass.

Dangling—the sun crimson indeed—daikon pulling.

They buried the live horse’s body with daikon.

Daikon horse wears a bodhisattva’s face—tears in eyes.

String music swells—the second-floor railing too hung with dried daikon.

Daikon pulling—they softly stretched their bodies.

Daikon horse—showing mournful front teeth.

New Year

Early spring—two o'clock echoes at the island inn.

From first-calm rocks—the call to board the boat.

First Fuji—stone steps descend to Chijigafuchi

First Fuji—on the cliff, a shrike echoes.

Spring

Spring chill—the honored wax drips upon the moss.

Spring chill—even the Honored Waterfall deep in bamboo groves

Warmth—from within the candy, Momotarō

Splendid—lotus-petal spoons scooping sugar

Splendid—the kite’s flute departs the pine.

Spring dawn—first serving tea to Shakyamuni

Spring dawn—soundlessly falling peony snow

Spring noon—Kannon who cherishes dolls

Spring evening—the confectionery tower glistens brightly.

Spring night—whenever I sleep, how I yearn for Kannon

Spring night—the Honored Candle Attendant emerges with a totter.

Spring night—administering Darani-suke to the woman

Spring night—longer than autumn’s—the grass hermitage

Departing spring—the Women’s Hall transformed into a tea house.

To Kuhonbutsu we trudge—lamenting spring’s departure.

The child-minding novice monk chants the Heart Sutra—haze, ah.

Hazy moonlit night—a shadow figure by the tower.

Holding the cremation urn beneath spring's boundless sky

In the spring sky—the temple complex where they released pigeons, ah.

Again the pigeons rose—their wingbeats beneath the blossom-haze sky.

Spring thunder—peony buds awaited in azure.

Spring mud—the children’s peepees all lined up.

At the Nirvana Assembly, he composed a flower-and-bird poem.

With painted eyebrows comes the white dog—Buddha’s Birthday Ceremony.

Sweet hydrangea tea spills busily from the Buddhist ladle.

At Buddha’s Birthday Ceremony—they blow kite whistles in unison.

For grass-picking—the canal glistens.

A child with a glistening head from grass-picking—carried on someone’s back.

Grass-picking—the child borne on the back turned to stone.

Honored Head Temple—twenty-tiered ridges coated and tilting.

Wide veranda—birds trilling antiphonally left and right.

Warblings—silver coins spilling from the alms bag.

Chirping—attendant Eshin clenches his fists tightly.
Birdsong’s purity—the monk’s quarters dream unawakened

Swallows—white bellies battering through fierce winds
From the kitchen of Rising Larkspur Hermitage
With Awakening of Insects clutched in its beak, the sparrow took flight.
Croaking frogs—the searchlight hangs inverted.

Within ripples—frog eyes unmoving.

Over frog eyes—ripples become small waves.

Closely packed white teeth—cherry sea bream

Cherry sea bream—mournful eyes swollen.

At sluice gate—willow dace from boyhood days

Bee’s rear—softly retracting stinger.

Clam boat—Ishiyama bell resounds throughout.

Rapeseed-flower cape—departing clam boat

Plum blossoms bloom—Mother’s seventh-day memorial under clear skies

Plum blossoms bloom—barbed wire lies fallen.

Camellia path pristine—yet noon darkness lingers.

Peach Village—ducks in flowing indigo.

Magnolia petals fallen shattered—Land of Eternally Tranquil Light.

Hidden by flowers—spell resounds, O-Taki-sama

First blossoms—morning sunlight from bamboo depths

Flower glow—Shinji Pond where even frogs do not croak
Mountains so high—here and there, clouds of flowers
Clouds of flowers—pigeons dance in multicolored play
Kicking up petals as they rise—sparrows among falling blossoms
Flower blizzard—the waterfall’s rock base glitters
Wisteria waves—from pine to bamboo at Seikan Temple
Oh how they leap in the western sun—ginkgo buds
Ginkgo buds flying skyward—white doves too
Ginkgo buds—split into tenths and hundredths taking form
The great ginkgo—inexhaustible buds have sprouted
Ginkgo buds spilling and spreading—ah, like breasts
The rugged path crumbles—tara buds sprout

Flowering daikon—a black cat plays with a bell.

Venture out to pick bracken—the old couple.

Japanese knotweed in mouth—the novice monk cleans graves.

Raw fish soon tires—a longing for lettuce arises

At Jōjaku’s sacred pond—water plants sprout needle-like leaves

Deeply—above the forest hovers a butterfly-filled sky.

To the crybaby father—how dazzling this butterfly sky
Butterfly sky—the seven-hall temple complex inverted
Nichiren Daibosatsu sleeps amidst butterflies
Upon a single butterfly flows the lapis lazuli of snowy peaks
Upon snowy peaks—a striped butterfly does not phosphoresce
From snowy peaks descending—a butterfly’s small scarlet binding
Tumultuously butterflies swarm—the entire earth

Summer

The moon is cool—the monk too goes to Shijō for errands
Gold and silver light—how the medicine cools
Thunder in broad daylight draws near
Butterfly wings surge in cascades—a thunderstorm

Welcoming fire—wind gathers weeds’ shadows.
Welcoming fire—catches flame across dew-laden blades of grass.
Welcoming bell rings—from behind emerges a hand, ah.
At eternity’s edge intrudes an old woman—the welcoming bell.
Mechanical gong struck by a monk—Enma Hall.
Enma—konnyaku offerings stacked mountain-high.
Enma solemnly leans forth before the sacred altar—ah.
Konnyaku—Enma scatters sparks upon it—ah.
Midday sun—Datsueba, wearing cotton.
In the great gutter reflects the light of Enma’s night stall.
Eshin the acolyte naps like worthless dirt.

A napping monk—celestial maidens in murals dance and play
Waking from noon sleep—the living sky so vividly blue
In eating-drinking’s wake—taking a nap, ah
At the edge of cocoon-reeling town—Onsenji Temple
Crossing the embankment—the young rice planter washes her feet

Teisai peddles—a mongrel's tongue dangles slack
Jade-tightened plantain loosens—ah, new tea
Summer ice—saw coarsely pulled through
Sweet syrup drunk—Senju Kannon borne on back
Kingfisher's shadow swiftly upstream surges
Tier upon tier—goldfish bucket unsealed
Snake vanished—grass blades' shade deep purple
Myriad pampas strands—fireflies streaming ah
Glowing tassels dip at water's edge—ah
Antlion watched—hours passed unheeded
Silk tree blooms—moth-antennae filaments stretched long—three PM
Through silk tree leaves—dimmed butterflies ah
Chill pierced silk tree's twilight shadow
Bristling blossoms blur crimson to haze

Vairocana Buddha—young leaves surpassing, gazes compassionately

Crystal rosary reflects young leaves—ah
Mulberries—play unfolds at Karegafudo Hall
Young bamboo—five six stalks whip-like
Twin-wheeled peonies greet swirling winds

Moonlight pales—the peony’s blaze still ascends.

Scattered peonies—on peony leaves, on grass blades.

Before the peony—how jagged the rainpool!

All lily stamens quiver, ringing crystalline-clear.

Snow-white wind—the plantain unfurls its jewels, ah

Unfurling its jewels, the plantain renders the world serene.

Blue-green panicles—a sunshower chisels ridges through them.

A reclining watermelon—its designation: Zeppelin

Grass lice—even sleeves brushing past are haiku brethren.

Kyarafuki—how fiercely pungent at the temple—ah

New potatoes—already red ones mingle within.

To entertain—konpeito and wheat’s autumn harvest.

Wheat chaff—a crimson star departs the forest

New Bon Four Haiku

Dew chills—the potter wasp drones through multiple threads

Welcoming fires—silk trees bloom densely layer upon layer

My living soul—as if Father and Mother were present in reverence

Holy Spirit has taken eggplant form

Bush warbler—the Iroha syllabary guide's inner sanctum: Juzando

Notes on the Collection

From autumn of Taisho 12 to August of Showa 8—a full ten years—I gathered verses that had been recorded in Master Kyoshi’s *Hototogisu* miscellany.
From issue 332 to 445 of *Hototogisu*.

These ten years were for me like a single day in both good and bad senses—they passed as if there had been no days of respite from battling illness due to innate frailty, yet also as if dwelling in mountains without calendar reckoning. Thus I might say I was fortunate not to have had occasion to callously lose that initial fervor of resolve. But rather—might I not now at last establish true devotion to flower-and-bird poetry?

I did not prefer to arrange the works from this decade that passed like a single day in chronological order for various reasons.
I merely classified them by the four seasons, placing autumn at the beginning since I began in the autumn of the earthquake.

The number of poems in the collection was limited to three hundred.
That was because I loved that number for some unspoken reason.

Now, having received Master Kyoshi’s preface, I felt supremely happy.
I truly felt as happy as a boy.

September 12, Showa 9 (1934), morning

Kawabata Bousha

(October of Showa 9 [1934])