Pathway to Japanese Literature

Glass Plate Fetus

Never born, yet already dead.

The glass plate fetus

within the veil of alcohol

slumbers dimly even at noon.

Slumbers dimly even at noon.

The helpless sleep of the fetus

in alcohol’s silver dream

is a gloomily clouded Arabic numeral 3.

Never born, yet already dead.

O fetus—your contemplation

still does not shatter the glass today,

blooming ghostly pale in flower’s form.

Grandmother

Grandmother gathers fireflies

From within palms cupped like peach fruits

She offers many fireflies.

Grandmother gathers moonlight

From within palms cupped like peach fruits

She offers abundant moonlight.

Short Song

On tree branches，egg-like clusters swelled.

Day by day，they ripened abundantly.

Unbeknownst，the heart trembled

Dimly，life grew

On tree branches，egg-like clusters swelled.

Fish

The fish belly

White, it shone

The fish belly
swelled as dusk approached.
The fish chorus
chirped thinly through the sky—
they flipped their glowing bellies
and cast their spawn among cloud-breaks.

How happy the fish were!

Dripping down, dripping down

They fell like wind chimes

The Song of the Performer Parting from the King

Danced in the sky

Ascended dancing

The fountain is lament and sorrow

People
Become flowers drooping at the nape
In mourning’s sunlight
Flowers scatter.
Flowers scatter.
Behold

Here manifested the figure of His Majesty.

The sarasa cloak billowed in the wind.

When the elephant advanced slowly,

The august throne swayed.

Swayed and glowed.

The gold and silver bells rang out.

The elephant's trunk
Was at times lifted into the sky
Expanding and contracting
Merrily
Merrily it proceeded
Steadily
The drawbridge was lowered
The pivot creaked

People
They wiped their waking eyes.
And thus

The sun declined.

The sun sank.

The indigo-blue shadow crossed over the hill.

Here manifests the figure of His Majesty.

Nay—the utmost

Nay—the utmost

Here manifests the figure of His Majesty.

Evening dusk

Evening dusk

Climbing the faintly white stone steps

The woman—

The woman—
Closing her eyes
With a faint whisper,
Hunching her back,

She offered prayers to the Honorable Buddha.

Alone.

The pale-skinned temple child

Such an evening dusk.

He came to know the journey of human spirits.

Nina

Nina
Nina with blue-tinged dark circles under her eyes
Nina is leaves of evening light.
Her shoulders too were gaunt,
She walked away with hurried footsteps.
Nina
To Nina
Won’t someone engage in devout love?

Story

The long, long love story I am reading——

Is that what you wished to hear?

A bird had come and alighted on the midnight roof.

It rested quietly there, drenched in moonlight—

The long, long sin story I was reading——

Was it listening to this—even a bird's form at such an hour of night?

Motionlessly hunched its neck,

Unnoticed, it seemed to weep moss-like.

Night.

Tarō

Night deepens; he eats white flowers.

Tarō

Tarō

Are those flowers tasty?

If tasty, drenched in dew.

Night deepens; he eats white flowers.

Tarō

Tarō is truly lonely.

My cat

My cat has grown quite old.

Its fur soiled upon the dusk window frame,
it lamented the dreamlike fading daylight—
its clam-shaped face traced with threads—
the two eyes ever sleeping.

My cat has grown quite old.
From its two sleeping eyes stream silver-like tears.
When dusk falls and wakes it from the cold,
startled by the darkened surroundings,
it mistakes its own tears for milk and ends up licking them.

My cat has grown quite old.

Untitled

Quietly，quietly

On the slope of the valley lamenting eternity

Forgetting even years and months，I had stopped.

Hands bent supplely.

Clothes were soaked like seaweed.

I had stopped like a menial servant.

Enveloped in lonely silver light,

In that pale blue light,

Unawares, I had aged.

I had become an uncanny tree.

I had stretched out two moss-hued branches.

I had become a leafless, uncanny tree.

When night came,
The tree fixed its lonely gaze.
Quietly, it gazed at the sky where stars marched in formation.
From a strange corner of the windless sky,
Small blue-headed vulture-like birds would emerge
Dancing down like plates,
They eagerly gathered and rested their wings.
Those eyes grew moist and gleamed basely.
They rubbed against each other their shins covered in layers of dirty scales.
From between their shins dripped something like white saliva.
These birds tilted their potato-shaped heads.

Due to unappeasable hunger, their bodies trembled constantly.
The birds' hearts were as covetous as sheep.
From their skin drifted an unbearable stench.
Therefore, the tree's heart was sorrow,
it gradually lost words.

At dawn,
It had bridged its inexpressibly indolent heart like a rainbow.

Black flag

I had a skull that gradually sharpened its dome.
I had shoulders like a cormorant that rose higher each day and soared.
Delighting in the coldly sharpened roots of brows upon my forehead, like a crab at dusk I groomed and polished my own limbs.
Whenever I heard flowing water at night, I would don mantis garb and cross the stone bridge's railing.
Startled by sounds, I would permeate walls to hide from bats' senses.
And at dawn, I would erase my footprints and dart along the shore like a beach hopper.

Behold――

Even today in that city, at night, black flags for several citizens who met with gruesome deaths had been erected on its tower and were quietly fluttering—did you not see?

Treetop Tale

Treading through deep fallen leaves at midnight, a bear with a single white candle lit on its back swayed its body as it approached the ginkgo tree.
Enveloping the surroundings, the sound of its rough breathing faded into the forest’s silence.

From the treetop of the ginkgo tree，a man who appeared to be Russian gazed at this mysterious beast with its rich fur.

“Papa!”
“It’s Mama!”

“Papa!”
“Mama!”

The voice of the dead child turned into a bird and could be heard coming from the sky.
The dead wife became a bear and walked toward the forest.
That was impossible.
Such a thing was impossible，he thought at the treetop.

Yesterday is nowhere to be found.

Yesterday is nowhere to be found.

In the drawer of that chest of drawers over there,

In the drawer of this desk as well,

Yesterday is nowhere to be found.

Is that a photograph from yesterday?

There you are standing.

There you are laughing.

Is that a photograph from yesterday?

No, there is no yesterday.

Today’s clock strikes today.

There is no yesterday’s clock.

Today’s clock strikes today.

Yesterday is nowhere to be found.

Yesterday’s room is nowhere to be found.

That is today’s window hanging.

That is today’s slippers.

What is sad today belongs to today.

It is not yesterday’s matter.

Yesterday is nowhere to be found
What is sad today belongs to today
No, it is not sad
What could possibly be sad?

Yesterday is nowhere to be found.
What could be sad?
Yesterday is nowhere to be found.
There you were standing.

There you were laughing.

Yesterday is nowhere to be found.

By the water

Who could have been standing by this water’s edge?
Who could have come through this forest?
(—Along the forest path, a clear sky route had been visible.)

Who could have lingered in this dusk?
Who could this have been, head bowed, smoking a cigarette?
(—The smoke from a cigarette never rose in the same shape twice.)

Between the mountains, the day truly faded quickly.
Gazing at the sky quick to darken, noticing how that day’s sun still glowed on a small cloud drifting there—how over yonder, daytime lingered—who had stood absentmindedly, hands tucked into sleeves?
Who could this youth have been?

A person passed through the forest.
A dog passed through the forest.

Now that winter had grown so fiercely windswept, troupes of traveling performers no longer came through, nor could one hear the drumbeats of makeshift theater performances.
"It’s truly quiet, so quiet," who could be gazing at these fallen leaves?
Who could this youth be? —No, it is not I.

No, it is not I.
In this evening dusk lingered this youth; upon his shoulders danced down fallen leaves from the sky.
Fallen leaves danced down from the treetops.
Danced down, danced down, danced down—the fallen leaves.
Round and round, round and round and round.
Round and round, round.
They came.
Ah, the sky was high.
Water flowed.

Evening dusk

When evening came
the shore grew gradually colder.
From the opposite island, fox-fire came flowing.

Like a peacock’s tail it glittered

Around the quiet island's shade,

so many, so many,

playing among the crests of the waves they came flowing,

mingling with the seabirds of the cape

I too gazed with seabird eyes,
counting these lamplights drifting in -
my fate wantonly squandered,
its threadbare desolation,
like some living creature's breath,
throbbed lapis-blue pulse after pulse,
drifting ashore in evening dusk.

Autumn

In autumn’s thicket, letting down a thread
Fishing for a blue katydid
Becoming an emperor who cherishes refinement,
Fishing for the eyes of many eunuchs
In the afternoon field, casting a line—
Casting a line—blue eunuchs’ eyes

Shore

At the distant shore
Having escaped and arrived—water lily flowers
Flowers blue-tinged—let no one visit
On grass seed heads, white-faced skimmers
Perfectly round clouds rose
Perfectly round clouds rose
Summer day’s

From which quarter comes sorrow?

All day long clouds flowed.

Tidings

In the capital, autumn begins to show its signs.

In the morning and evening skies, ah, the mermaids swim streaming.

If I were to thus sincerely set it down...
Though my parents too must surely weep in sorrow,
In the tidings from my old hometown
Many times did I neglect to return a letter.

Shore

If I set a star upon my palm,

Crystal-clear, my palm aches.

Shoreward.

Shoreward.

Footprints have risen into the sky.

Woman

I should go see the hospital at the cape.

In that woman’s eyes now,

a heron may dwell there.

Bonaparte

Bonaparte, having finished his twilight meal,

Bonaparte took a stroll along the lonely mountain path.

Emperor Sentimental Bonaparte
pondered the phrasing of his diary.
A pure white dog also took a stroll.

Dog

The grassland sloped toward the sea,
At the sea's end, the sun crossed.
In the desolate evening
They were courteously weary and grieved.

Two black dogs—

Raise their sharp noses to the sky.

Drip golden tears.

Daytime.

The blind king
Was led by the hand by the beautiful queen
As His Majesty proceeded through the long corridor
In the sunlit area, pages played
White waterbirds and black waterbirds
With tails raised skyward
Alternately

their long necks extended into the water’s depths

The eyes of the late king

The eyes of the late king have not fallen there either.

At the distant palace,
today too, fresh flowers were arranged in the water basin.
The prince remained in seclusion.

One day

Dusk is when children’s play scatters, when women take up their makeup.

On the evening slope, a boy calls out echoes.

a a ï…………

a a ï…………

Leaving only chimneys in the sky, the earliness of dusk those days was like a cast net falling.

They grew tired of the paper-cutting game; the sasanqua blossoms had scattered.

Spring

In the mountains, when caterpillar-like parasites began to emerge in a deer's layer of fat, it was then that spring arrived at the border.
The riverside poplars all at once sent up mist, and the magpies, from morning, swung their long tails belatedly.

How many fish had come up to the weir he guarded that day?
Approaching him where he crouched in the sunlight, I drew a single fish on the sand.
Then, immediately realizing I had exaggerated its size, I drew a smaller one and peered anew into his eyes.
Though we shared no common language, he laughed and drew one at his feet—far, far smaller than mine.

Day after day, the sky cleared; the fish caught in those days were small.

Island Story

On the island, large white pigs were kept.
The islands were seven in number, lined up.
On every island, camellia flowers were in full bloom.
Those flowers had fallen all across the ground.
To one of those islands had come an aviator suffering from neurasthenia for treatment.
As his illness gradually progressed toward recovery, he increasingly manifested violent tendencies.
That said, on an island where there were no other subjects besides pigs and camellia flowers, it was inevitable that the unfortunate recipient of his violence would be that large white pig.
He would search out logs too thick to handle and clobber—with all his strength—the plump, square, elastic rump of an innocent white pig that looked as though it were “grinning in the sunlight as if it had shaved off its eyebrows.”
The naturally docile pigs—utterly unaware of such matters—would be caught off guard; before they could even let out a scream, they’d go whooshing through the air and leap over the wooden fence like a fireplace to go galloping off into the distance.
By the time the sorrowful, sharp cries could be heard, that violent aviator would already be approaching the next pig with an air of innocence.
To him, this was immensely amusing, and through thus aimlessly clobbering pig rumps day after day, he visibly regained his health with increasing speed.

Plum Fruit

The plums, their outlines tinged with yellow, were already being eroded.

The red and green of the picture book were reflecting on the boy’s face.

The dragonfly swiftly changed direction at a sharp angle and flew away.

A cloudy sky and a second-floor window left open.

A night heron, while flying, suddenly turned its face toward the setting sun.

Grandmother.

When the evening prayer ended, I took the vessel from the offering shelf and sprinkled a full measure of water through the window Grandmother opened.
“At night, ghosts come to lick it,” Grandmother taught.
I hurriedly closed the window.
And that night, for some reason, I found myself weeping quietly.

A house like a dark castle

I stood at the gate of a house like a dark castle, knocking repeatedly on the door.

“Please open this door.”
“Let me through.”
“Please gently let me inside here.”

Then, a quiet voice answered from within.

“What exactly are you?”
“Everyone who was to enter tonight should have already gone in.”
“Who called you here?”

“No, I am a poet.”
“I have come alone.”

“That won’t do.”
“This door opens only for those who have been summoned.”
“For all others, it remains closed.”
“You should go back.”

――I have no home to return to.
Moreover, I am terribly tired.
“Please let me pass through this entrance.”

――“Recall well the poet’s honor left to you and that splendid city for its sake.”

“For the sake of the young poet’s honor, please open this door.”

“——Your aged mother, your younger brother, your friends—they are waiting for you.”
“Do you think they do not love you?”
“And does not your lover love you?”

“——I do not love them.”

――Did you not love life!
――Do you not love life!

――……

――No—you do love life.

“If I love people at all, I want to wait for them in this quiet house.”
“Among crowds in the city, I cannot love them.”

“Farewell—go back once more.”
“With your idleness, your insomnia, and your hatred—keep loving people.”
“Because you are a poet.”

――But for me, who lacks talent, that only teaches the equivalence of two things.
And upon one of them lies nothing but suffering.

――Shut up!
“Can you converse with me without any shame?”
“You are a coward, and you’ve come only to knock on this door here—isn’t that so?”
“Go back.”
“You love life.”

――No, I will not go back.

――You cannot enter this house—isn’t that so?

――I have nowhere to return.

“Farewell—remain there.”
“Nothing would be able to prevent it, I suppose.”

Whisper

Cape

Cormorant—Not interesting at all…….

Echo—……Not… interesting… at all…….

River

Wagtail—The reason all the river stones are round is because I struck them with my tail.

River Otter—No, it’s because I rolled them here from afar.

Stone—I’ve been round since way back when.

Pond

Carp—This autumn morning when crucian carp have gathered countless times
Crucian Carp—Having shed two or three scales in the carp’s autumn.

**Story**

Camel—I wonder if I can’t get to heaven without squeezing through such a tiny hole.
Needle—It’s all right. I’ll say I pierced it for you.

Enfancefinie

Whither does today's life whisper its longing?

The dream quietly rows down spring's tranquil cherry blossoms.

Your heart flows visible through trees as the field's scenery.

The sky has withered, transforming what cannot be known's whereabouts.

When viewed as such, from people-dwelling grass the moon has risen.

O noble voice, from my hand let a butterfly dance faintly.

This—the tide-swollen field's river sinks sorrowful stars while flowing.

Knowing the wind blows, one sleeps; yet the dream quietly rows down.

The artless scent of spring herbs—ah, whose dream has rendered it so sorrowful?—

Diary

―Mamman, that’s wonderful!

—What is it?

“The evening glow has brightened, you see.”

The evening glow was bright.

The days-long rain that had continued falling changed into a storm from this morning, and that finally cleared up completely come evening dusk.
Corinne-san of Mamman had been making a fuss about there being a leak in the closet, but since earlier she has been pedaling the sewing machine.
And green light reflected on the windowpane, suddenly brightening the room—but that too soon faded into dusk.

—Maybe I should write a letter to Kitagawa Fuyuhiko.

I had time and again failed to write a novel, wasting away this entire week.
That was a melancholy thing.
Ah, this loneliness—what should I do about it, this medicine-like loneliness.
In the wet garden, a cricket chirped.
I opened a book.

I recalled a woman.
I wanted to meet her—the one named Mikka.
And yet, I didn’t love her at all.
But, that town across the river—

The rain had completely cleared.

Old Fiddle

Autumn is here.

Should I play the old fiddle

Autumn is here. Autumn is here.

Even the tiniest grass seeds fly through autumn all day long.

Now the season sets sail

Hark to the harbor bell

A copper gong is struck in the sky

Fallen leaves come drifting across the ravine.

Autumn is here. Autumn is here.

Play the old fiddle

What sentiment could linger?

Hurriedly yet flowing comes a single line of dancing fallen leaves—

Askew through the gorge’s hamlet

Striving to cross over—ah, yet again the rope-falls have scattered away.

Sparing yet sketching things’ fleeting charm—shifting clouds.

Clouds scatter wildly—autumn is here, autumn is here.

Inverted drop of the magpie’s—

With a sharp cry—“Come here”—it falls into the ravine.

The hunt’s blood-tide lies upon the path—

What sorrow dwells in this hand? With it I play a song,

When treading upon small birds amid scattering yellow leaves,

A voice murmurs at the boulder’s base.

A voice sounds—and oak leaves scatter.

Along dampened crags,

Though I circle mountain peaks—autumn’s soldiers leave no shadow behind.

In the sporadic hum of insect wings, only the tent remnants lay disarrayed.

When I gazed afar, the sky stretched distant.

Let me stain my hands with the sky’s azure.

Had I played, would there be song—or none?

Could one now endure this shifting path?

Autumn is here. Autumn is here. Still the autumn wind circles round.

Making earthbound things dance,

In this slanted sunlit spot,

The song-vessel’s strings that guard life had aged.

White bridge

What am I hesitating over with such profound significance? What am I so terrified and anxious about?
In this dark midnight hour—still awake—is it not I alone who stands arrested on this road!
This figure and shadow of mine standing on the riverbank—should they not be free to walk anywhere unbound by any relation!
What am I contemplating—what am I repenting?
Why do I stand here so utterly motionless, leaning against this? Do I not know this body wearies easily—fragile as clouds adrift in sky’s expanse, fated to decay like overripe fruit?
Or do I strain to hear eternal time resonating from within my own flesh?
And what reaches these ears—nothing but fitful birdcries piercing night’s vault!
This wind raging too fiercely—this water coursing beneath bridges—they merely cradle faint sea-scent traces while keeping endless silence!

Who on earth am I thinking of?
Even that lover who was once so kind—wasn’t she less faithful to me than this moonless, desolate night’s landscape!

What was I doing like this? Why didn't I cross this bridge? —This bridge extended over the water in a strangely lonesome shape, stretching far into the distance like some architectural arm that seemed to me almost human.
Lamplight flowed into my eyes—that lamplight flowed into the water—a quiet wind blew across everything around me—and from the clear night sky, a murky large halo descended pale blue into my heart——.
Yet I loved this bridge.
I also loved my tattered hat and shoes.
And yet, what was I doing lingering here idly for so long?
Why did I not cross over this white bridge and pass through this quiet night joyfully?

I once painted such a vision.
Beyond this bridge lay a town steeped in silence surpassing any experience of ours—a desolation one might call extinction—where solemn rows of houses with heavily closed windows and doors continued endlessly.
And from the crossroads of the broad road I advanced along, there equally stretched a distant direction devoid of human presence—where houses blazed fiercely in obscurity, and within that fiery glow, the dark, robust forms of several horses could be seen—neighing, galloping, only to vanish once more into the darkness.

“Master, let us cross this bridge together.”

“Master, let us move our steps tonight to a town free of misunderstandings, betrayals, unbearable humiliations—free of all such folly.”

“Master…”

But there was no answer to my words, and I remained always alone, standing motionless at the base of this white bridge.
To begin with, in crossing this nostalgic bridge of my wanderings, I felt no terror whatsoever; even were I to conjure such strangely serene yet pleasant fantasies in my mind, I would not have thought to protect them from ruin—and yet despite this, I never attempted to cross over to this unknown farther shore.

And yet, I found myself thinking this as well—that on some bygone day, I had crossed this bridge while listening to the sound of hooves and wheels from my own carriage.
And that night, I met a solitary, mysterious person whom I had even forgotten whether they had been a woman or not, and we conversed gently, almost like lovers.
It was not my dream; thereafter, I truly crossed this bridge many times in a carriage.

And yet, what am I pondering like this? Today again I stand at the foot of this white bridge, still leaning my body against my cane...

Lullaby

A faintly bitter afternoon—

Here’s the dayflower, the firefly grass

When the boat’s wake parts,

Autumn waters return once more

Beyond the grass, stretching out a hand

To what end should one call in vain?

People pass through distant places

Now they’ve parted from the journey path

The mountain-encircling village’s thundering gods—

Faint thunder… sunshower?

Fish came swarming thick

My wish has been pecked at, it seems.

Other Things

When challenged to debate by others, I could not argue—

The clamor over various songs' meanings grew loud.

Ah, refinement spreads as measles spread.

The authorities' interrogations roared.

Rice by the kilogram, alcohol by the liter.

Monsieur Pekelets’s chapeau tenté and

Monsieur Képelletz’s soap and hand towel

—I have a navel, you have no tail—

—you have a tail, I have no navel—

How clamorous the debates over songs!

Now, everyone

Take heed of the trademark.

Counterfeits exist in the public realm.

Sketching from Life

Winter Solstice

The old woman was light as a cushion of air.
She was dozing off while laughing.

Evening dusk

From the silent mountain

Great tree leaves are falling down.

Moon

A waterfowl crying like a frog

Rustle, rustle—transparent soldiers pass along the highway.

Cape Story

(The enemy fleet parted waves like bashō leaves and detoured widely through the Indian Ocean.)

A soldier loved a sheep, and a sheep loved a soldier.
Groups of soldiers loved groups of sheep, and groups of sheep loved groups of soldiers.
They mingled green uniforms with white fleece resplendently and courteously in Sunday sunshine, breaking biscuits with crisp snaps to share.
The aged sheep watched from afar as dandelions loosened and scattered.

As violators of military discipline, one evening, the flock of sheep was driven from the cliff into the sea; whips cut through the wind; by dawn, their bellies swollen pale pink, their beloved sky-blue eyes no longer closing, they lay heaped upon the shore.

The fortress commander was counting artillery shells of various sizes on the deck of a transport ship that had entered port that morning.

(The enemy fleet, parting waves like bashō leaves, detours widely through the Indian Ocean.)

Bats and the Boy

To Maruyama Kiyoshi

Boy, did your parents lose sight of you, or,

Or did you lose sight of your parents—

On the pavement of a settlement near the coast, worn down by shoe heels in an antiquated manner, I picked up a Chinese boy that night.
This boy—with a narrow forehead and raised eyebrows, his skin bearing bluish fat deposits—wore a soiled pale blue vest and wept under the willow’s shadow, cold palms pressed to his face.

When I came to the pier，a pure white moon lay damp among a forest of masts.
When my eyes grew accustomed to the surrounding scenery, numerous bats were flying.
(It seemed to be faintly crying.) At that moment, when I suddenly looked around me, somehow, I found that the boy’s figure had vanished.
I hadn’t even known the name to call him by.
And at that moment—flap flap, flap flap—countless bats fluttered from both sleeves of my garment and flew away into the night sky.
It must have been such a groundlessly melancholy conjuring—.

At the seaside where bats cry, I think that once—just as I did—his parents must have turned that boy into bats.
And again today, under the willow trees in the seaside town, that boy is crying into his cold palms—or so I think—.

Cormorant

On a clear afternoon, two cormorants swam restlessly in the moat.
Tarō was watching them.
As Tarō watched, the cormorants suddenly sank and did not resurface no matter how much time passed.
——Perhaps they fought over prey at the water’s bottom—— Thinking this, Tarō shifted his gaze to the sky.
Then, atop the turret at the castle’s corner, two cormorants stood neatly aligned, their wet wings spread like folding fans, quivering and glistening.
Their curved beaks turned skyward.
At night, Tarō bitterly resented having been deceived by those jet-black birds, and in his bed, he endlessly pondered the sight of the turret after they had flown away.

Snow

Snow keeps piling up; all footprints hold their shadows.

Hasten not, I pray; tread gently upon the snow, I implore.

Metropolis

Crows cry like waves

Sparrows cry like seashells

Automobiles also cry like sailing ships.

They all create the sea,

They cry in the dusk sky of the Metropolis.

Island Country

The boy by the willow, the girl by snow and parrots, and the female beggar by the turtle—in spring, all became possessed.
Summer: blue clouds, white clouds; at the National Bank, old banknotes were burned.
When autumn came, festival drums resounded in the distance, and cormorants convulsed on the dusk-lit shore.
In winter, eventually, the islanders all kept their hands in their coats so that their fingers wouldn’t turn into dragonflies and fly away.

Suburbs of May

Beneath the tree shade, no one—

Yesterday, beneath the trees' shade, there were no people,

Stealthily halting in this wild scenery, I watched a dog that appeared and disappeared in the distant reclaimed fields.
The wind blew through thicket shadows and turned green; over the clear day of undulating suburbs, several small cloud rondos drifted and flowed in artful arrangements.
I could no longer endure wandering; the gaze of recollection returned and settled where my cane found rest, and May was but paulownia flowers glimpsed among blades of grass.

Ah, that gentle figure long cast upon the dark soil of the rain-cleared afternoon!
(But had I not seen only that path of pathos-laden flowers stretching far into the distance that day?) — Today I would walk far alone, and likely never raise this eroded brow again.

Beneath the tree shade, no people—

Yesterday, beneath the trees' shade, there were no people.

*The Snow-Lit Path* Poetry Collection

In your romance, a nightingale sings.
Princess Uriko from the fairy tale was devoured, leaving only her black hair behind.
Even so, the carriage horse that scaled the mountain pass recalled once more the elegant footsteps of days gone by.
And beneath that eye, the village of Shinoshi in blizzard was glimpsed.
In your romanticism, one hears the wing-rustle of a nightingale shifting branches.
The truly beloved soundscape of this Fairyland brims with the unique luster of pale-hued petals.
A Chekhovian blend of world-weariness and—like a sky aquiver with longing after tempestuous weather—keen observation (through which you often vent justified fury).
(Thereby, you deftly noted for me the beauty of those trivialities so easily consigned to oblivion.)

In the hole of black earth,
pure white beans are lined up one by one.

I marveled several times at your effortless yet lucid expressions of this sort.
The superb poems where precise realistic techniques—illuminated by romanticism—play their warm, comforting rhythms; these works you brought from northern lands where knotweed grows three meters tall, Itō-kun—how infinitely I cherish them now.

Tarō

“Don’t you want to go back to Maizuru, Tarō?”

“I do want to go back, Sis.”
“When I get better, I’ll have them come get me.”
“It’s a secret, but I did send a postcard the other day.”

With that, Tarō wiped his palms repeatedly on Hishiro’s lap.

“Don’t tell anyone!”

“I won’t tell.”
“You prefer Maizuru over here, don’t you?”
“Over there, they’ll all dote on you—”
“And you’re clever too—our house in Maizuru is wealthier than any in this village, just as Grandmother said—so when you grow up, you’ll surely become someone great.”
“What did you write on that postcard?”

Tarō was silently sewing cloth monkeys. This shy, sickly boy had no friends, so he had somehow taken up this pastime and would make several small cloth monkeys of various colors each day—begging for scraps of cloth and sitting with his back to the autumn-lit shoji.

“The postcard—don’t tell anyone, okay? I want to go home, so come pick me up.”
“With my illness getting better, I think I can ride the train.”
“Because I hate getting scolded every day—that’s why I wrote it.”

Tarō raised his eyes, sensing the other person’s intense gaze upon his forehead as he finished speaking. Tarō knew that whenever this other person showed him special kindness, he would always sense this gaze beforehand. And Tarō was dimly aware that he sometimes feigned sulkiness to seek it.

“Grandmother scolds me right away, even when I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Grandmother likes Toyoko-chan more.”
“You shouldn’t pick fights—you get angry so quickly—but Toyoko-chan is a bit sly, you know.”

Thinking that Toyoko was sly, that Toyoko often told lies—Tarō had come to hate the idea of returning to the main house.
He thought he wanted to stay forever in this narrow detached room with this person who sewed all day long, and live there together, considering it his own home.

Spring and Autumn

Like smoke scattered by the wind, abandoning the capital’s dwelling; the journey pointing toward home brings sorrow. Where did the night break into dawn? Maibara, Hikone—a morning heart seeing the lake. Still not yearning for parents, how bitter to gaze at the sky.

Rice harvest—over the lake, a rainbow ascends.

The fact that I had long been afflicted by thoughts while in the capital—when I quietly reflect, it still feels too soon; though my yearning to return first brings tears, how bitter are the people of my hometown to me.
Repeating such journeys—the habit of many years is sorrowful.

Which spring was it—when the train passed this lakeside,

Rapeseed flowers—suddenly, the water rail has hidden.

I do not know the true nature of the verse I spoke thus, yet it is within me alone that it has long concealed sorrowful thoughts.

Chronicle of Early Autumn

I had reached an age where I now took more pleasure in chewing corn than in chewing a harmonica.
On the plate lay another，its granules mirroring the sky.
Oh girl who startled me from my nap，how wonderfully firm and delicious this foreign corn was!
I thanked you.

Let me tell you a story.

Corn spoke.

O Moon, the katydid loved eggs.
What the katydid said to the egg last night—O Moon, with autumn days piling up like this—I shall confess to you.
More than katydids hiding among grass leaves—like my own stature—my self-esteem is great.
How much more I must love you than eggs—

The Moon said.

I am so far away from you.
Moreover, your fate will pluck you from the stem come tomorrow.
At the time when a man—far, far closer to you than I—is napping with a fly alighting on his face—

Autumn Night Literary Diversion

My nature being crude from birth, at first I perceived things through refinement; yet before long that refinement grew akin to sickness—my heart trembled ceaselessly—and I was often scorned by others.
That others held me in contempt—though I conceded this stemmed from my own foolishness—nonetheless verged on excessiveness.
Should I strike my brow in anger?
My heart lacked the will to strive and conquer; all things cherished and dear had long since passed beyond the distant shore.
Night’s sleep was shallow; though by day I played as days demanded, no blossoms nor fruits emerged—truly, this heart that abhorred all worldly effort was unbearably sorrowful.
My purposeless life might be short precisely because it lacked purpose.
More transient than flags in windy days or blades of grass, I knew my pitifully short-lived path ahead; I felt thoughts like smoke, loved hills and fields, loved seasons, loved cities, and loved women; though I leaned my heart on birds, fish, and plants, my language ever wandered rootless, and my brow ever lacked a pleasant hue—thus I erred and failed to convey that heart.

Yet now that I knew the brevity of my years and daily grew clearer in self-awareness, even as I strove, I could only bestow a day's song upon this purposeless life.

Park

I wanted a park.

Walking quietly through tree shadows where faint grassy scents mingled with hushed grove fragrances and imperceptible insect presences lingered, the fountain would intermittently appear here and there; this artificial microcosm of nature ceaselessly invited hearts wearied of lost delight through the language of water cascading into basins.

Let us go toward the fountain.
Go there and see.
There, what you first heard became the language of signals—small transparent countless spheres thrown from the sky, shattering as they fell and disappearing without trace upon metal, stone, or water.
And in that canopy-like center swaying ceaselessly in the wind of those moments—following circumferences and arcs—did your calm ear not perceive where that gallant will resided, swooshing and gushing as it raced straight ahead?
And soon your heart wished to seize even the faint resonance of those small orange-hued orbs—rolling, glinting, brushing against one another—formed by water that rose in place of the dome’s resplendent zenith at its effort’s pinnacle, only to die away.

The fountain would always teach us about the sky through that day’s words.
In the high clear blue sky，clouds—fashionably fragmented into small shapes—drifted slowly and serenely one after another.
Quietly，our afternoon faded away.
The people walking hand in hand，matching their pace to a happy stroll，gazed at me with gentle eyes that suddenly turned indifferent as they passed by.
Here girls were as lively as boys and boys as graceful as girls；naturally they paid no heed to bird shadows falling on the lawn，and though they knew my face they did not know my name.
And within the greenery，the light blue paint on the seesaws and swings was new.

The grove is my corridor, the flower bed my carpet; when I listen carefully, I hear birdsong and rustling leaves, and from beyond them, the distant sound of cars.
There, clasping my hands, I will indulge in my secret memories known to none.
Even if my heart were to be moved to tears by some secret honor—no, I am not sad.

I wanted a park.
Escaped from my unwelcoming room, there I would try to forget my father who had disappeared, my deceased sister, and my lying lover.
Alone, I would escape the memories of days gone by and life’s struggles, drowsily drifting into sleep within the afternoon shadows.
But people were constantly strolling around me, and I would surely never feel lonely.

Untitled

A tricycle racing away, four or five pots of roses—.

Parting through the human waves—a small garden on the move.

“Let’s stop here together with me,”

The railroad crossing was blocked; the freight train was passing through.

December

“So what happened?”
“It’s not completely over yet—is that how you see it?”
“As if! That’s how you’re being such a silly one.”
“And then what?… Well now, just forget it completely—but.”

“That’s really the end of it! You’ll probably forget all about it soon enough.” (He took the dictionary on the desk and flipped it open.) “That—about this much?” “It’s 420 pages.”

“——What are you talking about?”
“……Oh dear, how dreadful.”
“Well then, even if one page disappears each day, it still wouldn’t be gone anytime soon.”
“What’s more, sometimes it even goes backward, wouldn’t you say? Such a troublesome person.”
“Going about it like that—at least make something definite out of it.”
“If it were me, I wouldn’t do things your way.”

“If it were you…”
“Yes—if it were you—even with this cover fully included, a single volume still wouldn’t suffice though.”

—Oh, how delightful.
“How skillful of you.”
“Well now—it’s like this—”

“Akiko-san, listen now—do you know? When she knits in rooms that aren’t her own, she wears glasses. So for instance, when she finishes one sock—right then!—she’s already completely started thinking about other things! A sickness, I say! Capricious as Lady Moon herself—chic yet sorrowful, wouldn’t you agree?”

――Merci.
“In that case, I shall knit the remaining one for you.”

——That’s truly delightful, but—well—perhaps we might end up unable to tell which is which.

“——Oh, really?”
“My, how presumptuous!”
“I’ll inspect your face.”
“How pitiful. Then do as you like.”
“I shall abstain.”

“I’m sorry!”
“There’s no need to get so angry. When I buy yarn next time, please make it then.”
“I’ll make it for you—when I have time!”
——
“How strange, isn’t it?”

——……

"But with that attitude, you’re still hopeless—you can’t please anyone."
"Truly, I’d like to teach you a little bit—to that extent."

——"Will you teach me?"
"Please teach me. ……But truthfully, it’s me who wants to keep you pleased."

“Absolutely hopeless—utterly hopeless.”
“If you keep talking like that, anyone would get angry.”
“Women are... you see...”

“Yes, I understand.”
“I understand.”
“Even if I understand everything perfectly, it’s ultimately futile—so please stop this conversation, alright?”
“In short—since I can foresee the inevitable outcome—I can’t indulge in idle chatter... Though I’m quite skilled at amusing children.”

“And then—you’re always putting on such a sorrowful act while saying whatever you please only to me, aren’t you? You’ve been interfering with my work a great deal, you know.”

“That’s right.”
“That won’t do!”

“Oh dear, the hot water has cooled down this much?”
“Let’s heat it up and then brew the tea, shall we?”

“I don’t mind if it’s lukewarm.”

While translating *Entomological Memoirs*,

One day while out for a walk, I found myself on a muddy shore littered with geta, bundled pillows, a swollen rat corpse, and the trigger of a toy pistol. There I watched a crab no larger than a fingernail emerge from reed roots. It assumed a defensive stance ready to flee, hesitated at its hole's entrance, then—tiptoeing (of course!)—slowly crawled out.
Those eyes—like matchsticks from a Lilliputian fairy tale—stood upright, serving as telescopes.
What could they be reflecting?
I held my breath and became a still life, striving to blend into the scenery.
The crab walked toward my hat's shadow.
It stopped as if pondering something meticulously, carelessly scooped mud at its feet with white-tipped claws on both sides, and received it with apparent satisfaction.
Occasionally it spat out small clumps one by one.
Across the water, the factory groaned like a steamship, streaming copious unruly smoke.
I thought—this small creature drying its shell amid surplus food—or grandly put, gnawing on the earth—what a peaceful yet modestly simple life it led!
Upon the grand dining table—what a compact protagonist!
Thinking I might hear its chewing sounds, I listened intently.
Time passed.
Yet strangely enough, accompanied by primal faint pain, hatred assailed me from nowhere.
My eyes watching the crab—already filled with extreme pity for this creature—seemed to grow bloodshot from enduring it.
I no longer had composure to question my psychological state's cause.
I stood up.
The crab returned to its hole.
I still swelled with loathing from intense emotions in my chest.
No matter how I tried convincing myself of that small creature's endearing pitiable circumstances—it proved futile.—I recalled again setting fire to withered grass last autumn and burning a mantis to death.

Afterword

From Mr. Hasegawa Minekichi’s Daiichi Shobō, *Sokuryosen* was published at the end of Shōwa 5 (1930); this was my first poetry collection. Counting from when I was writing this very afterword, it has been a full seventeen years. Therefore, works forming the core of this collection date back over twenty years. *Sokuryosen* was later included in its entirety within *Haru no Misaki*, one of Sōgensha’s selected publications. For my part, I saw no need to reissue this volume anew; however, at Nanboku Shoen’s request, I resolved to publish it as a standalone work. Seizing this opportunity, I have appended over a dozen pieces omitted during *Sokuryosen*’s initial compilation—works I excluded then based on personal judgment—as supplemental additions to this edition’s end. From today’s perspective, those former convictions of mine no longer carry significant meaning—hence this inclusion. Still, works already lost beyond recovery or those remaining in my possession yet too unsightly for print continue to be excluded here. As I doubt I shall ever compile such a collection again hereafter, this will likely stand as the definitive memorial of my self from two eras past. In this compilation, beyond rectifying clear errors born of past ignorance or carelessness—alongside fixing several typographical slips—I refrained from revising the works themselves. For I believe correcting my former self belongs not within these pages but must be undertaken elsewhere.

However, as for me, republishing these old works exactly as they were from so long ago felt heart-wrenching.
As works worthy of considerable evaluation, there was hardly a single piece in this collection that I could accept today.
As for me, I had a strong desire to completely obliterate these past works.
While taking up the proofreading brush, I truly felt as though three bucketfuls of cold sweat poured from me.
However, I endured it as something that could no longer be helped.
The literary world at the time I wrote these works had existed in a state of terrible chaos unimaginable from today’s perspective—someone like myself, lacking both discernment and talent, was perpetually swayed by surrounding circumstances, and I could not say there was no sense of being whirled about as if lost in a thick fog.
In that regard alone, I felt deeply ashamed today.
The circumstances of that time could not be easily explained in detail from today's completely different context, and there may well have been others who would provide explanations elsewhere.
In my works, the shadow of that era’s chaos ran deep, and a striking sense of incoherence prevailed.
The terminology was shallow and capricious, lacking a solid ideological foundation; moreover, the traces of having attempted to forcibly employ unnatural syntax through sheer obstinacy appeared glaringly conspicuous and ugly to my present self.
Of course, this was not solely due to the circumstances of the times, but rather primarily because of my own personal lack of preparation; considering this and that, I found myself overwhelmed by shame on many counts.
While repeating such shameless acts, however, I remembered that the then me had continued to explore the possibilities of new poetry with all my strength, within the limits of my meager talent.
This too, I wondered if one could say, had been a product of those times.
In any case, while single-mindedly pursuing novelty in that manner, how much had I actually managed to discover? The answer was quite disheartening, but that was no longer an issue here.
Time had departed.
——Time had departed far away, yet that might still not have been entirely unrelated to “today.”

If this poetry collection has not yet wholly become something utterly unrelated and disconnected from the youngest generation's verse of today, then perhaps this book's reissue might obtain some small measure of self-justification.
While sensing a chill of sweat beneath my arms, I allowed myself this book's reissue in response to Shōen's request—the reason lies entirely in that single phrase above.

Now that I have set down my proofreading brush, I am once again struck by shame and timidity in many respects; yet with humility, I wish to thank the master of Shōen for his labor.

Shōwa 21, Year’s End

Author’s Note

Afterword (Reprise)

Mr. Nakajima of Dōji Shobō decided to republish my *Sokuryosen*.
As for me, I thought it would be natural at this juncture to obediently comply with your words.
Another reason was that I considered the exploratory meaning of *Sokuryosen* to have now turned to dead ashes—utterly useless.
My friend Mr. Ishihara Yatsuka assiduously gathered up my discarded old manuscripts from the time of that book’s publication.
While being somewhat surprised by this, I remained grateful for your kindness yet could not help feeling embarrassed.
The “Supplement” in the reprinted edition is that.
Having had them collected before me lay a towering heap of material for reflection.
As for that—though I might say so—I lacked the courage to voice my thoughts at present.
The remaining days left to me would serve as my whip so as not to spend them in vain.
Endless.

March 1964 (Shōwa 39)

Miyoshi Tatsuji