Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

The sound of rain came to engulf the insects’ abode.

The author was quietly listening to the sound of insects.
Then rain began to fall.
The rain struck the garden trees, making a faint sound.
It was interesting to consider how the author’s mind had worked from such facts to arrive at this verse.
When speaking of its workings, it was not that one formulated an idea.
Quietly savoring that moment’s scene and pondering what words might express its feeling, he finally crafted the phrase *“kamusari ni keri,”* revealing his state of mind as relief settled at last.
The phrase *“kamusari ni keri”* was a skillful expression that adeptly captured the rain’s arrival.
When stated thus, that occasion’s feeling stood depicted without residue.
One could say he was skillful at finding words, but one could also say his sensitivity was sharp.
The two were said to be one and not two.

Fox fires have dwindled to mere embers.

While I naturally acknowledged the technical skill in Takashi-kun’s recent verses of sketching from life，I thought the words he employed in that sketching seemed to occupy a higher plane than those of ordinary people.
To put it differently，I considered them poetic.
Therefore，while being verses of sketching from life，they came across as highly imbued with fantasy.
This verse，too，spoke of how fox fires had now dwindled entirely，but by emphasizing not the verb “dwindle” but rather the noun phrase “dwindling fires，”it achieved a remarkably skillful effect.
In addition，there were many verses—such as *“The almanac seller’s ancient words grow tedious”* and *“A great tree bearing crimson leaves only to the south”*—that demonstrated extraordinary intensity through their diction and structure.
I believed this point had to be specially noted.

A dead tree appears red, then blue.

A dead tree is ordinarily of a dead tree’s hue—ten out of ten people would not question its color—yet this author saw that dead tree’s color as both red and blue.
To put it harshly, it could be called neurasthenic.
To put it well, it could be called the mind of a poet that differs from ordinary people.
But be that as it may, the fact that it appeared both red and blue is the truth for this author.
It was not an exaggeration.
Nor was it a lie.
The reason we, upon reading this verse, come to feel *Ah, so that’s how it can appear* and find ourselves able to sympathize with pleasantness lies in the fact that the author boldly stated the truth.
After reading this verse and looking at an actual dead tree, one might even feel as though the phenomenon of it appearing both red and blue has indeed come to pass.
That is the power of this verse.

A round fan, handle upright, comes blowing in.

This author’s health would particularly deteriorate from early spring through summer, leaving him alternating between lying down and sitting up in his sickbed; yet the vitality within could not be fully contained by his frail body.
Though he could not roam lofty mountains or vast wildernesses—finding interest only in the trifles of his sickbed—I believe that his youthful vigor nonetheless naturally manifested itself in verses such as these.
Though they were trivial matters, one recognized great power there.

The moon above my abode merely passes through the bamboo grove’s sky.

Before Takashi-kun’s house flowed the Namekawa River. Along its banks too there was a bamboo grove, and moreover, the mountain that lay before it was entirely covered with bamboo groves. It could be said that the scenery of Takashi-an was perpetually tinged by this bamboo grove. In spring, what is called bamboo’s autumn, they yellowed and withered; in autumn, what is called bamboo’s spring, they grew lush and verdant. When spring rains fell, when early summer rains came, when autumn rains lingered, and when snow descended, their entire visage transformed completely. Days without wind and days when it blew differed even more in their atmosphere.

This was a digression, but Takashi-kun, situated before such a bamboo grove, spent his days and evenings intimately with this bamboo grove; on moonlit nights, he ceaselessly observed the moon emerging from the eastern mountains, passing through the grove’s sky, and shifting westward—thus this verse came to be. The moon merely traversed the bamboo grove’s expanse. There was neither anything notable in the surroundings nor anything disturbing Takashi-kun’s mind; he simply gazed quietly at the moon traversing westward. That moon could not be thought of as another’s; it felt as though it were the moon of his own abode—so one might say. The state of mind of Takashi-kun, who resided in a quiet and solitary life, was revealed.

The buds loosen and unfurl; morning in bed.

The fact that he had been intimately acquainted with buds in his daily life formed the powerful foundation of this verse’s backdrop.
No sooner did the buds emerge than they unfurled in an instant—truly, there was a sense of creation’s bustling work.
He thoroughly observed and understood such things.
Yet the ailing author was prone to sleeping in.
While he slept in, he said, the garden buds ceaselessly unfurled without pause.
Many of Takashi-kun’s verses were born from deep observation of things, with his subjectivity serving as their foundation.
A verse such as this could also be said to be one of them.

At the time of the Shōwa 5 Haikai Nohkai, I saw Takashi-kun’s Noh dance after a long interval; during the following year’s Haikai Nohkai, I heard a single rhythm of his drum.
Also, during this period at a certain mansion, I again watched the dance and heard a rhythm.
This was something I felt each time: in both his dance and that single rhythm, one could not overlook a strong artistic sensibility akin to what one sees in Takashi-kun’s haiku.
Takashi-kun was born into a distinguished family of Noh performers, and though it must have been deeply regrettable that his health did not permit him to inherit his ancestors’ vocation, I consider it at least some consolation for him that his artistry—even if not fully expressible through dance or drumming—found adequate manifestation in haiku.

(From the words of the *Hototogisu* Haiku Evaluation Meeting)

November 1935

Takahama Kyoshi

Spring

Ornamental kale’s fiery clusters dimmed—February’s end.

Circled through an early spring peony field

A rock shelter set with lattice doors—spring’s chill

Spring’s chill—
cherry blossom clams nestled
within their shells

Long-used cane in hand—
spring stirs to life

Tadpoles born—
the equinox still slumbers

Climbing the back mountain—
lingering daylight clings

How splendid—
all the pond ducks busy
at their work

Wisteria planted—
will they take root?
serene eaves regardless

Regret for spring—
even as I board and gaze
at the river steamer

On the grassy embankment—
sitting, crumbling earth
as spring slips away

Walking and resting—
each pause a lament
for spring’s departure

Peach huts, pear huts—
spring draws to its close

The clamorous wind blows—
I lament this spring

Digging wild rocambole—
pungent scent heralds
spring’s final days

Departing spring—
a single peony cherry tree
stands alone

Sitting down, then lying as I was—spring on the veranda.

At the residence in Yama Kaeru Mura, Sugano Village

Weaving split bamboo,
laying it down—
spring in the garden

Spring grass—
light swells
in the dove’s breast

Unconfined by spring rain—
that too
is well

If I wait a little,
this spring rain
will likely cease

In Kamakura, spring snow piles up—one night, ah.

The great Buddha bows its head—a spring day, ah.

Eyes closed, facing the spring day.

By the hearth, the spring sun streams in—so it has come to be.

To the Sunday person—mayflies have begun to emerge.

Hayama Suichikukyo Villa

A haiku gathering concludes at the mountain villa—evening haze.

Bare trees too begin to haze—thicket tassels, ah.

Deceived, I came a long way—spring haze.

Spring thunder—plink plink, camellias fall.

Roof after roof in snowmelt weather—smoke rises.

Camellia falls on lingering snow—Valley Temple.

Scattered snow remains near withered chrysanthemums.

Came to discard trash—stepped; water warms.

Old reeds motionless—water warms.

Abundant seedling-bed water at the gate’s edge.

The heart that came to see the seedling beds—how beautiful.

A memorial for needles fading away unnoticed…

First Horse Day Festival—red bean rice served on trays.

Plum branches block the paper lamp—First Horse Day Festival.

As she marries—cared for the parting dolls.

Serving hands lack a flute—the old dolls.

Aged brushstrokes on discarded drafts—the Hina dolls turn cold.

In Father’s room—the painted Hina dolls he drew.

The fine Hina dolls—few in number—have been displayed.

Incense smoke rises straight—the Nirvana statue.

Beneath the ladle—small and sorrowful—the Amacha Buddha.

Peering in—a ladle not dipped into the flower hall.

Saigyō’s memorial—I have no mind for renunciation.

Entering haiku, I have forgotten poetry—Saigyō’s memorial.

My camellia pained by snow—Sanetomo’s memorial.

Selecting mountain camellias and bringing them—Sanetomo’s memorial.

Myōhon-ji

At the grand temple complex, thatch for roof repairs hung suspended.

Flowing while shifting hues—soap bubbles.

Treading through spring verdure—the field keeper's mirror—might this be it?

Two figures here, an air of estrangement as they gather water dropwort.

Lady Aoi paid a visit.

Picking water dropwort; burning grass—and you arrived.

No one reproached my daily morning slumber.

The buds of all things loosening and loosening—morning slumber, ah.

Spring lights lined the corridor; no one came.

Kōotsukyo

Barley-treading too—one of the hermitage’s views, ah.

The reed bed burned clear—water splashes splash.

Step on the burnt reed bed, and water gushes forth.

With a clatter—bleached white—the red noren.
Kyoto dialect, Osaka dialect—thick white sake.
A lovelorn cat—pulling a deep crimson cord.
I prostrated at Insects’ Awakening; gazed up at birdsong.
The white-eye’s nest—I alone knew it; I told no others.
The front mountain—when the first song sounded, how distant.

The sky so blue—should I not release my skylark?

Two baskets on the ground; a skylark in the sky.

The garden’s tadpole water as blossom time nears.

People coming and going—frogs in the moonlit night’s pleasure quarter path.

The striking cane’s silver grows warm—butterflies, ah.

The first butterfly glimpsed—a moment’s fleeting sorrow, ah.

In the vast sky—searching for the droning horsefly.

Rolled and rolled again—the mud snail, ah.

The mud snail’s shadow lengthens bit by bit.

Seething, the land of mud snails does not calm.

Snails on stakes scatter and fall in the evening sun—how fleeting.

The traces of receding waves—how beautiful—the sakura shells.

Two or three layers piled thin—sakura shells.

A wisp of sandal dust—weather fit for plums.

At Yoshino Plum Grove in Ōme

The crests of sake storehouses—each and every one—in the plum village.

A solitary late breakfast—plum-worthy weather.

In the plum tree—in the red plum tree—the variegation, ah.

Red plum blossoms—large yet scarce.

Plum blossoms fallen on the ground—like shells.

Walked alongside camellias borne downstream.

Fallen camellias shattered and swept away—torrential rain, ah.

If one more camellia falls—I shall depart.

His wife passes by again—the wild camellia.

The wind presses to halt the camellia borne downstream.

If it halts—the camellia borne close—ah.

In dappled light—the camellia nods without cease—ah.

The southern sea surges—Camellia Mountain.

From the camellia with dead vines blown clean through

A wounded camellia does not roll upon snow.

A camellia—wounded many times by snow—blooms.

Frozen snow clings fast—there it stays—the flowering camellia

Having gazed upward—circling begins above the camellia

White pistils—evening has fallen—the dropped camellia

A camellia falls; pollen drifts across water—ah.

When wind blows—the flowing camellia spins round.

Withered vines left uncovered—the mountain camellia.
A camellia bloomed—never once covered by snow.
The belated snow had lingered then came all at once—the camellia.
Old snow’s frozen surface—a fallen camellia.
Snowflakes came to rest—there a red camellia.
A Japanese white-eye came shaking jeweled dewdrops from camellias.
Back and forth Japanese white-eyes frolicked between twin camellias.
Bamboo lay prostrate damming fallen camellias.
A camellia struck snow circling rapids’ stones.
Snowmelt revealed fallen camellias aligned in rows.
Snowmelt nodded insistently—the camellia.
Water scum and camellias blew apart.
Peach and cherry blossoms at my dwelling lagged behind.

Ichikawa

Wide and spreading—a peach orchard amidst pines.

In the peach grove, firewood is piled—I sit down.

The pear trellis—even its sprung branches burst into full bloom.

A single pear tree in bloom—trellis-making.

Crossing mountains to Izu I’ve come—flowering apricot.

Magnolia petals lie broken by the wind.

In the vast sky, the kobus magnolia spreads its buds—ah.

Sickbed repose

If I raise my gaze—cherry blossoms appear on the opposite mountain.

Drooping flowers—on buds, jeweled drops of rain.

Lingering cherry blossoms—the imperial villa His Majesty has graciously forsaken.

Having reached Kyoshi-an, I sat down—flower-weariness.
A blizzard rages—someone stretches both hands toward the flower.

Botanical garden

The florists displayed all their blooms and closed the garden.

A lone trail of wind carrying fallen blossoms lingered long.

Amidst flowers with interlaced leaves they played—a pallid sunny day.

When you wander Kisaragi's mountains—cedar blossoms.

Cedar blossoms spill over and float upon the tsukubai.

Forsythia branches—few in number—intertwined.

Under the ripples, a forsythia is reflected.

Myōhon-ji Hōrin’s Great Chinese Quince – Two Verses

Chinese quince petals are falling inside the fence.

To see the Chinese quince, people come in a steady trickle—never ceasing.

The flowers having passed—kerria blooms in the tree shade, ah.

Looking at the kerria—buds swelling; a garden bonfire.

Into the kerria’s shade, a butterfly crawled.

They dig shidomi with all their might while laughing.

No matter how they dig, the shidomi roots won’t yield—ah, mountain spring!

If the daphne’s scent grows strong, perhaps it will rain.

The crescent moon loomed large—daphne flowers.

Stopping to stand on the stone bridge—viewing azaleas.

Suddenly, the wind surged forth—the willow tree, ah.

Umbrella drips have ceased unnoticed—ah, the tree buds.

Illness

The wind through moonlit rapeseed flowers—how nostalgic.

Rapeseed flowers reflected on the train ceiling.

Dandelions blooming resolutely on the lawn.

A dandelion's large flower under hazy skies.

Dandelions—like jewels spanning heaven.

When dandelions close, the weather shifts.

All with sorrel in their mouths picking herbs.

A face holding sorrel looks this way.

Afternoon—flowers start closing: bird's-eye speedwell.

Bansuiken

Spring orchids—furnishings with a Chinese air, ah.

Weary from blooming, they’ve prostrated themselves—yellow daffodils.

Sprouts emerge below—the day I began to think of them, ah.

A self that briefly returns to the hometown—sprouts emerge below.

A mask placed on the sickbed; sprouts emerge below.

In the garden of emerging sprouts—nursing at the camp stool.

In the hollow of a rotten stake, grass sprouts.

First to sprout—outside the flowerbed, mere soil.

Sprouts emerge and point to the midheaven.

As darkness falls, peering at sprouts while walking.

Sprouts emerge—the long cold forgotten.

Spilled and left untouched—poppies sprout in abundance.

Autumn grasses—each sprout persists autonomously.

Numerous sprouts—high and low, each by nature.

Sprouts—the day grows ever more radiant, ah.

Aster sprouts dim; licorice sprouts bright.

Sprouts' old leaves blown away—ah, such a day it was.

Strolling through Hyakkaen with Musashino Women’s University Students

Sprouts at play as graduation nears—ah.

In snow-swollen peony buds—Valley Temple.

Poppy sprouts—evening momentarily brightens.

Bracken sprouts—

A fishing rod glints and glints—water plants grow.

Streams of watercress flanking Keshōzaka—

Murmuring flows, swaying stems—watercress has grown.

Nori boats among pines—Kai’an Temple.

Nori-laden brushwood piece—left to waves’ keeping.

Summer

Summer arrives—the Namegawa River pierces through its depths.

Accustomed to leaning, the pillar for composing haiku—autumn night.

Removing tabi socks and hakama trousers—how cool it feels.

Meeting Oshima and Hisashi at last—the rainy season clears.

Blooming ascent—a day of cleared rains, hollyhock flowers.

Distant thunder—

Guideposts alone bear tidings through summer fields—ah.

The equestrian troupe from a Spirit-Inviting Festival long past—ah.

The banner’s tail hangs visible beneath evening eaves.

Grand lanterns held aloft—festival people.

Where moonlit festival music lingers—the ritual moon.

Wild ones too—the mikoshi shrine pants.

Summer visitors linger—the diver’s gate fire—ah.

Watching the dance while resting from its fatigue—

To dance, they donned cheek-covering headgear upside-down—

The moon of this fleeting world—a dance directly above—ah.

Passing shower—danced straight through to clear skies.

I saw Mr. Nakanori’s Kiso dance.

In the mountains, the Kiso dance too came to an end.

Only sparse Gifu lanterns among autumn grass.

Swimmers—like beasts, so vigorous.

His festival entertainer at the fireworks viewing had aged—ah.

Having returned from viewing Lake Haruna—a single nap

The long corridor of the hot spring inn during nap time

Walnuts visible—lying about at the summer retreat.

Two at a time tossed out—rice seedling bundles.

Rice seedling bundles thrown—the valley echoes.

Rice seedling bundles pressed against knees—thudded.

Illness

Summer fatigue—unable to conceal it, has left me haggard.

Cholera breaks out—the Tsukuda Festival too has ended.

Sweating—day after day passed without illness.

A sweat-soaked body has made contact—

A summer kimono half-removed—Obashima beneath the moon.

Gauze worn gently, not collapsing.

Taken out and worn—old sheer silk, ah.

A shadow flees far away beneath the sand parasol.

Beneath the sand parasol fluttering noisily, there it lies.

Beneath the sand parasol—a small dog lies curled up, nothing more.

The clock clangs—summer villa.

Small hand drum practice finished—sitting idly.

The green of a whole summer faded—reed screen, ah.

Obashima darting into hiding—blue reed screen

Hair washed and dried—the evening primrose opens

Hair washed and dried—lightness; evening primrose

Wind chimes—the evening mood shifts residence

Wind chimes—swift chiming begins where they hang

Immediately in front—a wall blocks the water iris.

Mosquito-repellent fire—
the evening glow cools
Awaji Island.

The spiral’s scant remains—
mosquito-repellent incense.

A round fan—handle upright—
comes blown flying—ah!

Picked up the round fan from the engawa
and stepped down—

A sun-shaded boat—
a fan-wielding figure comes into view—

A handkerchief’s stark white—
and there—a man—

Stark white handkerchief—
and there—an old gentleman—

A summer zabuton about to fall—
edge of the veranda—

A round cushion thrown down—
veranda’s edge—ah!

Eating ice while straddling
the second-floor railing—

Goldfish’s large scales—
like the sunset sky they appear—

Firefly cages—flying lights, falling lights—
how lively!

Spilling gold dust—the fire moths’ relentless onslaught.

Rain on lingering blossoms—a drum atop the futon, ah.

Paulownia flowers scatter and spread—the temple quiet, ah.

Paulownia flowers scatter and spread—left unswept as they are.

Crape myrtle petals spill onto the stone pavement leading to the priest’s quarters.

Ego blossoms cling—the spider’s thread unseen.

To the angler, even the falling ego blossoms have ceased—I wonder.

Enveloped in the rain’s sound, young leaves walk—ah.

Fallen persimmon leaves—how strikingly they shine.

In the dim light, a butterfly plays—how long it lingers.

The snowbell’s green shade—pleasant; watching tennis.

Over the roof—a fruit-bearing plum tree comes into view; sitting idly by, ah.

Summer bush clover’s meager flowers—how clearly they shine.

The peony flowers appear as if haloed.

Peonies in deep bloom—soot settles upon them—ah.

A curtain like night hangs over the peonies—ah.

The peony leaves rise and unfurl as they open.

The weight of the curtain draped over the peonies—ah.

On flowers, on leaves—pollen drifts; peonies—ah.

The courtyard unswept yet dustless—peonies—ah.

The remaining peony blossoms—a memorial service—ah.

From both sides, herbaceous peonies bow down—the rain-soaked path.

From Kadogawa, some of the wild roses send their fragrance here—

At Lake Haruna

Grass irises—had the teahouse man dig them up.

A field of shaga irises rustling in filtered sunlight—ah.

The garden hill—firewood piled amidst shaga blossoms.

Stepping into the garden for supper—evening primrose.

The hydrangea's great clusters—all have faded away.

This year's double rainy season—hydrangea flowers.

The sunflower’s leaves burned pitch black—
Sunflowers—sword-like rails—ah.
Licorice—yesterday’s flowers withering together.

A lotus leaf flipped over—scooping water with a splash.

Under the bridge clung a broad lotus leaf.

A turtle lingered awhile—paw resting on water lily leaves.

Dimly like bubbles—the crow melon bloomed.

Green ivy crept—darkening beneath the eaves.

How small were the leaves at the ivy’s vine tips.

This summer’s sweetest watermelon.

Something colder than watermelon rises.

A fly on the traveler’s back—harvest-time wheat.

Harvest-time wheat—a quiet retreat in Fujisawa—ah.

Ears of wheat pierce my hand—I come through them.

A turtle starts to climb onto duckweed—and stops.

Pine greens plucked and cast upon duckweed.

Autumn

Broad lotus leaves, broad banana leaves—
this autumn morning too.

From within the mosquito net—
gazing at the thicket—this autumn morning.

The talk of gourds' growth—lingering summer heat, ah.

The long night—shadows of eyebrows on dimmed eyelids
After the haiku gathering—lingered through the long night, ah
Briskly cast off—the left sleeve—ah

Tomojirō-kun's Room

Autumn deepens—cockscomb leaves reflected in the piano.

Myōhōnji Temple: Two Haiku

Wood assembled—a bell hung provisionally—autumn.

Step by step, step by step—autumn in the hall.

Occasional figures in the small park—autumn’s people.

The room where the coal scuttle had been out—autumn rain.

Wet by autumn rain—the boatman’s sullenness.

Autumn sky—slowing my steps as I enter the garden.

Autumn sky—insects humming thickly in the valley.

Autumn sky—yellow flowers on the loofah fence.

Autumn sky clears—loofah flowers rounded into form.

Under autumn sky—forgot my cane somewhere.

Clattering dryly—chipped wind chime and autumn wind.

Sugimoto Temple—deep gloom of autumn wind.

Autumn wind wrings the great eucalyptus tree.

From outer surfaces—smoke creeps inward with autumn wind.

Bon moon fades—lantern stands where it vanished.

Path winding round hermitage—awaiting moon.

As clouds depart—moon’s pace slackens gradually.

The moonlit staff was borne away.

The moon passed through the bamboo grove’s sky—the fourteenth night.

Through the bamboo grove’s sky—the inn’s moon did nothing but pass.

Evening moon—still the kamatsuka’s crimson faintly glowed.

Face pressed against the glass door—ah, the rain moon.

Enoshima’s narrow shore—ah, the waning moon.

Islanders' graves stood lined up—Thirteenth Night.

Vivid Milky Way—night after night of earnest voyage.

Kamakura’s summer too had passed—the Milky Way.

Insect drizzle—the Milky Way bent ever deeper.

Dewdrops at the small door—there were those that flowed and vanished.

Night’s lawn—where it lay, dews scattered into flight.

Voices raised reciting primers—the inn where dews lodged.

The autumn mountain’s edge being wide—lying down to gaze.

Before the hermitage—an autumn mountain all praise.

Namegawa

Water clarifies—already budding, the thicket camellia.

A ferry not of ten oars—autumn in the water.

Autumn water—spontaneously forms a ring—ah.

Autumn water—through the thicket's midst goes the echo—ah.

Autumn water—the reflected forest turns back.

Shimizudani Park

The park’s autumn water falls into the outer moat.

At the gatefront—autumn’s overflow—Namegawa.

Drying nets threaded through—autumn beach.

Among the crowd—Jūya’s child at play.

Bearing old age’s burden comes Jūya—ah.

Ara-Kashima of the bell-ringing ceremony—ah, the Ten Nights.

Wax tears strike the shoulder—ah, Jūya.

The number of lights increases—ah, the lonely Jūya.

Ever apt to clasp hands—Jūya’s child.

The child scatters flowers, gathers them—ah, Jūya.

Pulling the clapper rope taut—confirmed and done.

The night school child’s dark hollow of a neck—ah.

At the straw mounds—already the houses are closed.

At the road’s edge—a large straw mound protrudes.

Autumn fan—born a Noh actor.

Kamatsuka’s crimson—the separate Bekagoya.

Atop the mountain—shoji replaced in daylight—ah.

Replaced—the shoji lattice grows ever older.
Migratory birds spill into his forest—appearing.
Migratory birds gaze up again and again—stumble.
Three zelkovas stand in the thicket—autumn of the bull-headed shrike.
The garden mountain’s care progresses briskly—shrike weather day.

Clearly fallen from the bull-headed shrike’s beak.

Goby fishing—
with one hand grasping reeds
all the while.

Bell crickets sing then pause—
insect drizzle.

The rain’s roar overwhelms—
the insects’ dwelling.

Window light present—
pausing poem composition—
the insect plain.

Evening cicada—Sugimoto Temple’s morning and evening.
Morning’s lattice shutters opened toward the osmanthus.
In the summer resort town—not yet desolate—flowering hibiscus.
Rain falling—the sky so dazzling—oh hibiscus!
Softly straight branches—oh hibiscus!
A hibiscus steadily wilting—oh this muggy heat.
Persimmon weather—Venerable Jōmyōji plodding steadily.
Dried persimmons’ flies multiply once more—fine weather.
Persimmons hung—the master unchanged.
Drying persimmons—only houses with good sunlight.

I live following the villagers’ example—drying persimmons.

From the hearthside, when I look back—there they are, dried persimmons.

A large mountain chestnut tree stands—how nostalgic.

The large tree’s small chestnuts begin to fall.

Sitting on a stone—a single leaf beside.

Moving ahead—hidden by autumn leaves, the mountain descender.

Passing time at the autumn-leaf tea house—a sudden shower.

I took lodgings—leaned on the railing—ah, autumn leaves.
A day drenched by sudden rain—
A large tree—its southern side tinged with autumn hues.

A grove tinged with pale autumn hues—
In the deep crimson leaves, sunlight lay nestled—such beauty.
Having begun to descend yet halted—the valley’s autumn leaves—ah.
Leaning on a tree, gazing at each and every one—ah, the autumn leaves.
More weary than all—I and the evening maple glow.
The sunlight that crept upward then vanished—valley autumn leaves.

At the mountain’s edge stands a hermitage—pale autumn leaves.

On the mountain slope—autumn leaves rest poised on tiptoes.

Hakone Gōra: Five Haiku

Amid mist and clouds—autumn leaves ever at play—ah!

After rain—stones laid bare—the slope’s autumn leaves.

Mountain weather barely holds—autumn leaf viewing.

The hot spring’s scent drifts—evening autumn leaves.

Hot spring’s drifting steam—the gate’s evening autumn leaves.

Daitō-no-miya

Vaguely present—the negi priest’s comings and goings—eaves’ autumn leaves.

Gamboge-yellow vine leaves distinctly visible—ah!

Maiden flowers—somewhat simplified in the alcove.

The shoji screens tending to stay closed—spilled bush clover.

Beside the couch, leaning—spilled bush clover.

A bush clover branch sits upon a stone—withered it becomes.

The master by the hearth; spilled bush clover.

Spilled bush clover caught—like floating leaves.

From both sides, bush clover kneels at the stone's base.

Clouds settle on the front mountain, shading the garden's silver grass.

In the reed bed float a roof and an advancing sail.

A great dark sail moves over reeds.

The evening wind shifts through reed plumes—signaling change.

Pale black moths swarm thick on kudzu flowers.

The cosmos house floats again in rain.

Cosmos—none in full bloom escape falling.

Lady Aoi pays a visit.

Cosmos evening—a gentle conversation.

In the bush clover cluster—evening shadows ride the cockscomb—ah.

When I left, the cockscombs too had departed.

The cockscombs gradually darkened, yet still darkened further.

Cockscombs—the swiftness of rain darting in.

Cockscombs growing—outside the flower bed, mere soil.

Cockscombs—their spontaneous alignment.

Cockscombs—their shadows darting as they stretched upward.

Cockscombs—their evening shadows darting in rows.

Commonplace cockscombs stood in my garden.

Kyoshi-an Sketch from Life

Sword beans on the trellis—within them, leaf cockscomb.

The arranged begonias were the garden’s own.

Dayflower buds—as if in worship—ah!

Stems bending stiffly at every joint—dayflower.

Two petals standing—dayflower.

The night bonfire had been too close to the chrysanthemum field.

A wagtail emerged walking—chrysanthemum weather.

Chrysanthemums splendid—neither purple nor red.

In the valley’s shadow—chrysanthemums’ yellow—the august temple.

In the doll-less corridor’s chrysanthemums—respite found.

Chrysanthemums abashed—the poem I composed about them—ah!

Southern veranda’s scorching verge—chrysanthemum weather.

Chrysanthemum weather—Lord Jōmyōji fond of talk.

Assiduously, chrysanthemum horseflies made all toil.

Bean chrysanthemums crawled and floated on the water’s surface.

The rain’s sound upon banana leaves had shifted once again.

An elbow resting at the window—ah, a banana plant stood there.

Red spider lilies—I exited the gate unscathed.

Red spider lilies—the ruined gate remained unmended.

Red spider lilies whipped by wind; my dream chilled through.

The field path cleared—red spider lilies sprang onto my cane.

Dusk deepened—was I truly alone? A shattered lotus lay before me.

Withered tips—walking last of all among them.

At the site of Eifuku-ji Temple

Withered tips—dig and there appears an ancient pond.

A rare mountain day—deep gentian.

The trellis gourd in the corner is large.

Crow-dipper gourds reflected—there is water in the thicket.

Millet handling—displeasure too seldom witnessed, ah.

Winter

A jewel-like Indian summer day is granted.

Early winter—gentian leaves’ pale autumn foliage.

Winter Solstice Observances Heard Through the Seasonal Almanac

My dwelling’s naturally occurring winter solstice plum.

Ornamental kale’s deep purple in the heart of winter.

All that lies in the earth’s depths awaits spring.

Having obtained fine ink, I grind and prepare it—awaiting spring.

Reflecting on my haikai—year’s end.

A villa within the sacred fence—year’s end.

Having pursued until delivered—a sea bream arrives on New Year’s Eve.

I opened and inspected a winter-drizzle umbrella before lending it.

Night drizzle persisted; I summoned an umbrella.

Kuhonbutsu

Winter drizzles—three halls aligned alike.

The leaves of the Japanese magnolia lingered high—winter drizzle had come.

Winter rain fell as day ended—so many missteps.

A traveler—vanished in the blizzard, gone without trace.

Snow boots securely fastened through the raging storm.

Hototogisu Publishing Office

Three large windows stood aligned—peony snow.

Tsurugaoka Hachimangū

The shrine precincts—snow falling and dancing gently.

Is it that cloud scattering snow? A field of dead trees.

Snow stained by the lamp hangs dripping from deep eaves.

The lamp on the bridge, clothed in snow, was lit.

Snow settling on the tip of a Wabisuke camellia bud.

On a frosty night, one parts from the multitude—ah.

The person who opened the window coughed—frost on the field.

Cockscombs bow low upon frost-laden earth.

Ikegami Honmon-ji

Behind the revolving sutra repository falls the winter sun—ah.

Day by day, the moon advances—winter sky.

From Awaji—the sleeping Kii Mountains visible—ah.

Following the water’s sound awhile—withered field, ah.

Sky-blue water splashes across the withered field—ah.

The waters of Tama, split into three channels, have dried up.

The water dragged by dried vines has also dried up.

Warm winter water gushes forth for the Kiso people.

Winter waves—as the sun dims, should I return?

Winter beach—wheel tracks interrupted by waves.

At Ōgidani Kōfūen

A sunken winter garden—and there lay a detached room.

On green bamboo leaves—frozen water had split.

From the frozen Mon River—no sound remained.

A jewel camellia fell into frozen paddy water—ah.

Fox fires dwindled to mere embers—ah.

A flame leapt over fox fire’s glow—ah.

The tower bell swayed tolling—Christmas.

Adorned and awaiting Christmas—the hotel stood.

The thatched door opened—light spilled through—demon exorcism.

Clutching the great three-tiered stand—the year’s man.

At the kaomise performance—met a courtesan never meant to meet—ah.

A day’s soot floated upon murky puddles.

This body useless for soot-cleaning ventured out—ah.

An echoing sound draws near—eagerly awaited—a perfect day for mochi.
A chin drinks and spills water for pounding mochi—ah.
With pestles on their shoulders, they walk the ridge path to pound mochi.

At the First Haikai Noh Gathering, after seven or eight years, they performed Katsuragi's shimai dance.

Dancing with a mask—ah, even I forget the year's burdens.

The calendar seller's ancient words linger.

A bitter orange; days when the sun reigns—ah, winter refuge.

A large bitter orange tree serves as winter refuge.

Amid bitter orange trees stands one taking winter refuge.

A runny nose noticed by the god of poverty.

Let nothing touch these calloused hands.

Calloused hands secretly seen during conversation.

Though an ancient blanket, they did not relinquish it.

The whiteness of peasant’s split-toe socks—ah, the funeral procession.

The frost guard’s south-facing sun—nostalgia halting footsteps.

Frost guards—today’s sun faintly arrayed.

Generations of Semba residences—spread pine needles.

An unfolded screen—hundred flowers embroidered into oblivion—ah.

A folding screen erected—this narrow boundary of daily life—ah.

A scene where a duck was chased from reeds in the folding screen painting.

A folding screen stood like an attendant charcoal scuttle—ah.

The folding screen painting's Fuigo Festival illustrations with their explanations.

A scene where the charcoal bamboo seller came through the folding screen painting.

Kindling charcoal—tending meager embers with devotion.

Stoking charcoal—sorrow faintly mingling—ah.

Stoking charcoal—contemplating the stillness behind—ah.

Stoking charcoal—facing winter's cold—ah.

Facing a withered chrysanthemum—stoking charcoal—ah.

A bonfire—something leaps toward cockscomb—ah.

Deep in the mountains—the bonfire encountered—a single spot.

Deeply, behind—the dusk had settled—a bonfire, ah.

Morning after morning—a solitary bonfire—winter’s delight.

Bonfire remains lie damp beneath scattered autumn leaves.

By the dirt-floor hearth fire—two of three ponds come into view.

A day spent scattering things by the hearth—ah.

Night revelry—wandering from hearth to hearth.

Adjusting the hearth fire while awaiting a guest—ah.

At Kōotsui

The hearth frame already worn—ah, this new dwelling.
A hearth soiled by meals—ah, this inn of grass.
Iron armor treads the warm hearth—ah.

The stove’s mouth faintly aglow with happiness.

Steam rises, coiling of its own accord—ah.

Steam rose, and I became as though having forgotten daily life.

Removing dried persimmons—standing by the kotatsu—ah.

The trembling of aged hands holds aloft the fire bucket—ah.

Father, drunk, keeps knocking the fire bucket—ah.

The shadow of bamboo stilts draws near the paper door—ah.

Looking down—the valley I’ve grown accustomed to visiting—ah, a plum-blossom excursion.

In the wind, scattering cold fertilizer at a trot—ah.
The shuttered window—outside, dried vegetables—ah.

I thought of wanting to pound cold rice cakes, yet...

The narcissus flycatcher—unostentatious yet crimson!

Turning toward the shadow of a cargo boat—plovers take flight.

Peering through trees—a moonlit night with drifting waterfowl.

Through the trees pass conversing figures; drifting waterfowl.

The sound of waterfowl quarreling and clashing wings—ah.

Reeds shift wind redirects ducks' course.

On the lawn—a winter butterfly's dense shadow.

Camellias lay scattered ceaselessly throughout this place.

The meager tea flowers—admired just as they are.

Jōmyōji

Tea flowers—the hedge thinning here and there amid the grass.

Holly flowers—not even scattered by the broom’s tip.

Holly flowers’ illuminating deep green

Loquats in bloom—the mansion long unoccupied—ah.

At Ōgidani Kōfūen

As though concealed—a dormitory stands—winter camellia—ah.

Today becomes tomorrow becomes—the silverleaf flowers.

Three visits—daffodils bloom at Zuisenji Temple.

Daffodils—like an old mirror, the flowers held aloft—ah.

Daffodils—their blooming ceased, then resumed—ah.

Arranged daffodils and adorned the drum—ah.

Daffodils—the unassuming Kanzeon—ah.

The summit’s line abruptly breaks—ah, winter tree—ah.

A dead tree appears red, then blue—ah.

Expansively—a field of withered peach trees.

Like a tangled cord—the dead tree—ah.

Quiet clouds—two or three—amidst dead trees.

The clouds that had lingered amidst dead trees vanished.

The sound of dead branches blown down—there in the thicket.

Behind the Great Buddha—lodging among dead trees.

The trees have withered; not even crows remain in Ueno—ah.

Swept along, fallen leaves depart from the fence—ah.

Tilting my head back—I lean against the shedding tree—ah.

Leisurely, the day when leaves fall—I have come to admire it.

Two embracing dead leaves come falling down—ah.

Carving a boulder into steps—scattered autumn leaves.

Pale bluish ginkgo leaves too have begun to lie.

Deep in the mountains—a sidelong gaze at fallen magnolia leaves.

Magnolia leaves fall and pile up—mountain quiet.

Rustling, the magnolia leaves fall—a fine mountain day.

Magnolia leaves—how large they grow before falling down.

Magnolia leaves rising only to swiftly fall.

Cedars stand cold—dead leaves ceaselessly blown down.

Ornamental kale—the potted tree’s *Noh chant* was recited.

Mulberry trees withered—the residence laid bare—ah.

Withered mulberry—opposite, a tea tree glistens—ah.
Leaving its supporting bamboo, tilting—the chrysanthemum withers.
With tender care nurtured, the old chrysanthemum does not wither.

Having burned the withered chrysanthemums—this lingering thought—ah.

White chrysanthemums swept clean even as they wither—ah.

Withered chrysanthemums begin to rustle dimly—ah.
Touching the withered chrysanthemum—pollen spills—ah.
On the withered chrysanthemum—a rainbow streaks—a spider’s thread.
To call it a withered chrysanthemum and discard it—there lies attachment.

The yellow of lingering chrysanthemums had aged with time.

Upon withered blooms—sunlight lent splendor; capricious snow—ah.

Wind-driven sand spills—withered pampas grass—ah.

The cockscomb bows its head—about to wither.

A shadow stretches—the withered cockscomb’s stillness.

The cockscomb, aged and withered—ah, such poignancy.

A man washes in water where reeds stand dried.

Fading, dwindling—the withered vine’s crimson fruit.

Brushing aside brittle vines—mountain labor.

Examining the shriveled tendril’s tip—still unbroken.

In the blue sky drifts a vine now withered—ah.

Withering yet persisting—this too leaves its mark: burnet.

Eighteen remain unwithered on the roof ridge—the well sweep.

Watching cattail down drift—if only I could rest—ah.

Gazing up at drifting cattail down—the daytime moon.

Cattail down crossing paths—some fly onward—ah.

Cattail down flies away—their destination—ah.

The distant house’s added-on section again—daikons, ah.

The moon returns to the leek field—faintly pale—ah.

New Year

In the quiet of withered chrysanthemums, the year renews.

New Year—vermilion paper strips atop the kotatsu.

At Kijima Jusui's Residence

A master fond of toys and such—spring of the Horse.

At Kyoshi's Hermitage

Reblooming small-grained flowers—there at the gate—spring.

The charcoal scuttle too is filled with charcoal—the inn’s spring.
Dried persimmons remaining black—the inn’s spring.
A good hearth fire and I alone exist—the inn’s spring.

Kyoshi’s hermitage—the usual room and the auspicious New Year’s Day.
Truly, the march of time—auspicious New Year’s Day.
Even dust clinging to daffodils—five days now—ah.

First Fuji—the people coming and going in Fujimichō.

Finally, the third torii—first shrine visit.

In Kamakura there’s a horse-drawn carriage; riding it for the first shrine visit.

Having received and brought them—the Seven Lucky Gods arranged in a row.

The cold wind—clutching an evil-warding arrow to the chest.

Having the child hold it—a long evil-warding arrow—ah.

Rice cake decorations—entangled as they are—settle quietly.

Rice cake decorations—though I mean to discard them, how beautiful they remain.

Rice cake decorations freeze and fall—countless they tumble.

The gazebo’s New Year wreath remains unfallen upon snow.

At Kyoshi's Hermitage

They hung a wreath decoration but did not use the outdoor toilet.

Whiskers flipped upward—thick and long—the ornamental shrimp.

At Kyoshi’s Hermitage at year’s beginning, I met Mr. Araki Kōkō who had come from Sasebo.

New Year’s guests arriving with earnest longing—ah.

At Kyoshi’s Hermitage

To unexpectedly meet Mr. Asahikawa—such an auspicious occasion—ah.

Not Attending Kyoshi’s Hermitage; A New Year Spent Abed

The first almanac; the old man’s lattice-patterned sliding doors—ah.

A white sand garden graces the ancient stage—the year’s first Noh performance.

The aged kamishimo; the year’s first Noh performance.

The mask worn for the year’s first Noh performance is Miroku’s handiwork.

Note: Miroku is the name of a Noh mask maker.

A first haiku gathering among a small, intimate group

The broad earthen floor—two pairs played battledore.

The battledore’s Hangan in quiet hues—such a pattern.

The kite’s shadow dashes into view upon the snow.

The adonis holds a jewel beetle within.

A pot of adonis placed—spring at one’s side.

Scattered across the desk’s edge—the adonis.

The day’s shoji like a taiko drum—adonis.

As the New Year ages, the adonis endures.

The trained branches of the bonsai plum—front and back.
The drooping branches of the bonsai plum are counted.

Ena Ten-Day Haiku Record

Mountains spanning all directions—the withered field—ah.

Mountains surround—a single mountain amidst the withered field—ah.

In the mountain valley—a withered field tilts heavily—ah.

The withered field hides even the horse-shaped boulder—ah.

Through the depths flows the Kiso River—the withered field—ah.

The heavy fog begins to clear—bird-catching.

They each took a zabuton to observe the birdhouse.

The trimmed mountain—how beautiful! The bird net.

Mounted on an immense rock—the birdhouse.
Crudely thatched with cedar boughs—the birdhouse.
Raising the reed door—the keeper peers out.
The birdhouse and Hida Highway—both within a single view.

A four-tiered bird net spanning ten ken.

On the net's surface—caught and glimmering—a small bird—ah.

Sake ferments; small birds roast; mountains clear.

In the cabin hearth—birds being roasted—and migratory birds.

The night of small bird hunting—a small haiku gathering

The hearth fire illuminates the wooden screen—aglow.

A large hearth surrounded by wooden screens—ah.

Wooden screens erected—in the wooden-floored room, a large hearth—ah.

Wooden screens set with a thud—the hearthside—ah.

The fire for roasting small birds occupies one corner—a large hearth—ah.

Roasting siskins—along the hearth’s edge, dishes and small bowls line up.

A borrowed copy of *Kasshi Yawa* resides at Hotoke Inn.

Hotoke Inn houses the *Gunsho Ruijū*.

The thirteenth-night moon rises from the hill in the garden.

The hill in the garden’s grove of magnolias—and the thirteenth-night moon.

The moon hangs high; the hearth fire blazes—thirteenth-night moon.

A cup placed on the hearth frame—thirteenth-night moon.

A quiet, unrestrained swaying—thirteenth-night moon.

A basket fixed to the persimmon tree—climbed.

A persimmon-picking basket tied to the treetop.

Handling the persimmon-picking pole at the treetop—ah.

At the persimmon pole’s treetop—there I am.

Mushrooms taken from the garden hill—because we are here.

A small valley in the garden hill—and chestnut mushrooms.

Many mushrooms—the profusion of magnolia leaves.

Rising and going out—the Kiso morning cold intensifies.

The savage mist in this garden—the crimson leaves—ah.

All day burning fallen leaves—tending to myself—ah.

Dried persimmons growing sweeter too—the kotatsu—ah.

Three drips fall from the bamboo gutter—the long night deepens.
As winter showers fall—silk floss bestowed upon you—ah.
On a journey, a minor ailment—soba broth, ah.

Only the soft sound of millet being threshed.

In all directions, rice drying racks take shape across the basin—ah.

Mulberry fields withering in the village—the paper screens—ah.

A scarecrow thrust into the large rice drying rack—ah.

Wind blowing through the base of the rice drying rack—the night path—ah.

Lanterns have quieted in the shadow of the rice drying rack.

Arching her back, a girl carries rice sheaves—ah.

The Hida Highway enters the town—Little June.

Ena’s snow has temporarily melted—ah, little spring.

Stay at the Tsukamoto Kōdō Residence in Naegi

Not a day passed without winter showers upon the dried mushrooms.

The over 750 haiku that I have collected in this volume were composed from around Taisho 13 (1924) until early summer of Showa 8 (1933). From over a thousand haiku selected by Master Kyoshi through *Hototogisu*’s miscellaneous verses, various haiku gatherings, and other venues, I extracted those.

I carried out the selection with the intention of remaining as carefree as possible and leaving behind what seemed likely to become records of my life.

Regarding haiku, I can speak of nothing.
I will simply keep composing haiku—it’s merely that I’ve resolved myself to the fact that there’s no other way but to compose.

The fact that I have been able to study under Master Kyoshi, and furthermore, that I will continue to be able to do so, is what I consider my supreme happiness.
I must not squander this happiness in vain.

November 23, Showa 10 (1935)

Takashi

(Showa 10 [1935] December Publication)