Pathway to Japanese Literature

Two old poems that had lurked for years at a basket's bottom, obscured by things—their spirit restless, their words inherently clumsy; though the sentiments of distant days now proved difficult to recall, still one sensed that the author of this collection had managed faintly to sing of his present circumstances—and finding them hard to discard, he resolved to let them remain here as a preface――

One o’clock. Two o’clock.

It was quiet.

It was a quiet night.

Occasionally, a sudden wind blew.

The wind blew unchanged into the distance.

After a moment or two, it grew even quieter.

And thus the night deepened.

Such small whirlwinds no longer race through the valley afterward…

One o'clock struck.

Two o'clock struck.

That old grandfather clock of the yellow-faced old man who lived through the century’s midyears

The grandfather clock’s midnight song

The winter inn at the mountain’s base

Ah, that one o’clock

two o’clock.

That singing voice
Revived in my ear
That listless singing voice
Called me.
Beckoned me.

In the garden’s shade, she spread a straw mat.

The wife played with the child.

A windmill house where windmills spun

——from the window of the toy flour mill

Sandy flour spilled out.

A spoonful of sandy flour

[They] poured onto the flour mill’s roof.

Spin, spin, windmill…

Spin, spin, windmill…

The heart of the lily on the table
Damp with sweat.

I peered into it.

And so I, to my ear's phantom ear,

of a distant season that had passed,

listened to the quiet night.

Listening.

Ah, that one o'clock

Two o'clock.

Horned owl.
The horned owl is crying.
Ah, again the horned owl is crying.
Old song.

A familiar old song.
To listen to your song,
have I returned to the capital...
That's right.
Thus I now answer my heart.
Ten years have passed.

In that time, what have I done?

As for what I have done—

Now, what was it…

One by one, I lost hope.

That was all.

The horned owl cried.

Ah, again the horned owl is crying.

In a voice from the past.

The horned owl is singing a song from the past.

Then I too shall imitate you.
This horned owl too has aged a bit.

The Sea: Chapter Six

On a Certain Bridge

Ten days clouded, one day clear.

The offshore islet lies faintly visible,

The summit tilts slightly,

Stands precarious,

In the distance where pale dusk deepens,

As though gazing into my depths.

Wave

Offshore, always—

A flock of gray seagulls and
White-crumbling wave crests

Ah, reason!

My sorrow's

days unceasing,

Shells

last night all through the night
a gentle sweet song of death
the sea was singing
and thus there remained
on this morning’s sand

these shells

Already the seagulls
Already the seagulls had flown far away somewhere
like my poem of yesterday
Those with wings are fortunate indeed…
Afterwards, the sea was left behind
like my heart today
Something muttered grumpily...

In this inlet

In this inlet, were I not here—

Who would hear?

This evening, this voice of the sea

In this inlet, were I not here—

Who would see?

This morning this shadow of grass

A ponderous dream

A ponderous dream without end

The drowsing sea

glittering and fragrant blossoms

June’s mandarin orange mountain

Mandarin oranges, peaceful in their way

lined in rows surrounding it

Even on such days my sorrow

would that the distant days had passed…

Seagulls

Ah, that violent gale blows wildly

Seagulls flying in the sky above the sand dunes

A desolate inlet where no ships cross the offing—

Seagulls flying over this sandy beach.

(Once I too was like them)

Ebony waves rising and falling

Ah, this desolate edge of the land

Tossed and tossed by early-season gales,

seagulls flying—what do they seek?

(Once I too was like them)

The waves shook the sand dunes.

Countless times the sea spray rose in the distance—even its roar

eventually vanished in vain.

Seagulls cried in spring’s early days.

(Once I too was like them)

Ah, they toyed with this desolate sea

Seagulls not with their brief cries—

The voices were instantly snatched away by the gale,

Still in this inlet, seagulls intermittently called out people's names.

(Once I too was like them)

summer grass

Last summer this riverside
There was one who walked at dusk
I was here in the grass
In a slender stream, I lowered my line
Listening to the nearby sea
I found myself unexpectedly lost in brooding thought

Last summer this riverside
There is one who walks at dusk

I am again in this summer grass

This year too I came and sat
In the azure flow of days gone by,
Tried to string small fish
In the twilight of this riverside

Though the serene moon rose
the twilight of that day last year—
the human figure’s presence had no means to be retained.

This morning

In the shadow of this Ashitaka Island

In vivid signs of autumn

What heart was this that trembled?

Lamenting days yet to pass

Blind old man—this desolate self

Inclined an ear to ambient murmurs

In your noble hand that morn

Was bound and toyed with—

Were I too to gather white sand

Seabirds called through distant haze

Not a voice—that pallid grit’s

Within my palms began a song’s shaping

Days when resolve had waned

Days when resolve had waned

How might I press onward?

In my grasp took up an aged brush,

I spread out new paper
a verse from songs of distant days
the corpse of vanished emotions
I wrote down and recited

Until such days of days come round again

Days when resolve had declined

How should I proceed?

The yellow crossroads of a winter day

The modest alley where people dwell

Walking on and on, I suddenly found the sea

At the table where the sound of waves resounded

I trod upon the unsweetened wine

Until such days come round again

The plum has bloomed.

The plum has bloomed.

On the high branches

The plum has bloomed.

In the morning sun,

Three or four flowers

Glistening

Stamens tinged yellow

Fragrance faint

The plum has bloomed.

This morning

Patchy snow
Remained in the mountains

Shunning the peaks,

The clouds sprawl horizontally.

For a brief while,
The roar of the sea subsided.
In the distance

The sound of cannons

As if—
As if calling someone,
As if—
As if clapping hands,
Plum blossoms bloomed.
On the southern branches,
Plum blossoms bloomed.
On the high branches.

At my gate,

A guest here—this.

He lingered.

An old tree standing alone

Midnight

Akoya’s pearls

Be crushed

And be bound anew

This morning

On the branches of this tree
The plum has bloomed.
On the high branches
The plum has bloomed.
On the southern branches.

Glistening
Stamens tinged yellow
Three or four flowers

Fragrance faint
The plum has bloomed
In the morning sun
Unbeknownst—long has been my journey
Tamakushige Hakone’s mountains—
On this side lie Ashigara’s peaks
The days of youth I sang into verse
At that mountain’s foot in Izuto Hot Spring
Unexpectedly I came to lie down
How many spring days slipped away?
Each dawn the cuckoo cries—
Clamorous—the valley echoes
Oh how they flutter!
Amidst dappled light
When I look—leading my wife there—
Having crossed one marsh—afterwards
And there upon the zelkova’s crown
Only the wind’s intermittent voice
Ah—the length of my journey—

Ah, the day I had forgotten—
In the quiet of such fear

Looking back into the distant silence—
The postal carriage’s sound resounds

The postal carriage’s sound resounds

Ah, how pitiful—to know life’s brevity.
Unbeknownst, long has been my journey

Casual Discourse in Early Spring

Mr. Maruyama Kaoru, author of *Collection of Material Poetry*, was my poetic comrade of over twenty years; on this day, having been presented with his new work and perusing it, I found myself unable to contain my emotions—and so,

“My friend, we have written poetry for twenty years—
already our lives too have aged so much.”

“My friend, in a land where poetry does not flourish,
we long continued writing impoverished verse.
Loneliness and disappointment and poverty and fantasies vanishing day by day.
Ah, how long—we sang of these for twenty years.
We endured.
And so we too grew old.
What now remains behind us?
Cease your questioning—this is not yet the time to look back.
With sorrow and lamentation, we are already overfull.
That would sink the ship—load no more cargo upon it.”

We lived in a strange age.

We spent our days under strange winds.

And thus our lives too drew near to twilight.

"My friend, we have written poetry for twenty years—

We’ve aged through poetry’s laments. Well then—"

“Take care, my friend—lately even the alcohol’s been rough!”

A single floating cloud drifted
At the summit stood a rounded mountain
Above the bare branches’ tips
A snow-laden floating cloud hung
Twilight is the color of all things
Time shifted in an instant
In an instant transforming its form
Without destination drifted white clouds
The glimmering colors too dimmed

About to vanish into the indigo-deep sky—
Ah, how it appears about to vanish—
At the window of the wind-chilled inn

I alone stretched out on the couch,
leaning on my elbow as I watched—
when suddenly tears welled up.
How unexpected—my tears fell.
Now I could no longer recall myself.
Longing for days of old, would I find peace?

A serene and elegant morning

“Look—the high branches of this zelkova still barren,”

even at the tips of the slender delicate small branches’ mesh-like pattern on those treetops—

Already softly swelling，the season’s vitality surged forth—

as if they were children holding their breath，staying utterly still—

that still-unnoticed multitude of tiny tree buds，

poking each other’s elbows—an air of whispers through their wordless tongue.

Spring already flickered in the striped patterns of sunlight filtering through trees onto the lawn there.

In the shallow water, reed shoots vigorously revealed their sharp angles.

Even to those long submerged in sorrow, spring was the time when hope returned.

With new courage and imagination,

Spring was also the season when we hoisted high the sails of joyful voyages.

Larks and swallows too would soon return from distant lands to here,

Above our heads, they flew about and sang.

Violets, dandelions, bracken and butterbur and bamboo shoots; butterflies and bees; snakes and lizards and green frogs.

Soon they too gathered in full force, kindling heat haze torches as they came surging forth.

Ah, those vigorous signs of spring appeared everywhere

A peaceful morning lingered like unseen haze.

the cawing of a crow from some indeterminate direction in the distant, far-off depths of the sky

Unparalleled in its haziness—like a dream, like truth.

Around a hill draped in white clouds upon its shoulders, it echoed.

In such a peaceful season’s time—in such an elegant morning being here and contemplating—

――O life, long remain there!

The Mountain Rooster

――At a Certain Stop on the Journey――

O rooster crowing on the mountain
Oh, in this dead of night
Oh, at this untimely hour
O rooster crowing on the mountain
In this cold sky where bare trees tremble
What do you cry out for?
What are you praying for?
On this pitch-dark valley where the surrounding mountains sleep

O rooster crowing on the mountain
You are dreaming.
You are afraid of the dream.
O pitiable rooster
O pitiable mountain sleepwalker
You make your comb tremble, you puff out your chest and crow.

Crowing, looking up at the darkness above your head in your cold hut—

(What are you dreaming of?) On your ancient perch,

You are crowing. Crowing.

When your master and the master’s dog were asleep

When it was not your hour
You were crowing.
Oh, in this dead of night
You were crowing with all your heart.
Oh, at this hour when stars flew
You were crowing.

Ah, you are still crowing.

Crowing—on this pitch-dark valley
Rooster crowing on the mountain—O midnight’s wise singer!
Kiso was winter
Two or three dogs kicked frost columns
Emerging from distant groves
One after another looked up at the sky
Sheep clouds glittered as they flew
On Onoe snow indeed lay
Bare trees still could not bud

Kiso is winter

Today already spring

When I look in wonder—excrement lies spent.

The flycatcher on the still branches of the horse chestnut tree

Outside the glass, the wind is rough.

A cricket leapt from somewhere.

The sooty dark sliding door’s

Treading a silver moonlit night

Kiso is winter

Today already spring

The distant sound of the bus coming through the gorge also

The faint murmur of the morning repast—
The traveler too—the sorrow of the evening called—
Forgetting, take up your chopsticks—
Butterbur stalks—how fragrant—
The steam from the hot soup—
Kiso is winter

Today is already spring

Household

Because the son was going to school

Father wrote poetry every day.

The poetry became hats and school backpacks,

textbooks and crayons

The poetry became a small bat umbrella.
April 1st
the town where cherry blossoms bloom
The son was led by his mother

[The school] was inside an old castle.
The first year of the National School’s
entrance ceremony—they attended it.

In the now-quiet house
Father and the elderly maid were alone together.
As if hearing it for the first time in ages,
They were listening to the song of the bulbul.
They were listening to the roar of the sea.

Spinning top

In the old small box of the homeland

Lost among things of many years,

Ah, this spinning top that had slumbered—

The iron rings too had slackened

In my innocent days, accustomed to play...

In distant days I deemed them things of fair form.

That form now—soul vanished—

appeared pitifully shriveled

Nevertheless I have not forgotten

Truly, summer is near.

A day when summer draws near—
In the quiet shade of a tree,

I—spun this top all day long—played alone—

The spinning top bored into sunlit earth—

That shadow—momentarily clear—

At my feet settled—

Ah what is this thing—like a day receding far away?

The innocent child’s heart—without reason—could not endure

And thus again—my heart has no way to pass to another—

In the shade of such a tree on such a day

I must have begun to realize—

That heart remained unchanged—

Even now—still such days—

Truly, summer is near—

In the quiet shade of such a day—may there be

Wind soughing—

No brink to rely upon—

Think of this as a fleeting lodging—
Someday relying on my home—
From a journey far and wide
Through that night of return
Wind through layer upon layer of pine branches
Soughing, blow through
To the pillow of reluctant sleep it flows
Sanesashi Sagami Plain
Where spring tides depart
Jet-black darkness resounds
A single strain of the sea’s song
Ah sorrowful soul—what do you seek—
Ah that wandering journey it must have been

Once familiar to my ears,

Listen to that voice sealed within the night.

Sound of water.

That was this self still in its youthful days,

Carrying a heart with no place to rely,

Heaven and earth were in the midst of summer—

The Amagi Mountain path I traversed.

In the deep bottom of that valley,
I heard only the voice of water.
How dear that voice was!
I, in my days of aging—
my heart again unable to endure sorrow—
even suddenly hearing that rapid's sound
while vainly listening to phantom echoes—
unexpectedly dispelled the grief.

Why—how—I myself do not know.

Broken window

From the remaining window of the abandoned house

The sea of May came into view.

Through the glassless glass door
That stark midday.
Waves flowed all day in that frame.
A put-put boat came.
Gray seagulls also gathered there,
They were solving some unsolvable mystery for a while.
Beyond that lay nothing but the blue sea again,
And yet, it sank into my heart with inexplicable poignancy.
At such a time, a whale suddenly surfaced there.
It even appeared to be a pleasantly balanced breeze.
As I absently watched this, somehow—
Before my eyes, my hometown suddenly came into view.

The old stone building—apparently a bank’s—
I walked through crisp daylight.
Then I—still not yet twenty—went on crossing through the plaza once more.

Ah, those days too will never return…

Such memories that aren't even memories

For quite some time, they floated before my eyes.

What manner of contraption was this window?
After all, this was such a stark window.
On the hill,
Through the pines,
From the remaining window of the abandoned house
The May sea could be seen.

Music of mystery

On sand tinged pale yellow by spring days

The sea whispering softly all day long

Stretched endlessly far and distant

This endless blue expanse of the sea

What is the sea?

This vista—in the first place—

Seven or eight small boats

Right now, they are being taken far away.

O sea

Delightful enigma
Of an unsolvable mystery
Music

Gray seagulls

――On a Certain Fate

They know not from whence they came.

They knew not where they departed.

Those gray seagulls too,

Were no different kindred from us.

Now the May sky stood so blue,

Now sunflowers bloomed tall along fences.

Ships came eastward to this shore,

Ships departed westward beyond horizons.

The young son built ephemeral castles in sand,

While his father sat in heat haze, deep in thought.

Fishing nets are dried far away.
The freight train rounds the tip of the cape.

Ah, the May sky was so blue
And lo, the sea was held even bluer than the sky.
And thus, ah—upon these pitiable living things
That sea breeze—how high came the mackerel clouds...
And thus, ah—verily our fate too...
How did it come from that height...
Therefore they, all day long there, traced their circles
Therefore they—all day long—endeavored to beautify their mystery.
They knew not from whence they came.
They knew not whither they departed.

Those gray seagulls too,
They are not of a differing kindred from us.

Sea: Chapter Four

Carriage

What does the rider ponder as

Aimlessly the carriage goes on its way.

Sky blue
Clouds white
The hotel with windows half-closed
A mountain dove crying in the thicket

Sea blue

Roses white

Cicadas
Crimson dahlia flowers
On last year's fence there
Golden sunflowers
On last year's embankment there
Just as those flowers bloomed there
The path frequented last summer
Cicadas too in the distant pines

In the blue-sea woods they sang.

On the sand

The clouds at the mountain’s edge like roses

May they burn out crimson

Still for a while, the glimmering inlet's bend

White wings grazing the sand

A flock of plovers in the distance

They cried out, blended into the twilight.
This phantom sound was not mere emptiness.
That voice so faint as to be almost nonexistent—
May the bewildered snow cease abruptly.
Just then—the moonlight pale—
What spray might this be—

It settled upon the traveler’s cheek.

My ears—

My ears—
Morning and evening listening to the sea—
Clumsily I write
My world grows old
Night quakes.
Night tolls.

A rooster’s crow rose in the distance.
The sound of rain coursed over the rooftops.

Night tolled.
The humble dwelling stood darkly closed.
The wife and children slept downstairs.
I alone lay half-awake,

As I lay pondering upon my pillow,

Night tolled three times.

Night tolled three times.

The sound of waves called out afar,

The night bird answered near.

In midnight’s grasp as autumn drew nigh,

The dream shattered; thoughts stretched endless.

The road is hard—hard—hard—hard; though this body grazes the world,

*Keirin Kushō*

Takubusuma at the tomb of the king of Silla

The autumn day was now radiant.

From where did a rooster’s crow faintly reach?

In a distant farmhouse was the sound of clothes being pounded.

The traveler who had journeyed far along the road—
Here he would rest; the grass remained green.

Cotton flowers in the cotton field
In the depths of the path, a bird cried ever more
Wind passed through pine treetops
A stream bent the grass as it flowed
When drowsily I fixed my physiognomist's gaze—

The voices of things arising and vanishing one after another

In that moment when all had fallen silent—the azure heavens profound,

Gently, a single bee came dancing down.

Under daylight's gaze, the stone lion lay buried in earth.
When I bowed, the stone figure bent its body.

Ah, when would those who departed ever return here?

The king, the queen, the crowds—even the eightfold crossroads and lofty halls—

The courtesan danced in gauze lighter than dreams—

An illusion—the phantom flew over the cloud forest's canopy,

The grass path I had trodden through dew and frost—

When I looked back at where the king's palace once stood,

A massive bull stood with neck outstretched and tail hanging down,

A translucent silhouette poised there—

Blue sky—

Earthwork hill—

Truly, those that perished—

All had hidden themselves within the earth.

The magpie—
Took soundless steps
On the ears of grass.

The autumn wind blows.

*Hilltop Chant*

――At the Site of Buyeo’s Geukwoljeon Hall

Awaited for the moon of the full-moon night,

The ancient Baekje king

Faced the river, faced the mountains.

The names of nobles who held banquets

Remained upon this hill.

When autumn comes, autumn rain falls.

Buckwheat flowers were indeed white.

In the field’s midst—old roof tiles

I dug around my feet to gather them—

Ah, how thoroughly drenched my sleeves were!

*Roadside Chant*

――At the Site of Gyeongju’s Sacheonwangsa Temple

Indeed, people...

A traveler unaware of sorrow...

Only through seeing did they pass by.

Of ancient...

The site of Shitennō-ji

In a field of white cotton bolls,

Gathering old roof tiles while
The heavy travel pack had been shouldered.
I knew not where today led—

*Winter Day*

――At the Side of Gyeongju’s Bulguksa Temple

Ah, wisdom—on such a quiet winter day

It comes suddenly at an unexpected time—
in realms where human traces have vanished,
amid wooded hills,
as if in the garden of such a monastery.

Without warning, it comes before thee—
At such times, trust the whispered words.

“Calm eyes, peaceful heart—what other treasure could exist in this world beyond these?”

Autumn came, autumn deepened, and that autumn had already walked far into the distance.

Yesterday a fierce wind raged all day.

That was the day this new winter began.

And then the day darkened, and even after midnight arrived, my heart remained unsettled.

Short dreams were interrupted several times, several times began again.

Amidst the expanse of a solitary journey, in the midnight of such a guesthouse

I considered trivial matters and agonized over trivial matters.

And what a quiet morning it was.

The trees were now completely bare.

Two or three magpie nests also appeared in the treetops there.

The shadows of things were clear; the sky overhead had cleared completely.

Amidst them, the distant mountain ranges undulated into view.

On the round pillars of Shikamon Gate, weathered by wind and rain,

That was indeed the very essence of winter—this morning’s yellow-tinged sunlight.

The lower edges had faded hazily into mist without discernible boundaries—those distant

The blue peaks of the mountains

With their lucidity—and ultimately their hazy depths—

Space—that which plays a single eternal melody—
now bridges earthly reality to the void’s illusions.

Above the roof tiles of Han'eirou—where a noisy flock of sparrows clamored on its eaves—
further beyond, appearing and disappearing among the treetops of a sparse grove,
further beyond that, to the sky above the thatched cottages of a modest settlement—
those mountains, neither high nor low,
stretched endlessly into the far distance,
responding with silence and calling out with solitude as they continued on while linked together.

This very morning—how desolate,

This must be a peaceful, tranquil view.

And now I am at the veranda of Daieiden Hall, the center of this monastery,

Crouching under the seven-colored rafters

I returned miserably exhausted from the worthless antlion pit of last night’s nightmares.

Gazing upon my heart as if cradling it in my palm

Gazing at my heart that I need not share with anyone.

Gazing—

Now at the empty yellow chrysanthemums blooming around scattered foundation stones.

At the faint heat haze flickering intermittently in that stone lantern’s light-box.

Ah, wisdom—on such a quiet winter day

Comes suddenly at unexpected hours.

In realms where human figures have vanished

In mountain forests

Say, in the garden of such a monastery

Without prelude it stands before you.

In such times, place trust in whispered words.

“Calm eyes, a peaceful heart—what other treasures could exist in this world?”

Ah how poignant our country—

I this day

Having returned from a long journey,
Ah, I sat by this window where I long resided—
Beneath moss-covered eaves where fallen leaves gathered,
In the playground, a little sparrow sang
At the edge of those unassuming eaves—
The mountains of Hakone Road lay hazy,

In the neighbor's mandarin orange field
A lullaby lingered all day long—
To think this were a day of battle...
Ah, a tranquil winter day!

I this day,
Having returned from distant wanderings,
Found every thought grown gentle.

Ah, how poignant—
Thus stands our country—

Envoy

Thinking this a day with battle—on Japan's rugged shores,

When you stand, how sweet the sea's sound.

Southern Sea

One day I unexpectedly discovered a fragment of childish writing from between old papers—titled *Southern Sea*—though I no longer recall what year I might have composed it. Its lament still resonates with what belongs to me today, scarcely differing in feeling. Ah my fate—pitying myself, I mean to substitute this for the afterword of this collection——

I want to go to that shore and see that sky's color once more—from time to time I often think this.

The color of that sky—resembling the still-damp, smooth surface of a fine-grained yellow whetstone used for honing razor blades—spread across the boundless western sky, dyed in ethereal and serene hues. From tones akin to that stone's muted luster along its edges, it received the lingering glow of a sun already sunk below the horizon, glowing brightly yet not dazzlingly. One might almost think that what we call Pure Land aspiration could itself be this very play of light—suffusing the heavens with radiance both elusive and tranquil through diaphanous layers.

How many times had such evening splendors repeated throughout that single summer?

I also pictured with sorrowful resignation—having no other choice but to accept—the sound of waves breaking upon that sandy beach stretching through yellow gravel, likening it to voices of those now lost, something these ears could never hear again.

Behind that sandy beach, a spindly pine grove stretched in meandering lines, likely shielding—from clusters of dunes thrust up by the great sea—the cucumber fields, watermelon fields, eggplant fields, and other vegetable plots that lay beyond.

We walked the path through the pine grove, sat down on weeds where beach morning glories had wilted, and then—my friend and I—talked until day grew fully dark, until Kii and Awaji and the flocks of seagulls vanished into early night’s gloom, until the blazing bonfire—likely a cooking fire on one of the Japanese boats anchored in this inlet—cast its story-like reflection upon the water’s surface. We—we talked.
What we talked about—now I’ve completely forgotten all of that.
We must have talked about family, hometowns, and God—but I’ve completely forgotten all of that.
Drenched in the sea breeze, we talked until our straw hats wilted—only that feeling that filled our chests still comes back to me now and then.

But time had passed since then—I aged and changed.
That joyful summer day—I could scarcely believe it was part of my past—scarcely believe it.—Ah! What a pitiful being I had become.

Afterword to the Collected Edition of *One O’Clock*

When I think of days gone by, my heart is ever sorrowful.
Therefore when I reflect upon my old poems too, they are nothing but things that would rend my heart.
Truly those like us cannot endure turning our thoughts to yearn for days gone by.
Yet on this day what compels me to compile two volumes of old works into a new book and entrust it to the publisher?
Readers I beseech you—do not harshly reproach.
It is but a modest means to sustain my livelihood.
Farewell then—this malady into which my heart has fallen shall for now be left to the readers’ reproach.

Showa Kinoe-Saru (1944), New Spring – Author’s Note.