Pathway to Japanese Literature

Rubberneckers

This house—even this one—had surprised them. They came wondering if there was a TV, but— Even in a house where putting food on the table was a daily struggle— When they remarked that having a TV wasn’t such a bad thing, Did they receive it as a gift, or— they tilted their heads in puzzlement—did they buy it? When they said it was their own business either way, They probably didn’t buy it. they concluded that they must have received it as a gift, but— It was indeed exactly as they said, but— Having it thrust upon them was maddening. When they said it was meddling in others’ business,

Once again acting as if it were none of their concern,

surely it couldn’t be this—they came—

and demonstrated a gesture of grabbing at something.

A Covert Confrontation

Wasn’t I just some cracked poet—

Of all people, a certain renowned psychiatrist had said something like—

To write a mere single poem,
the likes of 100 or 200 sheets—
a poet who turns manuscript paper into scrap and stacks it high—
he was said to have remarked, “Isn’t that just madness?”

One day at a certain place, I encountered that doctor.
When I first had the honor of meeting him,
"I’ve long been familiar with your name,"
he had said something like that,
"How have you been lately?"
and then proceeded to ask, "How is your poetry?"
He said with such an air of feigned ignorance

For a madman—if that's what I was—there remained something...
A poet who somehow still appeared sane?
Having met him at last, why not seize this chance to—

I wondered if I should take the Doctor’s diagnosis.

It wasn’t entirely unexpected for me, but—

"I stood up, saying, 'Thank you for having me.'"

An Island Showered with Bullets

The moment I set foot on the island’s soil,

The moment I greeted them with “Ganjūi” (1),

they said something like, “Yes, thank you, I’m doing well,”

The islanders had come back in Japanese.

Nostalgia became somewhat confused,

ウチナーグチマディン ムル（２）

When I said, “Ikusa ni sattar basui” (3),

The islanders gave a wry smile, but—

They remarked that my Okinawan was quite good.

(1) How are you?

(2) Even all of the Okinawan dialect had been lost

(3) Was it destroyed in the war?

Peach blossoms.

“Where’s your hometown?”

When asked by her friends,

Mimiko was at a loss for a reply, it was said.

What was there to be troubled about?

If she were to say it was Okinawa,

Okinawa is Papa’s hometown.

Ibaraki is Mama’s hometown.

Mimiko said that in Tokyo，everyone comes from different places.

When I asked what she had answered in the end,
Papa was from Okinawa,
Mama was from Ibaraki,

When he mentioned that Mimiko had answered “Tokyo,”
he puffed out his cheeks.

When he wandered out front,
Peach blossoms were blooming.

Nuclear.

If someone were to say, “Well, you’re not getting any younger,”
“What’s this whippersnapper on about?!”
The old man had gotten angry, but—
even going so far as to make such an age-unbecoming face—

It was something he wanted to hold onto.

That was youth, in other words.

He craned his neck.

When it came to publication commemorations,

he hunched his shoulders and let them pass by.

When it came to farewell parties,

he hunched his shoulders and let them pass by.

When it came to celebrations,

he hunched his shoulders and let them pass by.

When it came to welcome parties,

He hunched his shoulders and let them pass by.

Whenever there was a gathering,

hunching his shoulders each time,

he had been letting all sorts of gatherings pass him by.

One day, thinking it was happening again,

As he was hunching his shoulders,

"No, just your face will suffice.

There’s no need to worry about membership fees,"

they said there was no need.

A Household

Once again，the wife spoke：
“No radio，no television！
No electric stove，no telephone！
No mixer，no refrigerator！
No vacuum cleaner，no washing machine！
A house like this—” she thrust out both palms as if pushing away their reality，“you won’t find anywhere nowadays！”

“There’s _no such thing_！” she concluded，her voice cracking on Okinawa’s absence from their Tokyo tenement．

The husband clammed up there.
He looked around, but—
Even a house like this, because the wife was cultured,
in place of what they lacked,
she was making do.

New Year’s Scene

The first three days of the New Year are，anywhere，
In the morning：zōni．
It’s zōni that’s eaten．
“It’s just tradition，isn’t it？”
The wife said this while
the so-called zōni—
she was eating in accordance with tradition．

I remained silent
I had seconds of miso soup, but
With no New Year and no traditions,
A morning without miso soup—
Like I’d eaten
It doesn’t feel like I’ve eaten.

A Certain Night in December

A Certain Night in December: Regarding Money

The poet visited the hotel Madam.

The Madam turned away and said.

“Things like money...”

"That's not what becomes a poet."

"Things that belong in a commoner's mouth—"

"A poet shouldn't be saying such things."

"That's why poets are those who need no money,"

"A poet must stay poor precisely because"

"they shine bright and command respect."

The poet flew into a rage there.
He even forgot that he had come to borrow,
and had only added even more luster.

His wife

Whenever he smoked—each time he smoked—

she’d start in about how he was smoking too much,

say he was bound to get lung cancer or something,

claim he’d come down with who-knows-what,

Then whenever he drank—every single time—

she’d harp on him drinking way over his limit,

insist he’d keel over from an ulcer or stomach cancer any day,

declare there was nothing left for him but to die.

If he came home around midnight,

she’d kick up a fuss about the ungodly hour,

scream that he must be keeping some floozy on the side,

They said it was ruining everyone’s sleep.

And so he, last night as well,
it was said that she had struck him,

Putting aside the husband’s behavior for now,

There were also wives who were quite similar.
It seemed ours wasn’t the only one.

Nameplate

It wasn't long after my family began staying at Tsukida-san's house.

Only after being scolded by the postman did I finally hang my own nameplate on the gatepost.

The nameplate was handmade - I had enlarged my own pen-script lettering and meticulously carved it in relief.

Sometimes from the bottom of the stone steps, I would look back and then head into town.

But one day, I found myself in a predicament

I couldn't help but take down the nameplate.
As for mine, it was somewhat—
Because it was too extravagant a nameplate.

Landlord Tsukida-san looked exactly like

Landlord Tsukida-san looked exactly like the Yamanokuchi Baku household.

Tattered tabi.

The season had already yellowed.

who was supposed to be sleeping on a park bench

the poet who barely ate or didn’t eat at all, he

he had come intending to go eat.

Barely eating or not eating at all, the building’s

I, the poet squatting in a vacant room,

As I fidgeted, wondering what would become of things,

He took off one of the tattered tabi.
He turned it upside down and shook it out,
muttering that there was at least enough for a meal,
and picked up the silver coin at his feet.

A shoe with a quirk
from a thrown-away cigarette butt
chased after its dying ember

The shoe stepped on it, but

It was a shoe that did amusing things.
Out of its usual habit,
Even though it couldn’t be helped,
The streets are wet from the rain.

Evening Primrose Discourse

During bright daylight hours it kept its eyes shut.

Yesterday’s bloom hung shabby-looking,

its parched twisted stem drooping low

as if midnight’s essence clung to it now

while drifting drowsy through blazing light

chasing dream after fleeting dream.

When evening fell, it was as if morning had arrived.

Did it wake to the hint of dew?

Wide open its bud and shudder,

shuddering and gaping open,

it opened its yellow bud,

but by midnight they all awakened at once.

It was a plant that lived with its face turned to high noon.

So when it came to that evening primrose,

I said it was an owl-like creature,

but according to my daughter,

it was apparently a Papa-like creature.

Ascended Infantry

In the village, they called me
Evacuation.
When Evacuation ran short of tobacco,
they would peer into the eastern houses
and manage to get their hands on tobacco leaves.
When they ran short of rice,
they peered into the western houses
and managed to get their hands on black-market rice.

That day too, Evacuation was at his wit's end,

He went out to procure pumpkins, but

When Evacuation turned back midway,

Evacuation crouched in a corner of the garden.

Evacuation set fire to the hōkō-bukuro.

In Japan—in other words, from that day onward—

supplementary military service army infantry and the likes

[They] had become obsolete

because they had become obsolete.

Aliens Holding Their Heads

The bluish-tinged round Earth,

while gazing down from far below

Even if they were to live on Mars or the Moon—even if they were to end up living in space—no matter how much time passed, they’d still be penniless. Maybe they were just aliens with stomachs. Before long, a head would peek out from the gate again.

“It’s the rice shop,” they were bound to come saying.

Then my wife would panic again,

“It’s about the rice—what will you do?” they’d come saying.

Then I, being myself again,

“What’s there even to do?”

“It’s rations!”—I’d retort.

Then my wife would flare up again,

“There’s no such thing as rations or anything else!”

“Forever and ever spineless—”

"You’re completely broke—they’re bound to come saying."

There I go again—
Even if I were to fly into a rage and glare at my wife,
since it’s just another repetition on Earth,
even if I were on the moon,
there’d be nothing to do but hold my head in my hands.
A curse.

Once you’re born into this world,
that’s all there is to it.
Even if you disguised yourself as a Buddha
and tried living near the afterlife—
there’s no afterlife free from obligations.
Coffins are just the start of it—
funerals, Obon rituals,
obligations to temples and whatnot piling up—

If there was neither an afterlife nor this world—
Since there was no point in beginning, that was simply the end of it.
Money had already dragged life around this world,
in the afterlife clutched death to its breast,
haunted even Buddha's path,
and clung with human wretchedness, cursing wherever it went.
Even if a grave where some poor Buddha dwelled
were built right beside an earthworm's burrow—
there could be no such thing as free.

A crowded train.

On tiptoe.

The shoe grumbled and said.
If it tried not to be stepped on,
Not stepping on—
It couldn’t help but be stepped on,

Stomach.
Not even a single grain of rice
since not even a single grain of rice had entered it.
The stomach was filled with anger,
it was full of it.
Nose.
"That nose was good."
When someone answered that,
the nose panicked and

hid itself in the palm

Cow and Incantation

のうまくざんまんだばざらだんせんだ

まかろしやだそわたようんたらたかんまん

While I chanted that with my mouth,

When I left the temple, I immediately went to the farmhouse in front of it.
There, I stroked the cow’s reins a hundred times.

I returned to the temple while chanting again.

At the temple, while chanting again,

From the main hall to the gate and back again,

I kept pacing back and forth over the flagstones,

I pressed my palms together in prayer another hundred times.

It was about half a century ago now,

Father had nearly died at that time,

Father said he was saved thanks to Saburo.

Even now, when I see cows,
I remember rising above civilization—
and find myself stroking those reins again.
Should I try swatting away mushroom clouds too?

のうまくざんまんだばざらだんせんだ

まかろしやだそわたようんたらたかんまん

Romance Grey

It was after the radio shopkeeper had left.

Looking at my face,

Mimiko said, “For us, this is pretty good—if we’re talking about buying brand-new things, the radio must be our first one ever, right?” Then from beside me, the Wife interjected: “Papa likes everything secondhand. The desk is secondhand, the bookshelf’s secondhand—even the lamp! He’d rather get everything from junk dealers.”

“Papa likes everything secondhand,” she said.

The desk was secondhand and the bookshelf was secondhand too.
Even the lamp and everything else.
She had said he liked secondhand store items.

Well, from my perspective...

I didn't recall having done anything unnecessary, so
"Don't say unnecessary things," the Wife said.

I walked along the bottom,

For what purpose

do I even live?

Barefoot and naked, clutching life,
No matter how much time passes,
Always being at the bottom of society,
Am I not just like a dog or a cat?

I sometimes berated myself, but

Is this my arrogance in putting on human airs?

When I gauge myself against cats and dogs,

When I make the comparison,

Don't I appear thoroughly human?

It wasn't as if I was as naked as a dog or cat—at least wrapped in something, wearing something, with the look of someone who had business to attend to.

Drunken Arguments

Since when do I have a mistress?

When I retorted, "That’s news to me,"

"That’s not it! So every night—"

she said I was coming home too late

I was drinking and getting drunk,

I’d simply come home late—
Because she went searching for things that weren’t there as if they existed,
I grew furious—
It felt like I was being shortchanged.

Island

Honest John missiles and such
Mace missiles and such
There they were stationed—
their muzzles pointed toward the sky—
for as long as unease continued in the Far East.
This was how things were maintained,
or so declared their keeper—

Through this logic，the island became
a latticework of chain-link fences.
People rubbed their snouts against wire mesh，
dodging right only to

They dodged to the left.

Whenever they went along the chain-link fence,

They would return along the chain-link fence.

Above the Clouds

Only one Earth existed, yet—
Civilizations of all kinds jostled and clashed—
Ganging up to stain it with blood,
they scattered trivial ashes and such, but
even to the point of defying nature’s will—
Was it that civilizations plotted their own destruction?
After all, there were so many countries—

If there were an objection to this single Earth,
a system to abolish even the number of countries
would invent a naked universal ideology—
neither America
nor that either
neither Japan nor anywhere else—
where every nation presses close against another,
embracing Earth to survive.
For Earth remains solitary in existence.
Should these multitudes of countries
grow obstructive to living itself—
should objections rise against their very plurality—

Civilization exists to carve out paths for survival—

invent their own distinct natural environments to replace Earth

When night falls, like the moon and stars,

That over there is Nippon.

That is that one.

This one is America, as if to say.

From anywhere in the universe they are pointed at,

They blink,

they glare.

they declare themselves masters of the universe,

He stood up there, but—

After peering down once again,

while brushing off the ash that had fallen on him

He walked across the clouds.

New Year and the Island

The language being used
That was Japanese.
The money being used
That was dollars.
It seemed like Japan,
But not quite.
It seemed like America,
But not quite.
It was a slippery island that defied comprehension.
Now, true to form,

Subtropical Island

This land unacquainted with snow

In the Okinawa of old,

At the New Year's party,

They arrived offering electric fans as a service.

Tales of the Island

Here it comes—the black one.

And at those words,

The women, of course—

Even the children were thrown into a panic.

It is said they scattered in all directions.

And so, it was something immediately recognizable as such—

He was indeed a dark-skinned boy, but—

If they said, “The dark-skinned one is coming,”—

Even that child panicked and—
joined everyone in
It was a headlong rush, they say.

Okinawa Landscape

In that garden at all times,
the gamecocks thirsted for blood.
The Tauchees remained in their respective
coops—yet
each one puffed up his shoulders,
radiating absolute confidence,

They were chafing at the wait for the day of the cockfight.

Every morning, the old man of the Akamine family,

Carrying a tobacco tray,
he went out to the veranda and sat down.
He gauged the mood of the Tauchees in the garden.
This morning too, Tammē was on the veranda, but—
had the pipe gotten clogged?
At the sound of him tapping it sharply,
the Tauchees all at once
stretched out their necks in unison.
(Mībārā = chicken coops)

Neck

The person I met for the first time was—
He drained a cup.

He tilted his head and said.

“Are you the poet Mr. Baku?”

I was utterly astonished.

The Mr. Baku one senses from his poems—

“—bears no resemblance to this gentleman,” he remarked.

I involuntarily hunched my shoulders, but

immediately straightened up and said:

“The ragged Baku one senses from the poems and—

this Baku who looks like a gentleman and—”

“Which one is the real Baku?” I said.

Then that person raised his head.
"Well, as for that—" he began, but
Was he a man with something wrong with his neck?
He tilted his head again.

Once again, he tilted his head in that manner.

Tanuki.

Tempura scraps—those bits of fried batter—
disguised themselves as tanuki in tanuki soba,
and in tanuki udon’s case too—
even if they transformed into tanuki,
tanuki were not to be underestimated.

Tanuki soba, thanks to those raccoon dogs,
resembled tempura soba in flavor.
Tanuki udon, thanks again to their crafty namesakes,
mirrored tempura udon’s taste.

The price of that tanuki fare—once more by tanuki grace—
came cheaper than proper tempura.
But what did we have here? A soba shop playing dumb?
The tanuki got their polite regrets—

Even though they weren’t actually putting any in,
it was tempura, if you please.

And so I always passed right by that blue noren curtain there, went to the next one further ahead, and slipped through the white noren curtain. Sparrow on stone. I threw down the pen.

Though it was dawn,
Just when I thought I’d fallen asleep,
there was someone prodding me—
“How long do you plan to keep sleeping?”
“Why don't you get up?”
She pressed: “Aren’t you getting up?”

"What time is it?"
When he turned over,
"What time? There’s never anything here anyway!"
"Noon already—still lying around?"

“What are you doing lying around?” she pressed.

Is it raining?

And when he turned over again,

Even though the sun was shining,
“Don’t pretend to be asleep,” she pressed.
Isn’t that the sound of rain?
It’s not raining?

And when he lifted his heavy head,
the wife stopped sweeping.
He listened to the sound of the tin roof—
Footsteps?
No—a sparrow’s patter came through.

December

Treading on the sound of seasons through fallen ginkgo leaves.

The first visitor

A young journalist looked puzzled,
looked around at my face and said,
"In such a large, splendid house,
I hadn’t realized you lived here."
"So regarding your business—if I may ask…"
He scratched his head once again.

He looked around and said.

“Actually, about that... I must apologize.”

“I was hoping you could write an essay for December...”

“What we wanted you to write about is essentially sensei’s—”
he said it was “A Story of Poverty.”

Under the clouds

"Strontium."
"Wait a second," he interjected.

I would say, grimacing or something,
"What about strontium?"
The wife would glare back and say—
At times, even cesium seemed to glow,
I interjected.

I couldn’t help but grimace, but—

“Cesium or whatever,”

“Do you think we can just not eat?”

the wife made a show of getting angry.

Thus hunger brooks no delay?

Whenever scolded by the wife,

I closed my eyes—

I’m living off a modern age riddled with loanwords.

Then one day with freshly steamed—
As I buried my face in the steam of sweet potatoes and ate,
“Hey there,” my wife said.
I froze as if struck by a sudden halt.
There I became conscious of modernity—but
“Don’t force yourself—”
“Don’t eat so much,” she chided.

Baku

"Let *baku* eat the nightmares," they say.

As has been said since ancient times,

As an animal that lives by eating dreams,

the name *baku* is indeed world-famous.

At the animal exhibition, I saw a baku for the first time—it had a tiny tail shaped like the katakana 'ノ'. The nose looked as though someone had shortened an elephant’s trunk. It had a tiny bit of mane, so while it bore some resemblance to a horse, its physique was like a cross between a pig and a hippopotamus. With its round eyes and munching mouth, I wondered if it was eating dreams after all. When I peeked into the feed box, there it was—not devouring dreams but actual things like fruits and carrots.

But that night, I had a dream.
A large, starving baku lumbered into view.
As if declaring this world was teeming with nightmares,
it gobbled up the atomic bomb in one gulp.
No sooner had it gobbled up the hydrogen bomb than
the Earth suddenly brightened.

Bashōfu

Since moving to Tokyo—roughly—

It was the summer of roughly ten years later. From my distant mother came a bolt of bashōfu. The bashōfu was my mother’s handiwork—I would recall her figure at the backstrap loom, remember her saying “When it’s hot, bashōfu is the only way to go,” and grow nostalgic for Okinawa’s scent. The bashōfu was quickly tailored into my kimono, but before I could wear it even once, twenty years had passed—and now it was today.

Of course, it wasn’t because I’d lost it,
Nor was it because I was being stingy about wearing it.
No sooner had I taken it out than I’d put it right back in—that’s how things went with the pawnshop.
Immediately putting it back in again—such was the rhythm
Through my dealings with the pawnshop,
I simply had no time to wear it.

A Poem with a Mouth

I would go out frequently,

Every time I went out,

There wasn’t a day I didn’t borrow something.

The money I borrowed each time

I put straight into my mouth—

Am I living just to feed this mouth?

Days of frustration kept piling up.

That day, putting off feeding myself,

While resisting my physiology’s screaming demands,

Gripping my pen and dreaming of poetry,

Having reconsidered in secret,

I looked into all the debts I’d accumulated so far, but...
Is even the housing crisis the mouth’s doing?
If it were a ten-tsubo house—
one that should’ve been built straight away—
I’m being eaten alive by debt.

Poultry Farm Scene

A man who had just arrived from the southern base island—

his eyes alone gleaming—

said:

“No matter what you say,”
“That’s Tokyo for you.”
“Even the lanky ones go about looking so very...”
“They walk around looking so meek,” he said.
“If you say it’s because of your eyes,”
“The tall ones—granted they’re tall—but somehow...”
“The ones from the base are an entirely different breed,”
“Not only do they swagger about arrogantly,”
“‘They have such rough temperaments—it’s unbearable,’ he said.”
“In Tokyo, they’re Leghorns,” he said.
“If you say the ones from the base island are Shamos,”

The man suddenly stopped there, but
“But that one doesn’t look so meek, does he?”
He thrust his chin out in a demonstrative gesture.

Cherry Blossom Gloom

In other words, this was
with frozen shoulder or something like that,

It’s called male menopause.

After all，both shoulder joints ached．Even putting on clothes each time required help from wife and children．Truly，this sort of limitation—even when riding trains，he couldn’t reach the overhead straps；his hands wouldn’t extend—that was how things ended up．And so，that day as well，in order to sit down，

It was after he had missed the crowded train.
He stood rigidly at the edge of the platform.
when he was feigning frozen shoulder

When he suddenly glanced beyond the railing,
In that alleyway, cats were gathered.
It was too quiet for a fight,
It didn’t seem very catlike, he thought—
They formed four pairs, all lined up perfectly,
Of the young cats
It was couples.
Base Japan
A certain country was indeed

It was realistic.

They say they could return Habomai and Shikotan to Japan,
but the hand that had grasped them did not easily let go.
Even Kunashiri and Etorofu—while fully aware they were Japanese territory—
would make them fly into a rage if you demanded their return,
dismissing it as unrealistic with feigned ignorance.
A certain country proved more pragmatic still.
They had returned Amami Ōshima,
but only because they no longer needed it.
As for Okinawa—still firmly gripped—
they deployed measures like the Price Recommendations,
which couldn’t exactly be called unrealistic.

It couldn’t exactly be called unrealistic.

Trampled,
Japan
turned north and south,
thrashing about in its dreams—
was reality nothing but pimples?
Here and there,
erupting pimples.
Imported.
Those were the military bases.

“Gentlemanly Sensibility”
“It’s not at all like Mr. Baku, is it?”
Now that they mentioned it—indeed,
was I always meant for rags?
The ill-fitting buttons of

This outfit!
The senior who’d said “Wear it” and handed it over—
Better than rags, he’d said—
he’d sent them over, but

Unsinkable aircraft carrier Okinawa
Okinawa without the Shureimon Gate
Okinawa without Gokoku-ji
Okinawa without banyan trees
Okinawa without coral tree blossoms
Okinawa without Yanbaru ships in Naha’s port

The Okinawa within me after thirty years in Tokyo—
It was a completely different Okinawa, I realized.

Yet whenever I heard someone was from Okinawa,
I would ask what had become of the Shureimon Gate,
ask about Gokoku-ji’s condition,
inquire after the banyan trees and coral trees.

Soon it rose from the tragedy of war's devastation,
dragging its scarred body.
The place where Okinawa had managed to survive was
the "unsinkable aircraft carrier Okinawa."
Now, 800,000 miserable lives
were being driven into a corner of the deck,

On iron and concrete,
with no means to grow rice,
they were screaming “Give us death!”

Gears.

He managed to get shoes.

The moment he felt relieved—

His pants turned to rags.

Managed to get pants.

The moment he felt relieved—

The coat turned to rags.

Managed to get a coat.

The moment he felt relieved—

Back to square one again,

dragging ragged shoes,

he was out searching for shoes.

Entrance.
He was jolted awake by the doorbell’s ring.

He hurried to the entrance and found
it was about some goods for sale, you see.
"Well, I’m managing just fine," he declined.
"Just one would do,"
"Please buy it, I tell you."
When he hesitated and said to leave it for another time,
"Just looking’s fine,"
"But please just take a look, you see—"
Since he had no money, even looking at it was disagreeable to him.
He shook his head.

He readjusted the furoshiki bundle under his arm and looked around the entrance, but then spat out: “You live in this grand hinoki-built house—how can there be any rule saying you won’t buy even a single thing? How can there be such a thing?” It was exactly like my house—absolutely absurd.

First Poetry Collection.

"Garden of Speculation" was

It was my first poetry collection.

When I published that Garden of Speculation,

Without regard for my wife’s presence,
raising my voice,
I cried.
Has it really been fifteen or sixteen years since then?

Lately—once more—the time had come around again...
I had grown to want to publish a poetry collection—

When I tried talking to my wife,
She remembered that time and resented it,

“If you publish a poetry collection,”
“You’ll come crying again.”

Dine and Dash

Drinking and eating's
In the end, it all comes down to this.
He was expecting change to come when
he put his hand into his pocket,
but the money that should have been there wasn't there.
However, at that time he had definitely
stuffed it into his pocket.

Once again he tried putting his hand in, but
The money was supposed to be money he had picked up in the middle of town.
Apparently what he had just seen last night—
He was searching for the dreamt thousand-yen note.

Sheep.

Hand-to-mouth.

In the midst of living this rough life,
it seems even his appearance had changed.
Is my face an atomic bomb?
I wondered whether it had become like a hydrogen bomb -
and all because we're on Earth,
because we can't go without eating.
Yet here on Earth,
there exist things we wouldn't want to eat even in death -
things like my face,
they're atomic bombs and hydrogen bombs.
Despite this modern age,

The sheep remain unchanged even after the new year begins.
Though they have horns, these are coiled into spirals.
They eat paper and such,
gaze with gentle eyes,
and live on Earth.

Year-End Poem

The going rate for being a poet

The going rate for being a poet immediately turns to poverty.

Unfortunately, I’m also flat broke,

In that respect, I had the poet's credentials.
I created debts everywhere.
I even ducked under pawnshop curtains.
The poems I wrote were about debt or...

As a poet—utterly
a poet of paupers or debtors
a specialist in pawnshop patrons—
That’s what I was—a poet.
As I conjured up this self of mine
I held my hands over the fireless hibachi—but

This year would see this put away unused,
I muttered about storing it unused,
When I reached for the furoshiki bundle,
My wife helped while vowing to avoid shame.
A day unbefitting my nature.
That day,
I repaid my debts,
Though it felt utterly unlike me,
As if I'd committed some mistake.

There are days unworthy of one’s character.

So even demons acted awkwardly,

As they received back the money I had returned,
“Thanks to you,” they said,“we’re saved.”
They went on to express their gratitude.

Tuna and sardines.

“I want to eat tuna sashimi,”

my wife said something a human would say.

When told that, even I ended up acting somewhat human.

I began dreaming of tuna sashimi, but—
“If you don’t mind dying, then go ahead and eat it!”
I blurted out in a fit of anger.

My wife turned away with a huff, but
both husband and wife were each other’s tuna—
everyone on Earth is a tuna.
Tuna hate atomic bombs
and cower before hydrogen bombs,
living through this modern age in fits of anger.

One day, I peered at the dining table.
I said we were covered in ash from Bikini.
My wife switched her grip on the chopsticks to hold them upside down,
poked at the head of the charred sardine,
and muttered that it was hibachi ash.

A Withered Promise

As it was the house of a newlywed couple,
Though I felt sorry for them,
securing a period of about two months,
I pressed urgently for my family

they had allowed my family to stay in this house’s six-tatami room.

At the young couple’s place, it wasn’t long before

a girl was born,

and at my place we were relieved.

Next came a boy,

and at my place we were relieved again.

Now their next child

was about to be born,

and at my place we would soon

At my place, we were once again relieved—that was how it went.

Even so, how...

It's those long two months in between.

We’ve already been indebted to this house for five years,

As I gaze upon the withered promise in the six-tatami room,

How many more years like this...

by becoming indebted to Plus

Do they intend for us to become dependents for about two months?

At my place, we think of nothing but that.

I couldn't go a single day without thinking about it—but
when I thought about when we'd move，
it turned into a costly fantasy．
Unless we actually moved，it wouldn't be resolved．

Self-Interrogation

I’ve never once repaid,

and yet

If money comes in, this time for sure—

I keep resolving to repay—

I keep thinking—but

In other words, it’s a disease of not having money—

And so, occasionally,

When I actually get my hands on money,
In the relief of the moment,
I end up forgetting.

Knitting needles

The two who were the talk of the neighborhood—that particular pair—

They were there waiting for the bus—
For a Japanese-made woman, she was large-framed,
For an imported man, yet here he was—
He was indeed a small-statured man.

The two were standing facing each other—
The woman chewed gum steadily
while working on knitting
The man was watching her while
chewing gum himself
However no matter how long—

The bus did not come.

Before long, one of the knitting needles fell.

The two exchanged glances—
but when the large-framed Japanese woman pointed at her feet,
the small-statured foreign man hunched his back.

Turnip Pickles

As I was thinking the face looked familiar,

I realized it was Serida when he came announcing himself.

He had once come to press me for the manuscript.
He had come to visit my place.

At my place, as ill luck would have it, day after day of having nothing dragged on, so every time a visitor came, we as a couple would panic. Even so, as a substitute for tea, we served plain hot water and urged them to drink. As a substitute for tea sweets, we served turnip pickles and urged him to eat them. He, however, did not touch them at all—as if he were thoroughly pretending not to notice—and sat there stiffly and stubbornly. When we suggested he make himself comfortable by shifting his legs, he remained kneeling, insisting this was comfortable.

“Do you dislike the turnip pickles?” I asked.

He nodded with unguarded sincerity.

In today’s town, I
having met him as a token to bring home,
told my wife I’d met Serida—but

It didn’t immediately register with my wife.

When I said, "the one who hates turnip pickles,"

she nodded in recognition—"Ah, that Mr. Serida?"

Deer and Debt

In a corner of the Yamanote department store,

he ran a coffee shop there and—

delicious coffee—

he said he wanted to treat me.

He had a fishing boat near the cape and—

he said he wanted to take me fishing too.

What he prided himself on most was his gun—

before long,

shoot and bag a deer.

He said he wanted to treat me to deer dishes.

Every time I met him,

with those deer or fishing trips or coffee seeming about to materialize any moment,

I would look forward to such prospects,

peer into his face,

and find myself wondering if the time had finally come.

Yet there came an utterly unavoidable circumstance,

and I ended up borrowing money from him.

As if in exchange, that was the end of it.
The talk of treating me withdrew completely,
and demands for repayment alone came forth.

They told her to look right and left.

When it came to Mimiko,

every time they sent her on an errand,

they would stress, “Look right and left,”

but—

the front of their house opened right onto a road.

American cars

were constantly coming and going.

If you went right on the street,
in the direction of Shakujii,
their neighborhood lay just beyond that point.
To the left was the Mejiro area—
it led into the city center.
Mimiko, holding a shopping basket,
would always stop at that spot,
look right, look left, then look right once more
before crossing straight through
the street ahead.

The funeral.

I had borrowed nothing but money,

While walking around,
One day,
I died.
"So he finally died too?"

People were saying this while
coming to offer incense

One after another, they would clasp their hands in prayer and then leave from before me.

Having thus come to the other world,
there was my eldest son,
waiting with a swollen face.
When I asked, “What’s got you so sullen?”
he sulked about there being no feast from home
even during Obon.
I patted this eldest son of mine

I patted his head.

Even those who have become Buddhas—

When I think about them wanting things that cost money,
it seems just like living on Earth.
The other world too—
it’s as if there’s no this world either.

Accident.
From the direction of the back field path,
a tall figure and
someone who looked like a streetwalker emerged.
No wonder there
was a car there.

When he returned home,

As if she had been waiting for his return,

The Wife recounted the day’s events.
Just now,
the child from behind [our house]
had been struck
by an American automobile.

Banyan tree

I was born in Ryukyu, but
there—where subtropical and tropical
plants of all kinds make their home—
the banyan tree stands among them.
The older it grows, the longer
its aerial roots trail downward—
a tree that lets its limbs hang low.

It was a tree resilient against storms,

yet its gentle nature stood apart,

letting the children who came to climb and play

have their way,

yielding itself completely,

as if watching over grandchildren -

a tree with the air of a retired elder.

Ear and Naminoue Scenery

I often recalled
the scenery of Naminoue—
that azure of
the East China Sea—
overlooking
the azure—
the cliff that had set its massive neck.

Beyond the cliff—

Kerama Island

On the lawn, in the shade of rocks, scattered here and there—

Courtesans in yukata and bashōfu...
On certain days—agave and atan plants...
In between those...

Distant horizon

dugout canoes and

of the Yanbaru ships

Nostalgic sea

A landscape Okinawans cannot help but recall

When I was a boy
I had an ear ailment back then, but
In those days, I used to go to Naminoue
Because I used to swim and dive there.
Even now, when I catch a cold or the like,
my ear starts ringing
It’s a memory ear.

Seated statue
He—from some
high place—
like something that had come sliding down

Always there,
he was under the railway overpass.
Sat squarely,
even though he sat hunched over there,
he wasn’t praying to gods or anything like that.
He sat solidly in that spot,
while breathing quietly,
his own seat
he occupied on Earth,
wrapped his body in rags,
he lived with lice in tow, though
believing in humans,
he lived on.

Café

Whether I drink or not,
I am always here.

At least once a day I came to this café—
exactly like this,
was taking a breather—
The man who leaves letters had known this all too well—
he had come to urgently demand repayment of what I owed from before.
Between us—
After that, I met that person many times—

I had met him many times, but—

No matter how many times we met—each time we met—
he never failed to press me for repayment.
And so that day too,

In the rainy Ikebukuro Station square,
I thought, “Not again…” and stood frozen—
but apparently I had slipped
from his sight.

I stayed right there, hunched over and making myself small,
as if seeing off a demand that had missed its mark,
and watched his figure recede—
He folded his soaking wet umbrella,
without so much as a glance to the side,
thrusting out his chin,
and climbed the station stairs.

He ascended.

Memories of Hand-Me-Downs

As for the landscapes,
As for the customs,
As for what old Okinawa looked like—
Now they say not even a trace remains.
I listened to postwar
stories of my homeland
carried on the wind while
visualizing banyan trees,
deigo flowers,
and things like the bashōfu cloth
from my older brother’s hand-me-downs
that I wore walking about
in my boyhood days.

I visualized things like that in my mind’s eye.

A shadow.

He came to the awamori shop

While I was sitting before the awamori,

From behind came a tap.

I was tapped on the shoulder.

When I turned around to look, it was him again—

The other day at the station square,

The one who gave a light tap on my shoulder was also him.

Under the hanging strap of a crowded train

The one who gave a light tap on my shoulder was also him.

Riding, walking, drinking—

I could no longer afford carelessness.
He was always pursuing me,
always approaching from behind.
He would tap my shoulder
with deceptively amiable eyes,
then ask: “That money from before—
when will you return it?”
Debts.
Pleading.
He’d plead while prostrating himself.
I had been the one who borrowed from him,
yet—
His money—
He came demanding repayment.

as if prostrating himself before me

He begged.

He pleaded.

Apply moxa treatment.

With a terribly crooked back,

While clinging to a bamboo cane,

her straw sandal-clad, withered large feet

the one who had dragged them along step by step

It was the old woman from the western house.

The old woman propped her cane beside the door frame and

saying she had come to ask about the matter but... while

She stepped up onto the veranda and sat down.

She was asking if I could apply moxibustion for her.

According to rumors—and after all—

Because she was a lice-infested old woman,

I couldn’t help but shudder, though—

In any case, I lit the incense stick.
The old woman eventually shed her garments.
When she turned her back toward me,
timidly I edged forward on my knees.
I surveyed the withered back, but
thinking Now's my chance, hurriedly—
probed for the acupoint and there—
hurriedly placed the moxa and transferred the incense stick's flame.

I hurriedly transferred the incense stick’s flame.

The Western House.

“Cart-driver’s place,” “cart-driver’s place,”

In this area they called it—

They apparently disliked being called “cart-driver’s place.” In my household, we referred to that cart-driver’s place as the Western House. The Western House was a cart-driver’s place, so they had a freight wagon and kept a chestnut horse—it was clearly set up for transporting goods, but—

Merely being a cart-driver’s place—that alone—
The Western House’s work wasn’t limited to that.
They grew pumpkins.
They grew sweet potatoes.
They grew wheat.
They grew rice too.
Each season’s crops they grew—
They heaped them onto their own wagon.
The chestnut horse was the one that transported them.

One day

At the cedar grove.
I encountered the Western House’s wagon.
On the wagon rode a single old woman,
Wrapped in a blanket with her nape drooping.
The grandchild swayed the reins.

He said they were going to the town doctor.

Passing Encounter with a Girl

This path begins here

became uneven

Taking on a reddish tinge,

winding,

crawling its way into the pine forest.

The villagers would always

zigzag along this path when going out,

zigzag along this path when returning.

Both ox carts and horse-drawn carriages made rattling noises.
One day—this uneven path—
It twisted this way and that.

I encountered something like high heels—

At the passing exchange of greetings,

when I suddenly noticed,

I had only ever seen the Western House’s daughter dressed in work clothes.

It was the Western House’s daughter.

A Boston bag—

the Boston bag—

because she was carrying it,

Mimiko made a puzzled face but,

as usual,

she waved.

“Take care,”

she waved.

I too, as usual,

“I’ll be going now,” I said as I turned back, but

Before long, I passed through the pawnshop’s gate.

I passed through the pawnshop’s gate.

Late at night.

While saying, "I entrust this to you,"

the things I had wrapped in a cloth bundle and brought

When I rolled them out there to show,

the pawnbroker shook his head in refusal.

I pleaded if there wasn’t some way, but—

The pawnbroker shook his head again.
He stated that he was unable to accept it.

When I pleaded once more, “Isn’t there any way at all?—”

The pawnbroker kept shaking his head.

“Living creatures are out of the question.”

he declared he couldn’t take it in.

“Because it would be trouble if it died,”

I explained that I’d come to make this request,

but the pawnbroker shook his head over and over,

“If I were to take custody of a living thing,

the feed expenses would pile up

and it wouldn’t be profitable.”

That’s when I finally came to my senses.

When I turned on the light,

Just now, there—

Had just rolled out from the cloth bundle.
The wife was lying down with the daughter.

they were lying there.

Another’s liquor

I drank, sang, and danced, but

the next day, when asked the name of that shop,

I was at a loss for a reply.

Nothing but others’ liquor,

because I was walking around drinking others’ liquor,

there’s no need for a shop’s name.

Erudition and Ignorance

“Did you read that?”
“Did you read this?”
After being thoroughly reduced to ignorance,

"I said to that person: 'But Valéry-san—my work... He couldn't have read it.' That guy."

Well then,

If told to die,

When he asked if I intended to die,

"That guy shook his head and said.
'If you're planning to wait until you die,
I could die.'
Ship."

Citizens of civilization,

Earth aboard

A ship.

It wasn’t impossible to invent something.

From this world of endless squabbles

Earth to somewhere.

Didn’t you want to snatch it away?

Carrying debt

The borrowed money had already
exceeded 100,000 yen.
These funds to me—

The people who lent to me were all sorts.

Among them were conditions with deadlines.
There were also those who said, "Anytime is fine."

Since they were lending me something held in trust, there were those who said they wanted it returned as soon as possible, those who dismissed repayment as trivial, and even those who insisted it would be troublesome if I grew attached. In any case,

As I carried it around,
what grows heavy is debt.
That day—the debt I carried—
whether it’s ten thousand yen or however many ten thousands—
I felt this urge to repay it all at once—
I was seized by the impulse to be rid of it all.
However, as usual,

Because once again that day, he didn’t have a single penny to his name.
Still burdened with debt,
he went out to borrow more.

That very day, that very moment.

That very day, that very moment.

Without taking a thing,

the two were outside—

they had rushed out completely.

Even so—he—

his violin alone he kept clutching.

As for me—my own

thoroughly soiled canvas

handbag—I carried one,

The bag was stuffed full of—
poems he’d written and piled up.
Such memories—
kept piling on forever.

On September 1st
the earth shook

Okinawa—where do you go?

Island of sanshin lutes
Island of awamori spirits
Island of poetry
Island of dance
Island of karate

Papayas and bananas
an island where kunenbo citrus grows
cycads, agaves, banyan trees
hibiscus and coral trees blazing crimson
an island burning like flame

Now lured by nostalgia
when lost
again line by line
the island that birthed this me writing poems

Ryukyu now—name alone remains
not one trace of its former self preserved

On the island crawled roads as vast as the island itself—paved roads, they said. Walking those paved roads,

Ryukyu—
Okinawa—
Where do you think you're headed this time?

When I think back—long ago, Ryukyu...
Whether it belonged to Japan...
Or China...
It seems neither side had clearly understood the matter.

Now, it happened that one year—
Ryukyuans who had drifted to Taiwan
were killed by the indigenous people.

So Japan turned toward China and—

First, Japan tried to condemn the crimes of those Indigenous people, but—

China turned away and—

China declared that the Indigenous people were not something China had jurisdiction over.

So Japan, taking that as its cue,

subjugated the Indigenous people—but

it was China that panicked and made a move—

China dug in its heels and—

the indigenous people were under China’s jurisdiction,

This time—it’s said—they turned those words toward Japan.

Then Japan promptly seized that opening—things like military expense compensation and so-called condolence funds for victims’ bereaved families—and managed to extract these from China. From these circumstances, it came to pass that China recognized Ryukyu as belonging to Japan—or so it is said. And before long,

Under the abolition of feudal domains and establishment of prefectures,
Ryukyu was finally transformed—
now bearing the name Okinawa Prefecture—
as one member among three metropolitan prefectures and forty-three rural prefectures,
stepping resolutely onto Japan's path.

Now, in order to walk straight along Japan’s path—
Okinawa Prefecture’s inherent traits,
due to the Okinawan language, proved inconvenient and hindered progress.
Therefore, they studied Japanese
or seized every opportunity

they attempted to live their lives in Japanese

Okinawa Prefecture has walked Japan’s path.

Looking back since the Abolition of Feudal Domains and Establishment of Prefectures—
Okinawa Prefecture had walked this path for over seventy years—
Thanks to that, even someone like me—
Every corner of life had become Japanese—
whether eating meals, writing poetry, crying, laughing, or getting angry—
I had lived every aspect of my life in Japanese—
Trivial things like war—
the nation of Japan did—
Even so,

The Island of Sanshin

The Island of Awamori

Okinawa,

The wounds are terribly deep, I hear—

Regain your strength and come back.

Do not forget the sanshin.

Do not forget awamori.

Return to the Japan of the Japanese language.

You must return to Japan.

The mail carrier.

One morning when he overslept
As he was brushing his teeth at the back well
the opposite

It emerged from the village.

A red bicycle caught my eye.

The bicycle wound along the path through the fields,

making its way toward me.

Normally it would circle this area first in reverse order,

then head toward

the other village,

winding its way there as usual—or so I thought.

As I pondered this,

As I watched the red bicycle,

Unlike the regular mail carrier,

The person was different.

*Song of Taxes*

*Upon the Earth*

I rushed around frantically.

When it comes to taxes—they don't pursue me much.

For someone like me, it's almost a blessing.

Even when they do come after me—as much as possible—

Taxes—the lighter they are—

The more they might align with everyone's ideals—

Even as I thought such thoughts—

I wasn't wishing for tax exemption,

Nor did I possess enough belongings to warrant seizure—

I am not a man of means.

In my own household—

Even the living expenses that must be paid—

Even the living expenses that had to be paid were currently falling behind.

Even if I had to borrow money, I wanted to somehow pay my taxes—

*Upon the Earth*

I rushed around trying to raise money.

However, everywhere I turned,

I was a man who had already taken advances—so it was.

Now, in a corner of the Earth,
vainly resting its wings.

I was thinking about how to pay my taxes.

O cultural nation!

I wanted you to lend me your ear for a moment.

the period until a poet like me becomes a cultural figure who can make a living through poetry
Is there no cultural method by which the state could cover tax payments?

That field.

Both coming and going,

they passed in front of that field.

At dusk when approaching that spot,

the shadows of cedar groves would sometimes fall.

One day, for that field,

a commotion broke out and became entangled.

One side shouted to return the field,

but the other side stubbornly refused to return it.

Afterward, every time they saw that field,

Besides the shadows of cedar groves,
the shadow of the Revised Farmland Act would sometimes be cast as well.

Revealing the Backstory

On this day he brought his family along,
moved from the evacuation site to Tokyo,
and settled into the Tsukida household in Nerima.
Mimiko was looking around the area when
she asked “If we stay two nights then we’ll all go back...
to our home in the country.”

Mimiko asked if we were going back.

I shook my head no—
Back during the evacuation, I would
frequently don an iron helmet
and make two-night trips to Tokyo.

Mimiko eventually returned from the edge of the garden, but—

“Tokyo’s garden—isn’t there one anywhere?

Just a dung heap...”

She came wondering if there weren’t any.
I hurriedly got to my feet.
While recalling a corner of a countryside garden—
if you asked if it was pee, they’d say it outright—
they came nodding with straight faces.

Tone River

The water had already reached its basin’s

It must have been because it had encroached upon fields and paddies.

Over there, clumps formed.

Over here, clumping together.

Straw scraps and debris came washing down.
The straw scraps and debris bore vast numbers—
a swarm of locusts clung and swarmed along.
The iron bridge had completely lost its height;
even their small triangular heads
were now in imminent danger of collision?
When they reached that point,
as if scattering spray—

A swarm of locusts all took flight at once.

Parent and child

Starting from those wide-open eyes,

Mimiko was precisely—
She took after her father.
The more I looked at my face,
there didn’t seem to be a single feature of hers that didn’t match.
Whether it was her nose or her ears—each and every part—
every one of her features came to look exactly like mine.
However, there was just one thing—
something I’d been secretly fretting over—
even her way of walking, perhaps again—
with a gait like her father’s—mine—
as if getting tangled up—
I’d been secretly worrying that Mimiko too might start walking like that.
I’d been secretly concerned about that.

Before long, Mimiko began to walk—but

"It was nothing at all."

Toddling along unsteadily,

toward the sound of clapping hands,

she stepped straight and firmly upon the earth.

Aiko

Amidst the commotion, I boarded the train,

I had my wallet pickpocketed.

As I was seething with resentment over having been pickpocketed,

the fact that I was seething with resentment

became absurd and made me want to burst out laughing.

"Oh, don’t get so worked up about it,"

I wanted to tell myself—that foolish self of mine.

Though there wasn’t enough money to even keep in the wallet—

There was no money to speak of, but—

The wallet was filled with nothing but everyone’s business cards,

swollen to the point of nearly bursting.

By now, the guy who stole it might also—

with a clueless look

To the wallet stuffed with nothing but business cards,
he might have been seething with resentment.
The bastard must have surely
come to the area around the iron bridge,
stealthily tossed that wallet
out the window.

Wind from the island.

So now that it’s come to this,

that it was a wonder to be alive

The guest from the island said this and

[They] concluded their account of personal wartime experiences.

Now, as for the island lately—
When asked what it was like,
"What way? There's no 'way' to speak of—"
he said it was an island under foreign military administration.
The island still struggled for breath, but—
in any case, supplies overflowed there—
whether luxury goods or daily necessities—
there was nothing that wasn't imported—
even flowers, apples, and eels
rode airplanes around
he said they came from the sky.
The guest then put his hand into his pocket—
"But this is an Okinawan product," he declared,
casually tossing over a single cigarette.

Peach tree

Time—when it came to time,

Grandpa’s meal is served.

A voice would call out Grandma’s meal was served.

At the feet of the two were their respective

The old meal trays would be brought in.

The trays were always dulled.

Besides rice,

Freedom of thought

something like freedom of speech

Things like Appréter are loaded on them, but—

If you say anything at all, you’re immediately

the mechanism of being told “Shut up and eat” and getting beaten down

Only rations were loaded on them.

The old man and old woman remained silent.

They faced each day’s meal tray.

As if being tested to see how long they could live,

They would pick at their rations and eat them.

It happened one morning.

It was still too early for the meal trays to be set out.

In the garden, peach blossoms were blooming.
Both the old man and the old woman went down into the garden.
They stretched their bent backs,
but yawned up at the sky.

Shinobazu Pond

I had come to visit the pond, but—

On the lawn, I saw it.

In this broad daylight, they were there,
as if they were already foreign imports themselves,
flaunting their kissing.
One wore a square cap.
The other was wearing green clothes.
The pond had already—thanks to the war—
been transformed into substitute rice paddies, but—
the pond had no means left to reflect even the shadows of kisses.
The rice paddies remained as they were, completely dried up.

When he left that place,

Where he had exited,

A small amount of water was seeping.

Was there truly nowhere else to go beyond this point?

The land's belly turned inside out,

The fleet of boats was starving.

It began again.

They were all around me,

They flew about with unbearable clamor.

In a fit of frustration,

I would set my pen down there,

I would crush each and every one of them

I would crush them with my palm,

or smash them against the veranda.

They were mosquitoes—

long-legged ones or moths,

they were gold beetles or rhinoceros beetles.

One night.
A single rhinoceros beetle.
The rhinoceros beetle clung to the lampshade of the lampstand.

I set down the pen.

I grabbed the rhinoceros beetle by its neck.
I rushed out to the veranda still holding it.
Then my wife made an unnecessary remark.

"It’s started again," the Wife said.

His death in battle—

Through wind-carried whispers, his—

I had heard of his death in battle, but—
the stray bullet’s—
More than bullets—

Rather, within the defeat itself—

I recalled the bloody mist of his suicide.

He usually

someone like me

hadn’t meant to intimidate me, but—

he’d put out a poetry collection titled Ōkimi’s Poems

Or perhaps—

someone like me

It wasn’t that he’d been mocking me or trying to smooth me into compliance, but—

Since he’d been shouting things like “The Emperor is poetry!”

Enticed by his beloved sword,

Could it not be that he’d committed suicide?

Tomoe

When he said, "Being your companion is hard,"

“So he came and said, ‘Wait here like this,’”

Mimiko would pinch her nose and show it.

So I pinched my nose.

“Oh, stinky!” I said.

“No way! Mimiko’s not—”

“Mimiko’s not stinky at all!” she said.

When I said, "Even Mimiko's poop is no good,"
"Mom’s always like—"
"‘Oh, what a lovely smell!’ she says,"
"she's the one who says it, you know!"
"But she’s the one who says it!"
"Mom says such rude things."
"Even though she’s always pinching her nose,"
"And then in that same nasal voice,"
"Because she says ‘Oh, what a lovely smell!’"

Jōban Line Scenery.

Those hanging on.

Those clinging on.

Those clinging even to the edges of the roof.

They all jostled there,

alive, vivid and glowing, but—

Every way of living—
life laid bare—
nothing but makeshift—
They are human beings.
The train at times—

about them,

It tried taking them aboard but shook them off and went on.

Those lying scattered across the tracks.

Those sinking into paddies.

At times again,

rolled into

those becoming ripples in the Tone River’s water

A certain doctor

In Ginza, suddenly—

was called out to
I was treated to tea
and even offered hand-rolled cigarettes.
When I became thoroughly flustered,
a business card
was presented to me.
he said, "Please don't hesitate to contact me if anything comes up."
Looking at it—on the business card—
it read "Doctor."
I secretly knew about his
medical college days—
how he had failed repeatedly—
but had those worries vanished now?
The Doctor looked utterly refreshed,
wearing a freshly grown mustache there as if bundling up society,
as if bundling [society]

newly grown

He wore a mustache.

Button-up boots.

Ton— was pointing at those pictures.

When he pointed to each one and asked,

Mimiko answered.

When he asked, “What’s this?”

“Hat.”

When he asked about that,

“Rabbit.”

When he asked about this,

“Drum.”

When he asked about that,

“Chick.”

When he asked about this,

“Shoes.”

At that moment Ton—

“Alright then, those shoes...”

When he asked, “What kind of shoes are these?”

She tilted her head and paused,

then declared, “Teeny-weeny shoes!”

First Dream of the New Year

This year for sure—

The dreams I have

A dream of building a house with persimmon shingle roofing.
One room for the child and wife’s bedroom.
One room was my study.
Two rooms would be plenty—

A dream of building my house

To live and die there—
Trying to repeat

About seven tsubo—

A dream of building a house

"This year for sure—"
But even figuring ten thousand yen per tsubo,
a dream costing seventy thousand.

Train.

Trains are supposed to have fixed departure and arrival times.

The scheduled time is supposed to be a promise—

Departures are frequently delayed

Its arrival too was frequently delayed.
People crouched there because of that.
Some stood frozen over there; others squatted here.
They crossed their arms and stroked their chins,
yawning as they congregated heavily.
They kept waiting for the delayed promise.
But even this scientific vehicle—

Or was it an unscientific vehicle?
Through delays occurring time and again—
It did break its promises—
Yet through delay—
Never once did it keep them.

The straw outhouse.

Blue peach-like,

Exposing her bare buttocks,

Mimiko squatted there, but

she suddenly noticed something on the footboard.

"There's foxtail millet here."

"That’s strange," I said.

"It’s not strange—it’s foxtail millet," she said.

"But it’s a country outhouse."

"But it’s straw," she said.

Indeed, even though the surroundings were straw,

was what had fallen a foxtail millet spike?

As he was looking around—that’s when it happened.

Mimiko lifted her entire buttocks up and pointed. “Found it!” she declared. There it was—a single stalk of foxtail millet, that rascal—disguising itself among the straw. Tone River. Its watershed—

The watershed had already yellowed.
The water gradually
grew turbid.

The water gradually swelled.
The water flowed grazing the iron bridge.
People were just like—
like Wanko would do—
They ran up to the top of the embankment.
They had been watching the water’s movements, but
came running down

They climbed up again.

Cabbage.

Even if they grew enough to sell,

While muttering “There’s no one here,” yet—
from the field right behind there
they would pick one or two and bring them back.
When I took out my wallet and asked, “How much is it?”
They shook their head sideways.
They said they didn’t need money and told me to take it.
But when I asked again how much it was,
“After all, we’re not strangers.”
“It’d be a shame to take such steep payment.”
They come thinking they shouldn’t accept payment.
“But anyway—how much was it?”
When they said I hadn’t come to take it for free,

"A pure cotton hand towel," they'd proposed while approaching me.

Even then, the cabbage kept its silence.

Whether one tried selling or not selling, buying or not buying—

That cabbage should have just stayed quiet.

Fly.

In this land they called us
Evacuees—dismissively labeled us evacuees.

Those at the charcoal shop were
Charcoal Shop Evacuees.

Those at the egg shop were
Egg Seller Evacuees.

Gamae of the Previous House Evacuees

Ura of the Back House Evacuees

My family too was all together there,
because we were clinging to the Yasuda family's back.

they dismissively called us Yasuda Evacuees.

Eventually everyone would leave this land—

be driven out or take flight—

those in geta and those in shoes—

we were flies.

We rubbed our hands together like this, but toward the heavens we fretted over each other’s worries—Darkness and ※(Marukō)—I received sweet potatoes, received green onions, tobacco leaves—how many exactly—It’s true that I received them—I went to receive—

It wasn’t that I had come to receive.

Evacuees—it’s truly pitiful, I said.

The farmer peered in through the back door and—

offered “Eat this,” so I took it.

He peered in again and—

offered “Smoke this,” so I took it.

This was how our association began—

My wife and I together had 150 yen.

We lent it to that farmer.

The farmer soon came to repay the debt, but

asked if we wouldn’t accept repayment in rice,

a one-shō measure exactly of

left the darkness there

The money I lent was ※(Marukō), but—

Yamaguchi Izumi

At the mouth that answers when spoken to,

Even if the child were to get lost, there was a mechanism in place so she’d immediately return—

A mechanism had been put in place to ensure she would return.

If someone asks your name,

Yamaguchi Izumi

If someone asks “Mother,”

Yamaguchi Shizue

If someone asks “Father,”

Yamaguchi Jūsaburō

If someone asks how old you are,

she answers "Four".

However, since this mechanism was so mischievous,

Sometimes she would face the dirt floor and call out, “Hey, Shizue!” Sometimes she would come near the desk and blurt out, “Jūsaburō-ya!”

Mimiko’s Independence

“Don’t you wear Papa’s clogs!”

I saw the situation and warned,

“Papa’s things—”

“She wouldn’t wear them.”

“I’ll borrow Papa’s clogs and—”

“Mimiko’s clogs,” she declared. “I’ll wear them.”

While spinning such flimsy logic,

Mimiko, with her little feet,

dragged along the cutting board-like clogs.

In the dirt-floored area, in one corner,
On top of the straw sack,
With red thongs,
The red clogs
Waited lined up with the pumpkin.

Mimiko
was born having forgotten to bring along a penis—
she was a child born that way.
In that single aspect alone she took after her mother,
while her double eyelids and the shadows beneath them,
those large eyes came from her father.
In essence, she was a child of mixed heritage—
a blend of Ibaraki Prefecture
and Okinawa Prefecture.
Hoping she might grow into someone blessed with abundance,
they had named her Izumi*, but—
the neighbors called this child
Izumiko-chan or

Imiko-chan or

they ended up calling her Imiko-chan and such,

If one were to ask the spring its name, that very spring—

with a straight face,

would answer "Mimiko."

The veranda’s sunny spot．
When she was asked her age，with those small fingers—
she silently held up four．
When I teased，“No mouth to answer with？”
she puckered her mouth into a point．

She declared “four,”
would climb onto Papa’s lap and
pluck Papa’s white hairs.

At some point, this Papa too—
the white strands called gray hairs—
had begun sprouting here and there across his head, but
with Mimiko being just four years old,
forty-five-year-old Papa panicked.
Since the gray hairs needed immediate cultivation,
there was no time for sunbathing or such luxuries.
By the time I send Mimiko off to marry,
I’ll have my head fully whitened,
and as for this waist of mine—
I must bend it into a curve.”

Steam.
It looked white enough, but
when had it
sneaked its way into such a place?

I suddenly thought while peering at my crotch.

When I finished washing and peered again,
what lurked there was precisely
a white kinky hair.
I pretended not to notice,
slowly once more,
sank back into the bath.

Leaving only my neck exposed,
I closed my eyes.

Appraising Dreams

And again from the next one too

come flying

Again from the next one too

come flying

From deep within the past,

taking off one after another,

spreading their wings,

come flying.

While holding the pinnacle of beauty high above their heads,

spreading their wings,

come flying.

They come flying, and yet—

Is their flight toward me still part of the dream?
Come flying—bombs,
Come flying—again bombs,
It always gets cut off there.
Signpost

They were all

They had indeed been lurking.

Ants, flies, caterpillars—

Spiders, snakes, frogs—each took up positions in their chosen spots,
calling out to the season in unison.
Brother-in-law had gradually resumed his activities—
wearing a headband and carrying a handmade harpoon,
he had started going out to the upper field.

This year, he still hadn’t caught a single one.
He hadn’t seen any creature taken down by the harpoon yet,

The damn moles were already ravaging the upper field, it was said.

At last, even here in this place, the world had entered a time when all that lay ahead was intensifying heat.

Had it truly reached a point where all that remained was for the heat to intensify?

They all

had been lurking, but

drawn by the greenery, they had begun vigorously manifesting themselves on the ground in all manner of forms.

In the neighboring village—already at that hamlet’s entrance—

a summer-facing pole

they erected.

By resolution of the village council, it stated:

Beggars and

pushy peddlers and similar persons from entering

it states: "We hereby refuse entry."

Residents

To the locals, they are excessively polite,

They would lay out straw sandals and offer them, but
to evacuees, did they feign ignorance?
In this way, someone like me—
no matter where I went, I ended up being treated shabbily—
watching what the barber's old man was doing,
I had indeed been misunderstanding.
The old man was truly—
the old man had devised a clever scheme.
Even if it seemed absurdly polite, those
were sandals meant to keep the wooden floor from getting dirty,
since all the locals came
straight from the fields
with muddy feet.

The house to the east would buy a clock and announce they'd bought a clock; buy a radio and announce they'd bought a radio; build row houses and announce they'd built row houses.

Even though no one asked them to, they kept doing nothing but those things—they came to report each and every thing—announcing they had bought it with rice and built it with rice. In other words, that was their boast. At the house to the east, that day too—had they acquired this one too using rice? The only daughter with her hair done up in a Shimada-style chignon,jostled along by oxen and horses—they had acquired a groom.

Evacuees

Whether coming or going, it kept catching on their faces.

The village paths were plagued by spider webs.

So the brother-in-law cut a young bamboo from the grove behind the house and brought it out.

He cut down a single young stalk and brought it back.

The bamboo was soon turned into a stick.

I would swing the bamboo stick around,

Sweeping away spider webs,
I would swing it around to sweep them away.
I would hurry along the predawn path to the town station—
At dusk, I would take up the stick again,
Returning to the village while swinging it around and around.
One day at my workplace in Tokyo,
I came home having left the stick behind.

When my wife told me to look, I turned—
On the freshly discarded steel helmet
A soot-colored spider clung.

Bento

I was squatting in the ticket gate line,

Before my eyes as I opened my bento,

A bloated, bluish face came to a stop.

A single sweet potato, its surface studded with grains of rice—

I gave it to him.

I was in the middle of eating when he stopped before me again.

Was he a war orphan or a malnourished child?

Two figures in speckled coats now stood there.

When I gave them one each, they snatched them up and vanished into the dust.

I would start eating, and he would stop again.

But it was the same bloated, bluish one from before—

As our eyes met, he dropped a curt nod and veered away.

So I hurriedly finished eating the rest. Looking back, had we been too honest—had we grown shabby—the lunchbox of a defeated nation itself—even as it was, there wasn't enough to eat—

Bamboo Grove and Its Scenic Accents

After walking around and surveying the bamboo grove,

The buyer said this:
“A bundle was twenty ryō.
“Estimating a hundred bundles at two thousand ryō—”
So the matter was settled immediately.

The old woman received the first heavy sum of money in her hands.
She had turned eighty-two years old, they said.
The heir scrutinized the old woman’s complexion.

The heir looked at her and said,
"You can't afford to die carelessly in this world."
"A coffin costs a thousand ryō," he added.

So the matter was settled immediately.

The money was meant to become funeral expenses.

The money passed from the old woman’s hands into her heir’s.

The bamboo grove suddenly
thinned out,
grew sparse,

When Mount Tsukuba came into view, the old woman muttered.

Land 〈1〉

He crossed the Tone River.

When I transferred to a private railway,
the train car suddenly became

It took on the character of this land.

Bastard! You idiot!

This bastard and things like—

Such words kept flooding into my ears.

Was this how the land was taken on its true character?

In this predicament—

It was because we’d evacuated.

When I spoke to my wife, who was born in this land,

Wife was somewhat flustered, but—

“You idiot—”

as if she’d missed her chance to say it

Okinawa-born

Despite being Okinawa-born—

Land 〈2〉

To the east, a persimmon tree; to the west, an oak tree.

To the south, a pine grove mixed with chestnut trees.

To the north and east stretched a bamboo grove.
Backed by this grove stood
a house hunched beneath a weather-beaten corrugated iron roof,
its tilted posture suggesting a perpetual state of bewilderment.
This was our evacuation shelter -
the ancestral home of Wife's family.

The old woman who had been in the dim back room rose to her feet and came out to the veranda. She opened her toothless mouth. "Well, you made it," she said. Her face closely resembled my wife's younger sister's.

The old woman extended both hands while

The old woman said to the baby on the wife’s back,
“Well well, you little rascal.
Did you come, you little rascal?”

Land 〈3〉

The longer you lived there, the more everything around you transformed into all sorts of bastards.

They turned into all sorts of bastards.

Even the baby from our evacuation days—

Before I knew it, she had completely become Mimiko the little bastard,

in patch-covered work pants,

red sandals with red straps,

now trod this land with ease.

When she saw a rat,

“Rat bastard.”

When she saw a cat,

“Cat bastard.”

Sometimes she’d even hurl things like “You bastard! You idiot!”

at her old man of a father—me.

While thinking of wanting to leave this land before it transformed—

The author—
they tried praising it,
tried criticizing it—
and each time subjected to public criticism,
you delighted in the scales.

That criticism and
This work and

The Nose Episode

Once you saw it and declared—

If I were to end up like that—
If my nose were to break—

You said you wouldn’t go on living.
You said you wouldn’t go on living, but—
When you saw that your own nose had fallen off
And then you said this.
You said that as long as there’s life, there’s happiness.
As long as there’s life, there’s happiness—
You said that, but even so—

Can you even perceive the smell of things?
Like those with noses do,

You went about sniffing at this world and tilting your head in puzzlement, but—
It seemed your time to step forward had come.
In a manner so like the wind it was hard to tell,

You wore a mask on your face,
embracing the life that had survived,
making your entrance like someone with a nose—
but in the heat of the moment tore off that mask.
Was it fox-colored,
or tanuki-hued?
The ruins of a nose lay exposed,
sniffing the stench of defeated nation.
A rat.
Having discarded life's living half,
a single rat like bas-relief
swelled up mid-street.
Soon flattened.
Wheels slid over,
pressing it iron-flat.
Wheels.
Sliding over again and again,

They pressed the rat like an iron.

The rat gradually became flatter.

As it became flatter,

the rat,

of a single rat

It was no longer a rat, nor even a single entity anymore,
Even the shadow of its death had vanished completely.

One day, when I went out into the street,

A single flat object

Battered by the sun, it had warped.

Brother’s Letter

“Write a grand poem”

“A grand poem—”

He wrote that he’d grown utterly sick of my mundane diary entries.

It’s not that I willingly write small poems

or poems of trivial daily matters—

My poems—

Can you hear?

O tattered, threadbare sad poems—

Without even being able to buy myself a single suit of Western clothes,

O paltry poems of a sixty-five yen monthly salary—

You smolder in Bentencho’s four-and-a-half-mat apartment,

At every sound fluttering up

floundering about

O poems living like dust—

Can you hear what my brother’s letter says?

Become grand poems.

Into grand poems

Conscripted.

In the dead of night like this

Who was coming

I thought someone would knock, but

This was truly the visage of this world—it had completely disguised itself in khaki color, declaring it had to rise immediately, declaring it had to rise immediately—the visage of this world’s khaki color. When I thought back, it had been in such a flurry—had it cast off its usual garment? It reeked of the other world.

As for the temple person,

I can’t see him.

Cello

Fuchigami-kun’s letter came flying in as if he had returned from the past to meet me.
Ten years ago, from what I had heard, he was supposed to be a future cellist—yet here he came asking me to write a preface for his poetry collection.
The amateur at prefaces was flustered, but he told me to write it, citing our ill-fated bond.

Ten years ago’s
O future cellist—
Without playing the cello,
Did you sing?
When I heard, it had been so long—
So very long—
They say he’d forgotten the cello and lay supine.
The cello’s back must also be aching.
Ten years ago’s
O that cellist—

Without the cello sounding,

Poetry rang out.

Corner
Bear children
In keeping with the "Multiply" zeitgeist
The Wife said she was complying with national policy.
Even when it came to food,
she declared she wouldn’t eat her beloved wasabi for the time being,
she ate small fish bones and all.
The things the Wife said
In her actions,
Her private flavor had disappeared,
her belly had grown prominent.

One day

I was gazing

From the corner where a cherry tree stood,

A big belly appeared.

Of course, I recognized it at a glance as that splendid national policy—"Be Fruitful and Multiply"—but

that this was my wife's figure only became clear

after some time had passed,

the belly arriving first while she trailed behind it looking sorrowful—

She appeared, gasping for breath.
Those eyes.
That nose.
I realized upon seeing.
Words descended from heaven—
this way I had of speaking,
they said was exactly like my poetry.
So I

I spoke again.
After all, since I am a poet too.

It wasn’t just my way of speaking that resembled my poetry.

The way of eating rice,

the way of laughing,

the way of thinking about things,

the way of loving,

down to the way of pooping—

all were exactly like my poetry.

So my poetry wonders: When will it ascend to heaven again, having descended to this earthly plane? Even through the lens of classical literary styles, for them to become poetry, there absolutely must be at least one poet required. Mingling into the increasingly violent and tumultuous clamor of so-called civilizations—becoming things like “nari ni keri” or “tari”—those classical styles have seeped even into everyday language.

A poet who can make a living - just one.

At every turn of life,

I absolutely must have poetry.

Even when I'm sad, I need poetry,

When I'm lonely, if there's no poetry -

I only become lonelier still.

I always need poetry.

Even when starving, I wrote poetry.

Even during that time when I wanted to get married,
there was a poem expressing my desire to get married.
Even after getting married, several poems about marriage came into being.
When I think about it, this too was a poet's life.
At every turn of my life,
it was all things that seemed to require poetry—
even Wife was there.
Had Wife completely learned the taste of poetry?
Lately, she preferred to eat sour things and such.

She demands a single poem from me.
When a child comes into being—another one.

A poem about the child's arrival.

Blood.

Mr. Saito pronounced.

The matter of saying "dandan dan"

pronounced it as "tantandan dan"

It was about 'yappari' being 'yahari'.

He pronounced it as "yapari".

the matter of school

kakkou

the matter of geta

He pronounced it as 'keta'.

In this manner, Mr.Saito first began by

his own name, Saito,

he pronounced it as "Saidō"

What could not be denied was blood—but
raw to the point of sorrow,
Continent
Ocean
Sky—of course—
Even at the tip of a single human tongue
bloods were already warring—blood against blood.
No matter who asked him
Mr. Saito never spoke
the land of his birth.
He would say it, yes—
furrowing his brow between the eyes
he pronounced it: “Kyushu.”