Pathway to Japanese Literature

枕上口占

Had my own voice not carried through, in the midnight hour when the gathering nears...

My poem
If it is but one beginning
My house is

A fragile house is fine.

Day by day it disappears

Ah, this journey’s solitude—

My poem

need only last three days.

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow

Need only be that partial glimpse.

And

My poem is in dawn's western sky

Yesterday’s moon

Eventually sinking beyond the horizon—to yesterday’s moon

A farewell.

I am no longer there.
That is not where I dwell.
O reader, deem it pitiable.
My poem drives me
drives me

In the midst of endless quicksand

Cicada

There exists a pulley called Cicada.
It resembles the small hub of a well.
At the mast’s very tip—suppose they affix it there—and through its use smoothly hoist the sail: that creaking screech of halyards in that instant is what sailors at sea hear as the cicada’s cry.
Cicada—what an exquisite name for a creature!

On May 10th this year, for the first time, I heard the initial cry of a cicada starting to sing in the pine forest before my thatched cottage.

Just then, thin clouds blanketing the sky tore apart, and late spring sunlight—too early to be called early summer—spilled diagonally into the forest. Distracted by it, I raised my neck from the book I had been reading and moved to set it down on my desk. At that moment—as if a heavy celestial gate had creaked open—a single *gii* resounded unevenly from where pine treetops tangled together. How strange: there it was, just one nostalgic voice cast into the wind.

Cicada!
The one who thrusts open the door to a new season!

When I thus secretly called out to him, the sky was again sealed by gray clouds.
And then, the cicada did not sing at all that day.
Three days of slightly chilly weather continued.
On the fourth morning, the cicada once again—in that same manner—responded hurriedly to the sunlight spilling through a break in the clouds; that chatty he, however restrained now, timidly let out a short *gii*.
Then, after catching his breath, he cried out once more with a *gii*, as if to confirm.
It was a voice like that of moving something heavy with a strong lever.
I cried out—I am crying out—the cicada is likely crying out with that very intention, nothing more than that mere sign.
When the sunlight dimmed, the voice ceased at once.
And it patiently maintained its silence until sunlight spilled down anew once more.
Therefore, that voice—rather than sounding like a cicada singing in such a manner—seemed more akin to early summer sunlight itself raising its voice through the pines.

My grandmother called cicadas *Sebi-sebi*.

“Ah, those *Sebi-sebi* are so noisy I can’t get a wink of sleep…”

Having had her midday nap’s dream disturbed by these noisy creatures, it felt as though she had been voicing such complaints just yesterday.
When this time of year arrives, on the first day I detect the cicadas’ voices each season, I invariably think of my grandmother—and then of that strange word *Sebi-sebi*.

The cicada was chirping.
The cicada had continued to sing every day since then.
And today was June 1st.
Today, upon returning from outside, as I climbed the pine-covered hill, I saw on one of the stepping stones along the narrow path the tiny remains of a cicada being carried by hundreds of ants gathered in a pitch-black mass.
It was a cicada with transparent wings, about the size of a little fingertip.
From May 10th until today—if we assume that small insect’s life spanned about three weeks—then how many times longer had I already lived upon this earth? Continuing such calculations, I climbed the hill path.—Seven hundred times.
And what astonished me was not that large number—but how utterly futile and frantic my long past, exceeding even seven hundredfold, had been!

Southern Sea

On a small, isolated island in the southern sea

Pale plum blossoms had already begun to open on two or three branches.

On the still-yellow lawn not yet in bud there was an old chair.

I sat alone……

The distant billowing ocean expanse,

the sun ascended to the sky’s zenith,

a single ochre-hued path and

and the distant village

I was upon this hill at midday—
I saw a vividly colored landscape depicted before me.

I emerge onto the shore.

A figure mends nets.

In the white-walled backyard of an elementary school

A child plays ball.

The waves

The waves break against the shore.

I listen.

I incline my ear.

But what I hear is not the sound of those waves.

Nor is it the song of wind passing through the tips of withered grass leaves.

It was a single voice—the one that had accompanied me here.

A single voice—gently leaning against my shoulder.

The things I saw were shown—that voice whispered thus.

—Time comes, time departs; through distant sound, a steamship crosses the offing—

Even if I call out—it is already too late for me.

Even new landscapes grew old...

Tears

One morning, from the heart of a single flower
So much that last night’s rain had spilled over

Little one

O little one,

From your eyes, from between your eyelashes

This morning, from your little sorrow

Into the father’s hand
They spill over and fall
Now upon this father’s hand—warm for a brief moment.

Ah, what is this—this—
That wet the father’s hand,
That wet the father’s heart,
That is from a distant country—

That was from a distant sea—

That was from this pitiable father’s—from that father’s—

That father’s own father’s—from the phantom homeland—

Bird-song and flower-scent and blue sky

and rivers-and-mountains stretching far into the distance—

—tidings of the wind

nostalgic tidings of seasons past

this morning, into this father’s hand

Newly arrived tidings

A single crimson camellia

Nostalgic southern sea…

What is nostalgic is Izu Province, ah.

Two or three days—my having fled

Alone, I had nurtured sorrow

Behind the inn’s crickets—
In the dimly lit grove of mixed trees,
A single wild camellia stood.
Now the dappled sunlight’s shadow shifted.
When I suddenly looked,
Here, the many flowers were old—the peach branches’
From that one branch,
This morning that had just dawned—a single fresh crimson flower.

As I passed through the corridor—they did not cast glances toward me.

God dwells—

My heart had already declined; long had I grown weary of all things.

Though in our being that believed "God dwells," there was no proof whatsoever—

I believe

Merely and faintly

I believe

That single crimson flower—something speaks on my behalf.

How... how...

Even on days when all people deceive and betray me countless times,

I will live.

I will live.

――It is precisely through the words of that single flower—

Red Earth Mountain

I walked the back mountain path today.

Without any aim, I wandered Red Earth Mountain.

I wandered.

Through the pine forest

Along the pond’s edge.

Through the temple garden devoid of people.

My shadow looked like a foolish donkey.

I was slightly startled.

Life's emotions—ah—what season might this be?

Like tinnitus heard in a desolate sickbed

Cicadas were singing everywhere.
The cicadas were singing incessantly.
I sat on the grass for a while.

From there, I could see the sea.

Across the sea where smoke drifted, I could see an unnamed island; I could see a mountain.

Ah—that one ancient memory.

Toward a single ancient memory—

From this grass under the scorching sky, from the mountain gorge, even today still—

What is that fluttering thing—how foolish—how trivial—

A foolish, trivial donkey’s shadow.

That—

My shadow on this grass—

The cicadas were singing ceaselessly.

In the pine forest.

The cicadas were singing.

Kusasenri Beach

I once traveled this land.

On this mountain at dawn, I once stood.

The great Aso mountains of Hi Province

At the foothills, green grass grows thick.

On the ridge, smoke streamed; the mountain’s figure—
Despite those days of old,
The encircling outer rim mountains,
Ah, even now today—

Memory’s indigo shimmers

How dreamlike the vista!

Ah, but...

The hopes of my youth and

Twenty years of time and friends

Where have they gone, leaving me behind?

Those remembered from days of old and

O departing spring’s overcast day—
I, alone, my years declining,

From afar, I came journeying once more.

Leaning on my staff, I gazed in all directions.

The great Aso mountains of Hizen Province.

A highland pasture where foals frolicked.

O dear nameless Kusasenri Beach

New Snow

On the mountains, snow falls.

One Autumn Night

On the mountains, new snow had fallen.

This present reality—how sorrowful it was!

On the rocky path

The aged horse neighed

Fallen leaves imitating birds

Went diagonally down the stream…

What a scene bustling toward revelry...

Through the midst of these mountains in the gorge

One gazed far into the distance.

The homeland plains far away—

The rice ears were now likely ripening—ah, the distant silence!

The flickering glow encircled distant silence.

Not a single cloud remained—on the sharp peaks

On the sharp peaks, snow falls.
Snow falls—one autumn night.
After one night—the new snow shimmers.

Shinano Road—

Cutting miscanthus, cutting—the sickle’s sound,

The thrush abruptly took flight.
It went on and on through hidden gaps between trees.

A traveler, upon a stone—
I have found rest.
The heart of this unreal journey—

Alas, where shall this sorrow rest its weight?

In the realm of waking reality,

Abandoned Garden

Spring and summer have passed,

Autumn had come.

In the garden of my heart

Insects lamented.

Poignant insects lamented.

On trees and on plants,
Grew wild...
And had grown...
In...
A sacred...

From that day, there has been a sacred tomb here for all eternity.

Are you aware?

For foolish me, that is none other than the mausoleum of irreplaceable memories.

I crossed seas and mountains—
Those distant days had passed their peak—
Onward I went into deepening remoteness—

All things—the traveler never returns.

When time flows, even metal and stone shall in time crumble.

How much more so this ephemeral sacred tomb of yours—

What in illusion can be relied upon?

Foolish mausoleum keeper,

thus muttering and speaking to myself...

This dawning hour of passing showers,

like one setting sail

Dreaming while pondering things
Even my heart utterly weakens
Ah, this wintry feeling of an old man.

Siskin

In the height of autumn’s glory

A siskin—how poignant.

Attempts to split a hard tree nut.

No one existed to tell of—

Observed that bird’s form.

Today, my heart stirs once more.

Hail fell — Part One

To what shall I entrust the future?
I shall endure this single day.
Even life I do not cling to—
If one dwells in Urayama’s forest,
Hail fell amidst all things.
Hail fell in scattered whispers.
Hail fell—Part Two

There, someone paid homage.
Pine needles reversed, pine buds fluttered and crossed.
There, someone rested reverently.
The withered grass lay withered as it was.
Autumn dusk descended swiftly—ah!
Winter days were distant—diminutive.
The narrow path through Urayama’s valley—
Hail fell in scattered whispers.
Hail fell.
Words of distant days—
The warmth of winter sunlight—
By the roadside, the tended earth wall’s
Rough-skinned earth exuded its scent.
Ceaselessly—along which shore?
The quiet night—afternoon had passed.

At the brief border where shadows meet
Without reason—I suddenly recalled,
Ah, suddenly—
Rarely, anciently, sorrowfully
There are words remembered—rarely, anciently, sorrowfully.
When I think I had forgotten—

Rarer than jewels—
Increasingly ancient and sorrowful

How foolish—my murmuring
distant days’ distant words

All things

Now at last

Truly

Across the sea

Of a distant land’s

How this resembles longing for the capital!

seagull

Distant days

On days more than ten years distant,

What have I, even I, lost?
At the dear shores of Izu
Seagulls floated and drifted.
Watching on, now I came to understand.
What have I, even I, lost?

Paulownia flowers

More fleeting than a dream,

Paulownia flowers detached from their branches

Swirled gently as they fell.

Two, three, four—

Happiness blown by the wind

Brushed against a shoulder before falling.

Their color and scent both splendid,

How I envied those paulownia flowers!

From upon earth deep in daylight

They were not scattered upon your hand.

Carry your firewood.

Spring has departed.

Summer has departed.

Now it is autumn—that autumn’s

Ah, how swiftly it has passed the midpoint—

Lend your ear
Lend your ear
There are voices of those approaching
Even if you close the curtains on the window
There are voices of visiting guests

Winter’s footsteps treading upon fallen leaves

Carry firewood.

Ah, thou

Carry thy firewood.

Now is autumn—that autumn’s

Day after day passes as thou reach the forest.

Wisely gather thy firewood.

Ah, thou, gather thy firewood.

Winter nears—the far horizon.

Gaze out upon the distant horizon.

Now indeed winter’s day has drawn near.

Ere long snow shall fall.

In thy land snow shall fall.

For the harsh winter days

Clean the hearth, build the stove.

Solitary, solitary—prepare thy dwelling.

Carry firewood.

Ah, thou

Carry thy firewood.

The sun still lingers at the edge of the field.

Countless flowers bloom—now is autumn.

Arrive at that autumn forest
Gather thy firewood
Ah thou—prepare thy winter provisions

Daytime Moon

Sagami Nada

Waves, calm—
Offshore Island
In the distance, haze dims the view.

Of withered grass
In the swaying distance
The cormorant’s
One floating up,
Tide-diver
Beak thrown wide

Winter sky

The green deepens

Increasingly,

pale half-circle

Fades away.

The daytime moon too—

Fades away.
Ever more venerable.

Now indeed—

Those memories too—

Daytime Moon Again

On the sea, the daytime moon.

On the lap, an old koto.

Gazing up at him,

Playing this,

I would remember those from the past.

I would remember those from the past.

Impromptu Verses Among Blossoms

On the sea, about three fathoms deep—

The half-wheel moon floats,

Of this hill’s plum grove

The flowers all intend to turn blue.

With thoughts so thick, I—

Blown by the fragrant wind,

this bitter day’s fleeting moment

Sweetly they go, unknowing—

And—

That island’s maiden—
On days like these too, at that boat landing—
She likely spent her days selling things.

This hill's plum grove—

When visiting—among plum trees—
That island loomed faintly.
The honored remains were welcomed back to their homeland.

For our peerless homeland—
Not only a peerless life—
abandoning wife, children, and clan
That soldier who departed—not even a dewdrop—

He who had entrusted his hopes to the day of return—

He crossed far and wide over seas and mountains
Verily
Departed without a day of return

That soldier—

On this day, the autumn wind soughed darkly.

In the seaside town of the homeland,

the honorable remains’ return,

as night deepened, they awaited—

torches bearing yellow light,

townspeople amidst sleet-falling darkness,

waiting intensely—the surf’s voice blended in due measure,

clouds swiftly—

The moon too fled in a single streak—the shimmering sound of music was heard
The traveler’s day of journey

Unexpectedly,

I too joined the throng

In this jet-black night

The sound of music verged on ceasing

Quietly singing while passing onward—

Unthinkingly approaching—

Before the pinnacle of solemnity

Hearts endured,

Reverently,

Napes bowed—

The nation’s peace and those now gone of the great earthquake—

In distant days beneath this tree’s shade—they raised their battle cries.

Resolutely avenging, he—

He who must have nobly engaged in war games

At Oimatsu’s roots

I ponder deeply on things.

The moon drove through gaps in the clouds.
Upon the expanse of awakened shadows,
The white honorable banner fluttered.
Would that the hymn of our song might summon forth...

A solitary speechless cloth.

Aptly danced in the homeland’s night wind—

Gestures of ceaseless dance!

The day he sallied forth never to return—

Oaths and reproaches had been fulfilled.

What remained?

Having cast his entire being away,
the honorable remains returned.
For the unparalleled homeland,
not only the unparalleled life—
abandoning wife, children, and parents,
sallied forth that valiant warrior who
the honorable remains—mere symbols—returned.

Cast-off Horse

In the distance, artillery roars.
In the soundlessly falling rain, faintly, distantly, the roar of heavy artillery reverberates.
One shot after another, spaced at long intervals, from an indeterminate direction—it comes sounding from ten ri away.
Under the ash-colored sky, it has been continuing since this morning—no, since yesterday.
The rain has been falling for ten days.
Over the vast, boundless plain, the rain soughs ceaselessly as it continues to fall.

This place was a muddy path.
Through rice fields bending heavily with grain, the road ran perfectly straight.
The golden-ripe rice ears, having vainly missed their harvest time, beaten by the wind, already lay fallen in every direction.
The faint golden brightness spreading endlessly along both sides of the road—its reflections—indicated the afternoon hour when the sun, shrouded by dense clouds, had already crossed the sky’s heights and now plummeted like a well bucket downward.

Now there stood a horse—a cast-off horse.
It was a cast-off horse—completely stripped of its harness and cast out onto the road, a decommissioned horse.
It stood there, hooves sunk into the mud, utterly motionless.
It now turned its drooping head southward.
Probably it had continued its march southward along this road from the north since that morning (or perhaps yesterday…) alongside a company of comrades.
And there, released from its heavy yoke,

“Finally, this one’s done for. Just abandon it and go.”

Along with those words，he had likely been completely stripped bare and cast out onto the very mud where he now stood．And before long，that military unit—of which he too had been a member until that moment—must have resumed its southward march，soon vanishing beyond his sight into the distant horizon．When even fierce shouts，relentless carts，and whippings could no longer rouse or drive him onward，he was cast out there．Rest was granted to him as well．And in that position where rest was finally granted，he stood forever facing south，rooted in place．Not even attempting to twitch his tail，he simply hung his head limply．

Behold—those high-jutting hip bones, those exposed ribs, those unforgiving saddle sores.
Even on the bandage bound around its knees, hadn’t a darkened bloodstain already seeped through?

By chance, an automobile happened to pass by there.
The automobile sounded its horn repeatedly.
He remained indifferent to it, standing there blocking the automobile’s path, fixedly staring at the road surface where his gaze had fallen.
The automobile had no choice but to quietly steer around him and continue on its way.

In the midst of the boundless plain, he remained standing there endlessly.
Of course, for him there existed neither a bundle of withered grass to satisfy his hunger nor a stable to shelter him from wind and rain.
Even were those things now given to him, what would they amount to? He had surely already lost both appetite and any sensation requiring care.

It was no longer a horse—this creature, more grotesque in form than Delacroix’s *The Sick Horse*, thoroughly drenched by the rain. This mud-covered creature, having utterly lost all will of the living, and thereby transformed into a solemn, mysterious form—a shadow among shadows—stood desolate there. It was no longer a horse—this pitiful, solitary focal point in the plain, barely supporting itself on those unsteady legs.

At that moment again，a small unit of about twenty soldiers passed by his side.
The soldiers cast a glance of pity from under their military caps toward him，muttered some brief words under their breath，then abandoned him just like that—without once looking back at his form—and marched solemnly onward through the rain.
The rain continues to fall soundlessly；without respite，it has been falling for ten days.

The time would surely come—when those wounded knees, those solemnly exhausted knees knelt upon the mud, and he reclaimed himself from his toil to take his final rest. That time would arrive before long.

In the distance, the roar of heavy artillery; nearby, the whine of stray bullets.