Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

It goes without saying that when this haiku collection is perused, my life will be revealed in each and every verse.

My haiku life up to this day divides itself into two—before and after my relocation to Toyama.
The life preceding my relocation to Toyama was one lived in Yokohama.
Why then do I refrain from calling it the Yokohama era?
To commemorate my relocation to Toyama—that great turning point which reshaped both my haiku practice and beyond—I have resolved to withhold written accounts of those Yokohama days for now, keeping them cherished within my heart.

The haiku from before my relocation to Toyama have been collected in the First Volume.
The Second Volume naturally contains haiku from after my relocation to Toyama.
To look upon the First Volume is to witness my frenzied figure—immature in both worldly arts and spiritual discipline—but let it not be said that the Second Volume contains verses from an era of thorough mastery in these realms.
Only that there are verses obtained by quietly, quietly dashing myself against the overwhelming force of nature, just as my heart desired.
It is not to boast of verses—merely to lay bare my heart.
I have gathered only those verses born in a realm where I had utterly forgotten the so-called worldly arts that seem to crave things, the spiritual discipline, and all such monk-like words.

We had been taught a universe.
In contrast to this, the path of art became a technique that seeks to create an entirely new universe.
The effort of small human beings seeking a new universe where they might stabilize their hearts and bodies was indeed the path of art fraught with troubles.
Groans, wails, the sound of flesh tearing, the crash of bones shattering—these were not omens seeking salvation.
These were the powerful voices of those immediately engaged in art.
These were cries of joy.

Why did certain people have to choose this Path of Asura?

The boy's heart first turned to textile arts. It was the allure of taking colors, applying them to people in this world, and beholding the result. His heart raced toward electrical studies—for he thought emerging science’s secret repository might yield to a mere button’s press. He tried to become one who wields a scalpel, believing life’s mysteries would unveil themselves at its tip. He even sought to devote himself to geology and topography, driven by a deep-seated attachment to Earth’s enduring surface history and manifold forms. He hunted fate’s hidden key within plant and animal cells. Captivated by English literature’s splendor, he tried drawing from philosophy’s cool spring. At times he stood ready to take the stage, seeking literature’s crystalline essence; he acquiesced to ancestral blood’s demands and answered the shamisen’s call. Under moonlight he strove to merge with its glow; in floral shadows he yearned to become blossom. This fickle soul grew so entranced that even the peril of abandoning his clinging rock—as abalone sought to mock him dead—faded from mind.

Along this broad wandering roadside, there had always lain open a lonely path to haiku. Passion and the weak heart that sought to suppress it ultimately compelled me to choose this snow-piled path of harsh cold. It was a lonely path. People too called it a lonely path. Yet what was sought found abundant gifts and love everywhere. Moreover, I possessed several beloved books, two old hemp mosquito nets spacious enough to accommodate my family, a small spring that provided clear water day and night, and one powerful German-made magnifying glass. Beyond these, there were many good friends around me, and embracing all of this existed the powerful nature of Etchū Province.

I believe I have arrived here.
Where is “here”? That is the very midst of a new universe.

Showa Year 5, August 13th—hearing reports of an approaching storm,

At the thatched cottage in Okuda Village

Maeda Fura

Until the Haiku Collection’s Publication

The first time the term *Fura Kushū* rang in my ears was when it slipped from the lips of Mr. Yamada Shūun in Kōfu over a decade ago.
At that time, Mr. Shūun had gone so far as to say, “I could undertake the editing myself,” but deeming it premature, I let the matter lie.
After moving to Etchū, I began hearing the phrase *Fura Kushū* repeatedly—from Mr. Yokotsume Kyorai of Yatsuo, Ms. Nakajima Kyōko of Tsubasa, and others.
I continued to dismiss these entreaties lightly, clinging to the notion that “the time will arrive naturally.”
When I resigned from my newspaper post last June, it struck me: “Now is the moment to publish the collection.”
The natural time had likely come—or so I believed—and I promptly notified three men: Mr. Shūun, Mr. Kyorai, and Mr. Sugimoto Kato of Yokohama.
From Mr. Shūun arrived six volumes of *Shia* and two of *Fura Kushō*.
From Mr. Kato too came *Fura Kushō*.
Mr. Kyorai fashioned these into foundational texts, supplementing them with excerpts from his personal library to compile *Draft Manuscripts of the Fura Kushū*.
At this juncture, seven volumes of *Kapitān* reached me from Mr. Kimura Seirei of Ōmori.
*Kapitān* proved invaluable for recovering my lost haiku drafts—works composed between Taishō 9 and 12 that had perished in the earthquake disaster.
Through these materials and early manuscripts salvaged during the quake, the Draft Manuscripts swelled significantly, at last forming the bedrock of *Fura Kushū*.

There was not a single verse he deemed fit to discard.
However, with the mindset of selecting others' verses, he completed the first selection of *Fura Kushū*.
With the same mindset, he conducted the second and third selections, and thus from twenty years of haiku life, this slender *Fura Kushū* was born.
He had Mr. Ebitani Shihō of Toyama correct the textual errors, made a clean copy, and submitted it to Master Takayama Kyoshi at the end of January this year.
Master Takayama Kyoshi, despite his busy schedule, accepted my request, and by June, the manuscript was returned to me.
From the manuscript, not a few verses where Master’s red ink had not been added were removed.
At the same time，several recent works were added.
This presumption must receive Master Kyoshi’s gracious forgiveness.

Both the first and second proofreadings underwent Mr. Yoshizawa Mugai’s rigorous corrections.
Furthermore, during the Hokumeikai poetry meetings, I collaborated with Mr. Funahira Bankō and Mr. Nakata Meika to correct errors in kana usage.
For the third proofreading, as Mr. Mugai had been dispatched deep into the Kurobe River gorge on official orders, I handled it alone.
The frontispiece “Yokohama Port” was indeed graciously contributed specifically for this haiku collection by Mr. Torimura this time, holding deep significance for this work.

The haiku collection was completed.
To Master Kyoshi first and foremost, to those who continually bestowed words of encouragement, and to those who compensated for my inadequacies, I expressed profound gratitude.

On the Same Day the Preface Could Be Written

Fura

**First Volume**

**Spring**

Masking one’s face—a February actor’s pose.

A teacher walks through February sunlight—

Early spring—braziers gathered in a single room—

Spring deepening—all birds sing above the clouds—

Herb garden—a buried conduit leaks in the hazy spring—

Three times cooked—the lingering day still stretches—great temple—

Spring departs—all mountains stretch toward Kai—

Pebbles too—simmered with small fish—spring rain

Spring snow—falling for a while—above the sea
Musashi-Kanazawa, a Certain Teahouse
Closed as if blinded by spring snow—
Snowmelt water thunders down the detached palace—
Snowmelt river carves the famous mountain’s echo—
The teahouse stirs—shrouding the snowmelt pine in smoke.

Crossing Nomidō Pass with Sergeant Major Chinryū

A warrior crosses spring mountains—a sword upon his shoulder.

The moon rises—a single spring field glistens.

Between heaven and earth—a grafting priest.

Grafting a tree—the eight million gods observe.

The solitary peak I envision—show your face as I tread upon the blue.

Cliff crumbling piecemeal in the ebb tide—

Rainwater runs through the gutter—sakura mochi.
Even the poet’s vomit fades with dusk—cherry blossoms.
The face that beheld blossoms is struck by darkness—
The flower lover returned and opened the night’s shoji.
Late-blooming flowers—the Omuro nuns in light clothing.
Camellias fall—the darkness of the house where I will die.

**Summer**

At the sacred spring, using soap—dawn arrived with ease.

Holding an umbrella, rowing through the harbor—May rain—

Summer mountains—a two-story woodcutter's inn—

Single-slope Fuji’s snowmelt—strong medicine for the horse—

The tide dark blue—people swam determined not to be swept away—

Misty rain cleared—pilgrims heading toward Fuji’s deepening hues—

Cutting sushi—host and five guests with mismatched plates—

Around sushi-making season—two or three replies declining attendance—

The enthusiast’s haori fluttered—ah, summer’s respite!

Made to splash water—the wife still lingered—

Water splashing—brightly revealed, the mute cicada—

Believers came—comforted and gone—the mosquito-fire inn—

Moonlight pierced—what had sunk and lingered—the submerged flower—

Boat excursion—plunged fully through the rapids—
Mosquito net hung—the woodcutter merges with mountain air—ah!
A molting bird climbed the high cliff—
To kill someone—not knowing if it's me—fireflies flit.
Water rails cry—a vagrant child sleeps at the inn—ah!
Young bamboo—wind and rain sweep through the back garden.

Sending someone off to Nasuno’s farthest edge—
As diseased leaves scatter—someone returns to the mountain home—ah!
Summer grasses struck and vanishing—the storm—ah!
Duckweed—the bottomless nourishing rain lay pooled.
Duckweed—discovering Ibuki as the rain ascended.
Sunflowers—fishermen played beneath the moon.

Unripe plums unpicked—rain on the wooden door.

**Autumn**

Early autumn chill—tofu startled by chili pepper

On a long night—someone criticized Jesus and returned home.

From the high peak descends a path—autumn sun.

Autumn day—a dark shelf gazes upon the food container.

Hurriedly, the bountiful catch has passed—autumn day.

The knee-buckled mussel too cries—Thirteenth Night—
Long-legged—one who sits through the Thirteenth Night—
From where does the moon pierce—there in the kudzu—ah!
A moonlit figure moves—the house at the river's mouth—
The mountain dweller's sneeze reaches the autumn clouds.
A small-sleeved kimono in the wicker trunk—do I recall it? The night of the autumn storm.
Not falling in the autumn wind—the lonely manure ladle.
Autumn rain—blindly awakened, I lingered.
Dew undried—a mountain teahouse remains at eleven.
Every piece of clothing hung out—the autumn mountain home.
In autumn mountains—students clamor over strength rice cakes.
Eyes rested at the hot spring—treasured in autumn mountains.
Murmuring autumn water falls—ah, the mountain cottage!
Autumn floodwater tried to dry—flowers red.

Autumn floodwater lingers high—a mirror—ah!

Autumn floodwater muddied—a stalwart man crosses—ah!

When the drum was hung, they were not at Akienken.

Without becoming a thief—passed by the insect gate—

No insects cry—

Falling one after another—sweetfish have become tree leaves.

Chrysanthemums cut—lips chapped as the peak stands tall—

Balloon flowers—a group of long-armed shrimp has passed.

A mountain temple’s study-chamber architecture—touch-me-not flowers.

Like people, two or three cockscombs stand tall.

A shower of tree nuts fallen—evening sun—ah.

Soaking up the sun—the persimmon’s quietude.

Mizuhiki—people drawn to the waterfall’s scar.

Kudzu leaves flip over without a sound.

Tumbling out, their bases all green—mandarins—ah!

**Winter**

November—sake has cooled; the viper catcher

Crimson—the bar soaked through—December’s rush—ah!

From the mountain’s edge—lights first lit—the cold sharpens—ah!

The Day I First Appeared Before Master Kyoshi

Washing joy’s face—water of deepest cold—

Coldness that conquered strife—here in the house—

Samurai’s chilled skin—the large moxibustion—

Alms-bell unheard—spring cannot be far

Fuji Foothills

Hawk flies—winter sun pervades Ryūgadake

Heavy thuds—tower snow falls in sunset

Farm tool market—deep snow trodden and hardened.

In wild snow—riding away, riding away—the travelers ah!

Snow hangs unfallen—school begins.

Winter mountain—hearing "Minobu," I awaken in the palanquin.

Kai Ananzaka

Winter mountain—ape-like in stance, selling sweets.

Day after day walking to catch shrimp—the withered field man

Winter sea—

One comes alone and lights the stove—Christmas—

In the interval of bells, wandering the garden—Christmas—

A great hand—sparks leaping from the hibachi—ah!

Kai Ashigawa Pass

Yatsugatake comes into view—joyful bonfire—ah!

Climbing to extinguish the mountain fire—the mandarin orange field—

Work socks made to leap—the lake’s depth—ah!
Ailing person’s tabi socks—worn pale.
Gulp after gulp of hot water grown familiar—winter seclusion.
New Year’s firewood steeped in wood’s fragrance—meal eaten.
Pounding the lake—a branch of New Year’s firewood remains uncut
Winter sparrow—slimming its body—fights on.
The saint’s obituary pierces the sea cucumber’s ear.
Fallen leaves—vines hang high and towering.
Shōjin Lakeside
Starry sky—over fallen leaves to Shōjin
Birds whose hues outshine loquat flowers at play—ah!

**New Year**

Lion dance—playful prints laid out to the desk’s edge
For the servants’ holiday—a dish of single sea bream—ah!
For the servants’ holiday—timeworn rice-flower charms hung
Soiling the lake ice—the year’s first procession—ah!

Second Volume

**Spring**

Second Month—a wagtail flips over the breakwater.

Ichi no Mountain—soot flows in the Second Month—ah!

Kōmyōji Main Hall Construction Work: Three Haiku

Moss-laden pine stretches sideways—February—

Carpenter—pissing into February’s water.

February fields—rustling passes through sand offerings.

March—sunlight on the magazine—ah!

Curl-backed leaf-flounder—Yayoi ends.

Beneath Orion—spring begins at the snow-clad inn.
Five snowfalls—Risshun comes to Daikichi House.
Risshun's dawn—the clock sounded.
Early spring—the pine stands uncut in the thicket.

Spring chill—snow in the garden covered with dust

**Yamabuki Mineral Spring**

Spring chill—two layers of bear pelt laid out.

Egg seller—spring’s coldness arrived.

Walked through lingering cold—two pocket warmers remaining.

Spring chill—a bear went through bamboo grass.

Laid up with a cold

A dream of glimpsing sweet bean soup twice—spring’s lingering chill.

Snow-laden Hida Province comes into view—spring evening.

Spring evening—the meal concluded—a tour group

Hanging a picture—the small house livens—spring evening

Hazy night—a farmer’s child plays the flute

Resoundingly—the sluice gate opens—hazy moon

Hazy—having come to drink water at the well’s edge

Tarnished yuzuriha leaves—spring clouds have settled

Spring haze—pigeons have alighted on the mountain path—ah!

Spring gloom—under Tateyama crouching

**Kaga-sama Highway**

How splendid! The firewood seller unloads a large load.

Departing spring—the mountain pond raises great waves.

**Stroll Around Himi Town**

Departing spring—viewing Fuse no Maruyama as I pass by.
Departing spring—the police box where birds build nests.
Spring light—withered brambles cling to a stone.

Oyabe River

Spring light drives into the rapids' head—ah!

A single shaft of spring sunlight pierces through cedar flowers—ah!

In the vast sky—a spring moon—shadows of trees.

Wind arises—the spring moon has yet to tilt.
Fertilizer spread—terraced fields tranquil under the spring moon.
Spring moon—two monks singing noh chants.
Spring moon—eaves crisscrossing the manure shed.

Jōrenji Haiku Meeting Ends as Night Falls

By sea and mountains—spring stars appear, how dark it is.

Fukuno Town: Hankian

Drenching a solitary chinquapin tree—spring rain.

Spring rain—a snail inches up the garden stone.

Through light snow—the train arrives and stays.

Spring snow—gathered in thickets, gleaming.

Spring thunder—leopard lily buds burst on roof tiles.

To Sōkyū-kun

Like spring snow melting, I graduate.

Snowmelt—Myōkō and Togakushi vie in towering.

Snowmelt wind—striking the door at dawn.

Spring mud—the evening paper flies without touching ground.

Voices aboard the boat—ah, the spring sea.

Passing Through Oya-shirazu

Spring sea—approaching dusk’s deep green.

Spring field—a monk sweeps out dust—ah!

Infant feet fumbling find the spring kotatsu

The substitute has arrived in the spacious kitchen—ah!

The wickerwork umbrella removed—the substitute arrived.

My child and I—life’s preciousness—second-day moxibustion.

Daily comings and goings—only darkness.

Spring sleep struck by spring hail—spring storm.

Clay dolls exist—yet no agito clamor! Ah!

A kitchen knife to cut sweets comes before the dolls.

Hanging rice cakes reach the tatami—the dolls’ dwelling.

Entering Kyoraian; Tatsuo-kun raises silkworms in the tokonoma.

The silkworms sleep soundly; a large cloth drapes over them.

Hanging Furakoko to play—ah, the sacred grove.

Playing on the swing awhile—ah, a small merchant.

Daima—the grass gate where they’ve come around again.

Near the graves of distant ancestors—the soil lies tilled.

Hearth sealed—a pussy willow branch tossed in.

Sealing the hearth, not laying out bedding—the night watchman.

Sealing the hearth—someone strolled leisurely past a hedge of cuttings.

Vivid green—the cuttings’ scraps were swept away.

A spadeful of field soil stolen by cuttings—ah!

With mouths shut, seed sacks piled high—

Sowing seeds—the fire watchtower’s ladder reflected in water.

Seed sacks opened wide their mouths—heat haze descended.

Morimizu-rō attended the Take no Mon memorial service.

Just two small haiku collections—spring lamplight.

Frogs crying out—dawn draws near—ah!

Within the temple grounds, they dropped droppings and sang.

A holly branch swayed as they sang.

Loudly sang the bush warblers in the cedar forest.

Paperbush—all bowing their heads in full bloom.

Doin-an

Roadside—a garden without a fence—yellow narcissus

Narrow path—plow horse’s rump—violets in bloom.

Kite and crow battle and plummet—deep yellow kerria.

Kōshū-Shinshū Provincial Border

Koma Hōō, Yamabuki—cloudiness continues.

Remnant blossoms scatter—someone ails at the police box—ah!

Vines entwined, together they bud—mountain cherry.

Under the eaves—a midday bath being prepared—plum blossoms.

Searching for plum blossoms—startling a chicken as I pass by.

Tree buds firm—boundless haze—a person departs.

Electric light in the main hall—bamboo’s autumn.

Pussy willow—morning’s post has arrived.

The house crumbles—dust ascends—ah, pussy willow.

A white camellia blooming visible—deep in the bamboo.

In the bamboo grove—the voice of someone breaking a camellia.

Evening—the hand of someone breaking camellias comes into view.

The white core of the camellia flows away—ah.

In the great wind, blossoms are hidden—ah, the camellia.

A boat passed—beneath camellias—the swift current ah!

Summer

Corn poppies bend incessantly as dawn breaks.

Courtesan House

Dawn’s approach—people coming and going through the hemp curtain.

In the dead of night, I entered Yōtarō Residence in Noto Wajima Town.

All travelers removed their hakama—dawn broke early.

Dawn broke early—clouds swirled in vortices over Komagatake.

Fresh green wind—master and servant grew weary of barley rice.

Behind the great temple—brightness—the rainy season began.

Rainy season wind—a clouded goldfish bowl hung suspended.

Reed warblers—cuckoos—flew through the rainy season wind.

All day long echoed the sound of tree-cutting—rainy season mountain.

The rainy season sea quietly wet the rocks—ah!

Rainy season break—cormorants crossed at Wajimazaki Cape.

Yakushi Tateyama had been visible for a while—the rainy season began.

Dripping—yet I remained dry—the rainy season pine

Rainy season river—a single reed has bent.

Shirōkyo

Two persimmon trees at the gate—the rainy season clamors.

A butterfly arrives—in a rainy season lull—the five-needle pine.

The evening shower strikes the water chestnut harvest’s surface—ah!

Midday sun—at the gate, striking the goldbeater’s block.

Parting

Tears flow down a person’s face—May darkness.

The whitening dawn—shadows deepen under drought clouds.

Morning and evening—eating melons and pickles—in drought.

Summer mountains—suspending a bridge, entering Hida.

Wearing a yukata—obi tied high—the frail one.

Fruit juice splashed—ah, the yukata.

To the Master

Through sheer silk, flesh reveals itself—such dignity!

The festival had passed—the sound of sawing wood from next door.

At the sage’s grave—a summer hat.

The sushi weight sat at the very edge—ah.

Devouring barley rice messily—ah, the coolness.

Tateyama loomed over the town—sprinkling water.

Under the pine tree—the gardener arrived—awakening from a nap.

A mosquito fell—the joyful sound of an oiled mat—ah!
Roasted barley flour blown away—ah, the tatami mat!
The summer hibachi loomed larger than knees!
Shading—a small house sank into green rice paddies—ah!
A sunshade larger than a boat—they rowed it onward!
Since yesterday they set up sunshades at the agricultural school!
Moonlight shone—a submerged flower lay sunken!
The evening primrose wilted at the gate—returned home!
The green child’s eyes opened—rice-planting clouds!
Rice field festival—dusting flea powder—small-scale farmers!
Box-like garden clogs—there in the summer tatami room!
Cedar chopsticks stained—what could it be? Summer cuisine!
Solitude—a single thick soup! Summer cuisine!
Summer cuisine—hohoke and bōfū sliced into arcs!

The oil cicada moved to the magnolia—did not sing.
The caterpillars on the church’s cherry tree were burned.

Sweeping beautiful caterpillars—the mountain temple.

Burning caterpillars—someone visible in the garden’s depths.

Hōnenji

Caterpillars dwell—the bamboo handrail of the temporary main hall.

Leaving the town—all with loud voices—firefly hunting!

Gifting Ayu

Two or three ayu leap—your riverside, ah.

The tree frog bends a wisteria bud—down it drops.

Enduring the lingering heat.

The snake’s garment was shed at Okuda’s inn.

Etchū Sasazu

Nemunoki blooming—from here, Hida’s horse-dung path.

Bamboo shoot tips appear—ah, the young leaves.

Paulownia in bloom—layered and overturned, ichii hats.

A Certain Temple’s Priest’s Quarters

With staff in hand—thorns in full bloom—ah!
Withered leaves—on stones and ground just like last year's.
Eating watermelon—pitter-patter of spat-out seeds—ah.
Someone present—kudzu leaves unstirred—tree-shade gloom.
Nothing but white blooms—hollyhocks standing tall—ah!
Blooming fully—crimson prevails—the hollyhock.

Faded to blue—hollyhock buds remain—ah!
White hollyhocks began to bloom in the heavy rain—ah!
Poppy heads filled with rain—spilled over.

The blooming has ceased—the poppies are battered by rain.

White poppy flowers—higher than them, the poppy heads.

Autumn

Autumn morning—a spider spins its web on the fertilizer ladle.

A slight chill—there sits a petite hidden wife.

Flowers replaced, books restacked—the night turns cold.

Clouds dyed in shifting hues—the 210th day, ah.

Showa Enthronement Ceremony

Passing autumn—they climb the Celebration Gate

One sports festival after another—autumn departs.

Autumn departed—swept beneath the neighbor’s window.

In the vast sky spanned a spider’s web—moonlit night!

Pale approached the veranda—the waning moon.

The withered pine’s crown whitened—moonlit night.

A few figures parted among trees—moonlit night.

Moonlight bathed mountains veiled in clouds.

Ushidake’s peak spewed endless clouds—moonlit night!

Taro leaves refused their faces to the moon.

Kanazawa: Moon-Viewing at Kōganji Temple

Noto locals mingled—four or five—in moonlight.

Autumn wind warmed one flank of the sacred pine.

Schoolchildren pressed against streaming mist.

Autumn mist shed its droplets—sky cleared.

Autumn rain—a lamp-offering on the threshold.

Autumn rain—kudzu has crawled out in the divine garden.

In the heavy dew, the field deity stood drenched.

A dog larger than my child walks through the dew-drenched field.

Evening View from the Garden

Tokyo’s train arrives—joyful—dew on rice plants.

Meeting and clearing—autumn water.

One who came to the withered field—their ring glimmered.

Opening one door—the comings and goings of Shiki Memorial Day—ah!

Hetchima Memorial—this month someone departs the Old Hermitage.

Clustered densely—chestnut burrs pierce the Segaki offering shelf.

In the moonlit sky—the set-piece fireworks fade away—ah!

In the pocket—the deep indigo scent of autumn lined garments.

How modest—the knees of autumn lined garments.

The district head came and walked—the downstream fish weir.

The water's force came crashing through—weir dismantled by stone pounding.
Endlessly collapsing fish trap beneath third-night moon.

A Certain Moon Hermitage: One-Night Stay

Facing this way, Kyorai sleeps beneath the autumn mosquito net.

The crimson cords still gleam—the farewell mosquito-net.

Tateyama’s first snow falls—harvesting rice.

Outcried, it takes form—the decoy, ah!

The toilet is far—that clam’s high-pitched tone.

Insects chirp—temple gates face each other.

Convinced no insects would come—reading, ah!

Colorful bird—subsidiary shrines line the pines.

Returning, all faces alike—autumn bees.

Rice racks set—Hida won’t hide migratory birds.

Plucked chrysanthemums—fragrant dish, ah!

Gathered and placed on tatami—Tamba chestnut.

Crimson leaves snap—echoes rebound from Mirror Stone—ah!

A downpour beats knotweed flowers in full bloom—ah!

Red spider lilies on a moonless night—trampled by visitors!

Hastily added and reddening at once—chili peppers!

A cluster of dayflowers reflected—Oyabe River.

Among autumn plants—tall myoga flowers.

Winter

Travelers eat fine soba—December.

Winter solstice bath’s smoke rises—inside the house.

Early winter’s grubby reading fan—ah!

By the roadside, wild ducks descend as the year draws to a close.

Wind-Chanting Grotto

The year departing—an ear pick glistened in the inkstone box.

Awaiting spring—the merchant cherished his dog.

Snow-broken yet dwelling close—spring’s neighbor, ah!

A single snowstorm has become spring’s next door—ah!
Winter clouds—the manure cart passes daily.

Going to the Kanazawa Hōenji Haiku Meeting

Crossing Tonami—this turbulent rush—how many showers?

At my hut—the shower drenched the guest—ah!

A shower falls—water flows through bamboo grove

A shower falls—the electric lamp lights the pulley well

Clearing snow—climbed until Noto came into view

The Kōya maki shed snow from its crown

Snow melts—my house absent in sunset’s glow

Winter mountains—paths converge into one plain

Winter mountains—the horse spreads straw purely

Ten-sen business conducted—winter mountain house

At the school—winter mountain path’s single bend

In the valley—no suspension bridge hung—winter mountain

Commoners’ graves cluster—the withered field—ah!

It is not a cow—Futagamiyama lies sleeping.

The orchard gate closed—the mountain sleeps.

Entering Tai-Anbō

A low fence—Iō of Tonami sleeps, ah!

Emerging behind Atago Shrine—the mountain sleeps.
Wind struck—leaving my home to enter camp.
A pebble still soaked with coal dust—ah!

The year-end party with no latecomers began.

An old cloth garment—never folded as if new.

Holding a hand candle, cutting dried salmon—two or three pieces.

The mountain deity's coming-and-going doorway—a snow enclosure.
Morning and evening dreaming of wealth—this coldness, ah!
Folding fine robes—cold remedy in the sleeve.

Passed by the winter-secluded women and children’s single room.

Making kudzu starch tea—spoons wanting at the hot spring inn—ah!

Wind subsides, moon emerges—kudzu starch tea—ah!

Shigure Memorial Day—someone dwells at the window’s light—ah!

Bashō Memorial Day—all haikai countenances.

The Nirvana—unyielding eyelids under snowlight.

A winter fly emerges and lands on someone.

A winter crucian carp is lifted up—the water’s surface—ah!

Among winter crucian carp—a solemn long-armed shrimp.

Winter crucian carp—the water drawn and replaced grows clear.

In the bamboo thicket—scattered and gone—the winter camellia.

At Withered Tree Lodging—the fruits of trifoliate orange come into view.

Parasitic tree and birdcage not hung—Withered Tree Lodging.

Shoulders emerging—daikon green under shower clouds.

Toyama City Center

While still in soil—the daikon remain unharvested—the snow approaches

Winter desolation—water pooled in the temple garden

New Year

At the snowy door—how long will I lie abed? The Honorable New Year.

Waiting for someone

From behind—the first snow falls on the night town.

The sky darkens—seven-herb rice porridge simmers.

People’s Day—the Grimm tales read on and on

When snow is shoveled—immediately seen, the visitor ah!

(Published September 1930)